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

“It seems like all morning,” Braided Locks replied, finally opening his eyes in the shadows of those rocks at their shoulders. “I was in the deep ravine below, with the others when the soldiers on horses charged us. Some of us were near the top of the ravine and fought the soldiers there, close enough to see their eyes. Just as the others did farther down the ravine—toward the village. They too fought close enough to see the soldier eyes.”

“We lost many of our friends down there at the ravine.”

“I know,” Braided Locks said softly, his voice reverent with remembrance. “As I fought and fell, then crawled all the way up here to these rocks, the bullets struck around me so loud, I thought it was hailing. I thought I was crawling on bullets, there were so many.”

Brave Wolf shuddered looking at that dark, purple pucker of a bullet hole. “I have only this to put on your wounds,” he admitted, slashing two strips off the back of his long wool breechclot.

Braided Locks looked down at himself, regarded the bullet hole in his belly. “Thank you, brother. But it seems the cold is enough that I do not bleed anymore. See?”

He watched his friend’s eyes slowly close and immediately became more frightened. “Are you dying?”

The warrior wagged his head slowly. “No. I am … just so tired. Now that you are here with me … I want nothing more than to sleep for a little while.”

As it became painfully clear that his men were going to pay a hefty price for not sealing off the Cheyenne escape, Mackenzie sent First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton across that dangerous no-man’s-land with another order for his dismounted units.

Stop all firing except at close range, and then—only when sure of a target.

Across that snowy valley fell an eerie quiet, punctuated from time to time with a short burst of gunfire from both sides before the rifles and carbines fell silent once more. During the lull Mackenzie dismissed his orderly.

“I don’t need you for a while. Get some rest and some food.”

More tired than hungry, William Earl Smith led his horse back into the thick brush where a few other soldiers had hunkered down, tied off his horse, and made himself comfortable enough to doze in the cold shadows.

He awakened to find only one soldier still nearby. Smith inched over, figuring to nudge the man awake—but found the soldier dead, his mouth and eyes open. Shot through the head, right where he had been sitting. No more than an arm’s length from William Earl.

A cold drop slid down his spine as he leaped to his feet, nearly collapsing as one leg refused to move—frozen. Tingling with the pricks of renewed feeling, Smith rubbed it hurriedly, then dragged the reluctant leg along, back to the brush where he had tied his horse.

Mounting up, he led it down into the boggy ground, where he eventually reached the streambank. There he pulled off his boot and plunged his leg—britches, stocking, and all—into the icy water, figuring that was sure to end the sharp pains he was suffering. After a bit he struggled back into the saddle and, dripping wet, endeavored to report back to Mackenzie. He was weaving back and forth atop his McClellan, finding it difficult to keep the frozen leg in its stirrup when he spotted the rest of the orderlies ahead, signaling him from the high, rocky observation point.

“Smith! You’re wet! Where the hell have you been?” the colonel demanded as the private reached headquarters.

“Tending to my leg, General.”

“You’re wounded.”

“Not rightly, I ain’t, sir,” Smith admitted. “After you let me go off to sleep, ’pears my leg never wanted to wake back up!”

“Go on down there and report in to the hospital the surgeons have established,” Mackenzie ordered. “See if they can do something for you, then report back to me when you’re in shape to sit a horse.”

By the time Smith loped down to the hospital, he had decided against reporting to the surgeons. They had their hands busy enough with bullet wounds. Pushing on past the field hospital, the orderly found some of his old company settled in on a skirmish line and taking a moment to enjoy some well-deserved victuals.

“Is that Smith I see?” hollered one of them as the orderly came up.

“It is,” he called out, grinning, happy to see his old comrades. “Is that tacks and bacon I see you wolfing down?”

“They sure as blazes are,” cried another soldier, holding up his rations. “Sit yourself and eat up with us!”

“Where’d you come on to them vittles?”

“Don’t you know? The pack train’s in,” the first soldier replied. “The general don’t know?”

“I don’t figger the general much cares to eat anyhow,” Smith replied as he snatched up an offered tack and a small slab of fatty bacon. “Knowing him—Mackenzie won’t give his belly no nevermind till he wins this fight.”