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

Just as he was about to turn from the camp, he watched Yellow Eagle, Little Hawk, Strange Owl, Bobtail Horse, White Frog, Little Shield, and even Bull Hump)—Morning Star’s own son—as well as all the rest crouched in readiness … waiting … then suddenly spring out of the bowels of that ravine like hares popping out of their burrows, their rifles spitting fire and destruction into the faces of those charging soldiers—spilling horses, men crying out in shock and pain and death, some of the white men crawling, pleading for help, others not moving at all as the warriors unleashed a second volley, then a third into the backs of the confused, milling, retreating soldiers. Three warriors clambered up the steep wall of the ravine, onto the plain, shrieking as they leaped upon the ve-ho-e bodies to be the first to strike the dead enemy, then take the soldier weapons and cartridge belts.

Morning Star watched his son give the third strike to a soldier leader with the muzzle of his rifle. Then Bull Hump knelt beside the soldier’s horse, cutting free the fat pouch tied behind the saddle. He raised it in triumph and screeched a victory cry.

“It is filled with many, many bullets!”

But then more soldiers were coming. Bull Hump and the others must have heard the hooves, the soldier guns, for they lunged back to the ravine … but instead of leaping to safety, Morning Star’s son skidded to a stop, sliding to his knees in the trampled snow as he scooped up a revolver, crawling on all fours to pick another off the icy ground. Jamming both of them into his belt, he hobbled on to the lip of the ravine and pitched over as more soldiers charged up.

Shrill voices rang out behind Morning Star, filled with challenge.

Below him at the upper end of the village, the last of Little Wolf’s warriors now gathered to taunt the soldier scouts who had seized the ridge above the south side of the village—flinging their voices at the Snake, those ancient enemies: boasting to the scouts that only days before they had wiped out a Shoshone village, every man, woman, and child falling victim.

In the midst of that hail of bullets, Little Wolf and the others screamed their challenge to the Shoshone and boasted that in a time to come they would take revenge for this day’s attack.

As soon as the left flank of those reinforcements began dismounting in a flurry among McKinney’s survivors, Seamus got himself a good look at an insignia here and there.

This was the Fifth Cavalry. H Troop. As battle hardened a bunch as there ever was

“Thank God,” he whispered, his eyes turning heavenward.

More bullets were again whistling among them. Those sharpshooters atop that knoll were spraying a galling fire into the horsemen arriving at the edge of that twenty-foot-deep ravine where the fallen horses and McKinney’s men lay scattered upon the crusted snow.

“Halt!” came the shrill command behind Donegan and the wounded lieutenant’s decimated troop.

There arose a cold clatter of metal and whining leather, scraping hooves and muttered oaths, as the entire command in battle front skidded to a stop.

Then an officer bawled, “Dissss-mount!”

The troopers leaped to the ground, yanking hard on their reins to turn horses about.

As Captain John M. Hamilton whirled toward the enemy, pistol held high, sergeants took up the cry, “Horse-holders to the rear!”

In a flurry every fourth soldier snatched the reins of three other horses, locking on the twenty-eight-inch throatlatches before wheeling about on his heel to drag his horses to the rear while the rest pushed forward on foot.

“Time’s come you young’uns make sure you’re loaded!” suggested an old file off to Donegan’s right.

“L-loaded, sir, Sergeant!” some high voice squeaked.

Then Hamilton’s boys were thrust into the thick of it.

Turning for one last look behind him at the plateau where he had galloped off from Mackenzie’s group, Seamus spotted another company coming up on the double, dismounting right among H Troop’s horse-holders, who were struggling away with their frightened, rearing mounts.

Now, with these numbers, at least they might just have a chance to cut their way out of things, Donegan thought as he dropped on one knee to take a steady shot—then immediately levered another cartridge into the breech and fired again as quickly as he could make that cold action work.

In the next instant he was back on his feet among the others, at least half of the soldiers advancing in a foragers’ charge while the rest of Hamilton’s company threw open the big trapdoors on their Springfield carbines and rammed home another of the fat, shiny sausages. Step by step, yard by yard, Hamilton expertly leapfrogged his men in two squads until Captain Wirt Davis’s F Troop, Fourth Cavalry, reached the back of H Troop’s line and infiltrated the skirmishing. Now both troops advanced together in a massed front as the Cheyenne on the tall bluff beyond the ravine laid their hottest fire in among the soldiers.