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

Once Lieutenant Pope’s E Company had driven the horsemen from the high ground on the right flank, Miles sent Kelly with word for them to press on and continue their sweep around to the rear, thereby reinforcing the train guard since the enemy horsemen were swelling in numbers as they continued to sweep the horns of both flanks, still threatening to encircle the command.

The noise was deafening: what with the bawling officers, the shouts of men thrust into battle in the midst of the stinging smoke and cinders, the screeching, crying warriors, the high-pitched protests of the wounded animals, and the continuous throaty thump of the Rodman from the lone knoll. All that cacophony of hell swirling and eddying around them as the wind rose and fell, rose and fell, rawhiding their cold faces.

On his feet and rallying his men of E Company to turn and face a rush of horsemen suddenly bursting out of hidden coulee, Sergeant Robert W. McPhelan was spun around, collapsing to his knees with an audible grunt. Pulling his hand away from his chest, he stared at the glistening red syrup, his eyes blinking dumbly as three of his men slowly eased him on his back.

McPhelan fought them, struggling to stay upright, protesting, “Don’t … don’t put me down—”

“We ain’t gonna leave you, Sarge,” one of his men snapped, heaving his weight against the officer. “You gotta let us plug that hole in you, goddammit!”

Suddenly Pope was above them. “Form a hollow square!” he bawled against the din of those booming Springfields, the crack of the Winchester repeaters from the encircling warriors. “Goddammit—form a square and hold those bastards off!”

Then Pope was kneeling over McPhelan in the next moment, his hand on the old sergeant’s shoulder. “You gonna be all right, gunny?”

The red-rimmed, smoke-ravaged eyes were tearing in gratitude. “Ain’t nothing but a flesh wound, sir.”

Pope’s eyes glistened too. “That’s good, ’cause I’d hate to lose you, I would. We still got work to finish here.”

“L-looks like we can hold ’em off, Lieutenant,” McPhelan whispered. “Just keep the boys in their square—and we’ll make the devil dance a different tune.”

Gesturing with a nod up at Yellowstone Kelly, the lieutenant said, “The scout here brought word from the general: Miles wants us to drive off the last of the warriors around those watering holes right over yonder and hold on to ’em for the night.”

McPhelan coughed, then said with a rasp, “We get the sons of bitches drove off—have some of the boys drag me over to them water holes and bring me my rifle. I can still shoot with the best of ’em if they come at us again, sir.” He coughed a loose, fluid-filled rasp. “I’d like me a drink, in a real bad way.”

Patting the sergeant’s shoulder, Pope replied quietly, “Damn right you can have that drink of water.” He signaled to have a canteen brought to him. “And your rifle too. God, am I proud to have you fighting on my side, Sergeant.”

With E Company holding its own and the water holes securely in their grasp at the rear of the column, Miles continued to pursue the hostiles until sundown, then turned about and led the rest of the command back to the ridge Lieutenant Rousseau’s H Company had cleared of hostiles. Here on the high ground that commanded a view of the entire countryside the order was given to bivouac for the coming night.

During the day the tenor of battle had constantly reminded the soldiers that these were the warriors who had mutilated the Custer dead. But the gallant Fifth had fought hard since first light, scratching their way after the fleeing Sioux across more than eighteen miles of uneven, rugged ground, through smoke and flames. Now, as night came down, the weary, blackened, cinder-smudged men found their spirits raised.

They had held off odds of two, perhaps three, to one … and survived against the best Sitting Bull and Gall could throw at them. No longer would anyone boast that the Sioux were invincible.

“From what I can make of the various reports,” Miles said, raising his head from his concentration over his field desk strewn with papers as twilight oozed light from the sky, “there were at least half a dozen Sioux casualties.”

“Hard to tell,” Kelly said with a shrug, then sipped more of his coffee nearby. “The way they always drag off their wounded. Could’ve been more.”

For a moment the colonel pressed his full lips together thoughtfully. “Their biggest loss isn’t in the casualties—is it, Kelly?”

Luther wagged his head. “No, General. You hurt ’em worse by getting your hands on everything they had to leave behind.”

“Not just getting my hands on it,” Miles replied, staring down at the ruins of the abandoned village, “but in destroying it. Among the captured herd we found some of the Seventh Cavalry horses. Damn well used up, they are—no more than skin and bones now.”