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

As he strode up and down the skirmish line behind his men, Taylor himself discovered the tattered hole in the wide, flapping lapel of his caped mackintosh: pierced by a Cheyenne bullet—right over his heart.

He licked his dry lips and shook his head, soundlessly uttering his prayer of thanks as he kept on moving up and down the line, cheering on his men in that hot little fight they were having of it.

“It’s our day!” he cried in the bitter cold. “They’re whipped and on the run now!”

* Dying Thunder, Vol. 7, The Plainsmen Series.

Chapter 31

25 November 1876

When the daring warrior appeared from behind the knoll atop his pinto, Second Lieutenant Homer W. Wheeler wasn’t ready for the sight of such a man prancing his animal back and forth out there, clearly within range of their carbines, a man who taunted the soldiers and the Pawnee scouts as he exposed himself to their bullets with no more protection than a buffalo-hide shield on his left arm and a bonnet of eagle feathers on his head, it’s red wool trailer spilling over the pony’s rump and all but brushing the snowy ground.

“Goddammit,” Wheeler growled as his unit’s bullets kicked up spouts of snow here and there around the pony’s hooves. He turned to the trooper next to him, reaching for the soldier’s Springfield. “Gimme your carbine! I’ll take a crack at him!”

But try as he might—holding high on the chest, then raising his sight to the warbonnet, in addition to adjusting what he thought he should for windage—not a damn one of his shots hit their target as a small but growing crowd around him cheered for all of those taking a crack at the warrior, jeering the magically charmed Cheyenne horseman.

“Lookee there, Lieutenant!” one of the troopers yelled, pointing to their left among the brush that bordered the village.

Just then a warrior poked his head up, yelling something quickly before his head disappeared again within the thick clump of willow.

“All right, fellas,” Wheeler declared. “Looks like we got us another good target to practice on. Let’s see if any of you can hit that damned redskin!”

Immediately a half-dozen guns cracked into service, but in that momentary lull while the soldiers reloaded, the warrior’s voice cried out—more shrilly this time, and plainly terrified.

“Pawnee!” a voice shrieked behind the Lieutenant.

Wheeler turned on his heel as a Pawnee scout came sprinting up to the skirmish line, terror on his face.

Gesturing wildly, the scout repeatedly shouted, “No shoot Pawnee!”

Standing to wave his arm, and shouting, Wheeler ordered the second platoon to hold their fire while he sorted things out. “That’s one of your Pawnee in there?” he asked slowly of the scout, pointing at the brush. “In there?”

Without hesitation the scout nodded his head, pointing too. “Pawnee, him. Pawnee, me. Pawnee!” Then he turned away from the lieutenant and hollered to the distant clump of brush.

Like a frightened bird poking its head from a clump of ground cover, the warrior peered out. When both the Pawnee scout and Wheeler began to wave him on, the warrior finally leaped from his place of hiding, darting straight for the soldiers.

“Pawnee,” the frightened scout said breathlessly as he reached the skirmish line, pounding himself on the chest. “See, Pawnee!” He grabbed hold of his long scalp lock, braided with three shiny conchos and the claws of a red hawk. “Pawnee!”

“Pawnee hair, yeah,” Wheeler said, shaking his head and turning back to the rest of his men, who went back to their attempts at knocking that lone Cheyenne warrior off the back of his prancing, dancing pony.

Wheeler wasn’t sure whose shot it was—there were so many guns going off together in a steady staccato—when the warbonnet began to tip to the side and the man under it slowly slipped from the pony’s bare back into the snow, causing a small eruption of the trampled white flakes as he sprawled across the ground in a heap.

“I got him! I got him!” someone hollered, jubilant enough to leap to his feet and dance a quick jig.

“You stupid bunghole!” another challenged. “It was me!”

“Both of you—take yourselves a good look there!”

And from beyond the slope of that hill came another elaborately dressed warrior also displaying a great eagle-feather warbonnet, with a slightly oblong shield attached at his left elbow. His pony shot out to halt in a spray of snow between the soldier lines and the fallen Cheyenne, where its rider leaped off, knelt, and immediately swept the wounded warrior into his arms. Rising, he laid his comrade across the pony’s withers, then leaped up behind the warrior and kicked the animal into motion.

At the crest of the hill other warriors stood cheering that act of bravery, raising their weapons and shields, bows and lances, raising their voices to the heavens above.