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

“But it sounds to me that if you have the heaviest battalions—the most men and secure supply lines—then you don’t need to worry about God being on your side, Johnny.”

“My point exactly!” Bourke cried with glee. “Here we are, within sight of the Big Horn Mountains once again, much better equipped than we were last March—ready, willing, and able to catch the Crazy Horse warrior bands laying low in their lodges to wait out the winter. While we have the men, the matériel, the supply lines to make that red bastard’s capture a sure thing.”

Behind them a voice called out, “Is that the Irishman’s voice I hear?”

Out of the dark appeared the swarthy half-breed. It brought a smile to Donegan’s face. “Last I heard of you at Laramie, Crook said you was taken terrible sick and the soldiers hauled your worthless carcass down to Cheyenne City in the back of a wagon.”

Frank Grouard held out his hand to shake, but Seamus promptly pushed it aside and gave the scout a fierce embrace. The half-breed pounded Donegan on the shoulder, saying, “There and then I figured I should go farther west, maybe back to Utah to get myself on the mend—but what do you know? On the train I laughed myself into a cure.”

“You’re pulling our legs!” Bourke declared, coming over to shake Grouard’s hand.

“The honest truth,” Grouard replied with a smile, holding a hand up in testament to the fact. “A good laugh will always cure what ails you.”

Seamus asked, “So how’d you end up getting here?”

“Rode in with the paymaster from Fort Fetterman.”

“Paymaster?” Bourke almost squealed in excitement. “Damn, but don’t they always show up where a man has no place to spend his money!”

Grouard went on to explain, “You’d been two days gone from Fetterman when I was fixing to take off. So I offered to guide that paymaster in here, protecting all that mail and pay for all you soldiers.”

“You made sure that paymaster reported in to the general so we can all have us a round of drinks, didn’t you, Grouard?” Bourke cheered.

“Sure as hell did,” Frank replied. “If I didn’t, I figure there’s a few hundred unpaid soldiers ready to stretch my neck with a rope!

Is that Frank Grouard out there?” Crook stuck his head out the flaps of a nearby tent glowing with lamps, the small space filled not only with a map-strewn table, two cots, and a Sibley stove, but with Mackenzie and Dodge.

Grouard began moving that way, saying, “It is, General.”

Mackenzie immediately pushed past Crook and held out his hand at the flaps. “Ranald Mackenzie. Commanding, Fourth Cavalry. I’ve heard a lot about you, Grouard.”

“Good to meet you too, General.”

“Well, Frank—what have you seen?” Mackenzie asked as he slipped a glove back on his right hand.

“Seen heaps.”

Mackenzie scratched his chin. “So where are the reds?”

Gesturing with a slight toss of his head to the west, Grouard answered, “I make ’em over in the mountains.”

As Donegan stood there watching the three expedition leaders, he once more noticed the stark contrasts between the men. While Crook seemed oblivious to his dress—wearing worn and dirty wool coats and fur caps naked of any insignia or badge of office, even to the point of carelessly tying up the long ends of his bushy red beard into a pair of braided points with twine—Mackenzie and Dodge, on the other hand, were the noble specimens of a cavalry or infantry officer: wearing their complete uniforms with pride.

“John,” Crook said, turning to Bourke, “bring Three Bears to see us.”

“Something up, General?”

Crook’s eyes bounced over the small gathering of officers and civilizations at that fire outside his tent. “Yes. This time I’ve decided to keep Cosgrove’s Shoshones as reserves and let the Indians most familiar with this ground do my scouting for me.”

“Makes good sense,” Grouard replied.

“I’m glad you agree,” the general replied. “I’ve put Lieutenant Schuyler over the Snakes, to work with Cosgrove and Washakie’s two sons who came along. But come on inside now, Frank. We’ve got some talking to do before I figure to send some of those Sioux scouts north to feel out where we go from here.”

“Very good, General,” Bourke replied, pulling on his wool gloves and stepping away. “I’ll return shortly.”

Well after moonset eight of the Red Cloud Agency Sioux and six of the Arapaho slipped quietly into the dark, rationed for four days, instructed to scout north by west toward the mountains.