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

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a pair of half-naked Cheyenne warriors emerged from behind the rocks not more than fifty paces away, carrying no weapons to speak of. Instead, the two held buffalo skulls high over their heads as they advanced on the soldier lines, chanting, singing, crying out their medicine songs in discordant notes as the soldiers tried their best to drop the two.

Daring to get as close as twenty paces from the white man’s position, the pair split apart, one wheeling left, the other right, both riders moving parallel to the side of the bluff where the soldiers continued to curse and reload and fire again and again at the two daring horsemen. Then the pair turned around slowly, moving back to rejoin one another and eventually retreating toward the knoll where the Cheyenne hung on with stoic desperation.

“Looks like we’ve just been cursed by them two, don’t you think, Frank?” Bat asked.

“Wouldn’t put it past ’em,” Grouard replied. “Not one bit.”

“Wait a minute!” Donegan cried. “Curse? What sort of curse you figure they put on us?”

“Don’t know Cheyenne very good,” Pourier said, shaking his head.

“Too far to hear good anyway,” Grouard added.

Then Big Bat continued, “Way I seen Injuns do before—them two likely prayed for their spirits to take away our homes and families from us. Same as we done to them.”

The duty of an Old-Man Chief was to protect his people, at all costs.

So Little Wolf would have stood against the soldiers and their Indian scouts alone if he’d had to. But that cold day other brave men had chosen to stand at his shoulder against the enemy. Together they suffered. But together they held back those who had come to harm their families hiding in the narrow ravine.

Were it not for the rifles and cartridges they had captured from the soldiers at the Little Sheep River,* Little Wolf’s courageous band likely would have been crushed. Instead, time and again they humiliated the soldiers and their scouts with their daring—fighting out in the open against the enemy, who took cover behind every tree and rock, bush and boulder. With every advance attempted by the enemy, Little Wolf and his men drove back those who would make war on women and children.

Throughout that long morning, Bull Hump, one of Morning Star’s sons, remained beside with the Sweet Medicine Chief.

Also steadfast was Walking Whirlwind, Little Wolf’s own son-in-law … until the warrior was hit by a soldier bullet and never regained consciousness, dying at Little Wolf’s feet while the sun continued its climb to midsky.

High Bull—a hero of the fighting at the Little Sheep River, who had captured one of the pony-soldier chief’s roster books during that great fight—also died defending the mouth of the narrow canyon.

Burns Red in the Sun. Walking Calf. Hawk’s Visit. Four Sacred Spirits. Old Bull. Antelope. All gave their lives that morning, falling around their Sweet Medicine Chief like the brave men that they were. With the death of each old friend, Little Wolf’s eyes clouded all the more with tears—still, he shot straight that day, and not once did he cower from the fight despite the desperate odds against them.

Instead he fought and sang—reloading his rifle as he prayed. Each time he asked for the Everywhere Spirit to make every one of his bullets find a target, asked Ma-heo-o to use Little Wolf’s simple body to save the helpless ones he had vowed to protect.

Nearly every one of those who were not killed at the ravine mouth that terrible morning were wounded. Scabby, one of Little Wolf’s old friends from the Southern Country, fell as several bullets pierced his body, and he had to be dragged back to where the women could care for him. So too was Curly wounded. Bald-Faced Bull, although he was hit with three bullets, continued to fight as long as he could hold a rifle. Buffalo Chief was hit twice, and—although he spat up blood from his chest wound—refused to retreat as long as his eyes could see and he could point his gun at the enemy.

Two Bulls and White Frog were both wounded more than twice. Wooden Nose was shot through the neck and could not speak, for his throat filled up with blood—yet all three remained steadfast with their Sweet Medicine Chief.

Among their numbers only Charging Bear and Tall Sioux were not wounded in that desperate struggle at the mouth of the ravine as the shadows shifted and the sun crawled relentlessly toward midsky.

When the last of the women and old ones had clawed and scrambled their way to the breastworks, and their village was deserted of all but the dead, the wounded Little Wolf finally turned to his comrades.

“We can go now. Up the canyon to the ridge where our families wait.”

“They have our village!” Bull Hump protested, his face smeared with blood and tears.