A Cold Day in Hell: The Dull Knife Battle, 1876

That stench of burning sulfur reminded the Irishman of Hell … the cries of both the Cheyenne and the wounded troopers convincing Seamus that this was Hades itself.

Another man lay beneath his dying horse, its big, muscular neck struggling time and again to lift its heavy head until it finally collapsed. The soldier was McKinney’s bugler, Hicks, bleeding badly and with his legs pinned, bright crimson gushing from his mouth each time he called out in a hoarse voice for the others not to abandon him, for someone to free him before the Cheyenne would rush out to get him.

Try as Otis did to rally the remnants of McKinney’s shredded command, M Troop milled, yelling at one another, some of them ready to bolt, some sitting numbly in their saddles, most ready to obey Otis’s orders and stand their ground, although frightened to the core by the sudden, devastating shock of it. The young lieutenant suddenly ducked; a bullet spun his big black hat completely around on his head and pitched it to the snowy ground.

That was enough for two.

A pair of the soldiers suddenly wheeled about and put heels to their horses, breaking away in a wild retreat, making straight for the Irishman as he crabbed up on hands and knees. Behind the two, it was clear four more were ready to scatter in wild disorder.

Seamus stood suddenly, leveling his rifle at them, his hands shaking—sensing that gravity of pointing his weapon at white men, soldiers, comrades in arms … as the first two soldiers drew close.

“Halt!” he bellowed, watching their wide eyes grow even wider, realizing these were youngsters likely never before tested in battle—green as recruits could come. “You can’t retreat!”

“Just who the hell are you?” one of them demanded as both soldiers reined up, pitching up clods of icy snow.

“I’m the one gonna shoot you if you don’t turn back to help!” he bellowed, eyes narrowing as he now saw the wounded trumpeter twist his body beneath the horse so he could position himself to shoot over the animal’s quivering body at the Cheyenne crawling out of the ravine less than ten yards away from where the bugler lay trapped and stranded.

Of a sudden behind Seamus arose a clatter of hooves hammering the frozen ground, men’s voices raised in unintelligible panic and battle lust. Donegan twisted about, reluctant to take his eyes off the two soldiers ready to run in retreat but suddenly frozen by the sight of that something behind the Irishman.

A troop of cavalry was racing headlong for them, both flanks spreading out left and right, moments before ordered out of a walk into a rolling gallop across a broad front. At Ranald Mackenzie’s excited order, Captain John M. Hamilton was the first to lead the men of his H Troop, Fifth U.S. Cavalry, to the rescue.

More gunfire exploded back near the far head of the deep ravine—off to his right—drawing Donegan’s attention. Another H Troop, these men from the Third U.S. Cavalry under Captain Henry W. Wessels, Jr., suddenly found themselves in the thick of it as they too dashed up under orders to support McKinney’s butchered company on the extreme right side of the line. Now they became the big targets on those tall American horses.

Wessels’s men began dismounting in ragged confusion and a rush of adrenaline as more Cheyenne warriors flooded over the lip of the ravine, continuing to lay down a galling fire among the arriving soldiers. Some of Wessels’s horses escaped, yanking free of their riders and bolting to the rear, while a few horse-holders managed to grab hold of reins or bridles, clumsily snapping on the throatlatches to pull the unruly, frightened animals out of the action while the rest of H Troop inched forward, fighting on foot.

Close and dirty.

As Wessels’s men hurried to the right, up toward the northern end of that jagged ravine so they could cut off the advance of the Cheyenne snipers, Seamus turned back to the coming thunder, finding Hamilton’s mounted company was almost upon them.

“Get out of our way!” one of McKinney’s terrified soldiers screeched, digging his brass spurs into his horse’s belly as he shot past the Irishman.

Donegan leveled the rifle, then lowered it from his shoulder.

“I’ll … I’ll go back … with you,” the other young soldier coughed the words out with a struggle, swallowing down his fear, no less terrified than the coward who already had his back to them and was tearing off at an angle away from the wide front of riders coming at a gallop to the rescue.

“Then get down here and fight on foot, sojur!” he cried as the massed front neared.

He watched McKinney’s man wheel out of the saddle and slap his horse on the rear flank—sending it off with a clatter as he joined Donegan to sprint headlong back into the breach while the first of that battlefront Hamilton had arrayed finally reached the bloody battleground where McKinney’s soldiers lay dead and dying, all but swallowed by the warriors sweeping over them to count coup and claim the soldier weapons.