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

“A cow-boy,” he murmured to himself as he stood to hold the chaps against his hips, admiring the way they fluttered as he pranced around the fire ring—just the way the long fringe on Lakota leggings fluttered with a man’s every step.

The next morning he put on the weathered chaps, running his hands over the dark oiled color of the leather. He had worn them ever since. Had them on that early morning he caught sight of the smoke rising from many fires beyond the low range of hills in the distance. By the time he reached the top of a far knoll, the smoke had dissipated and the village was already in motion for the day, slowly making its way north by west—back toward the Owl River.* Bruguier cautiously followed them all day, watchful of outriders protecting the massive line of march, all those women and children and travois, which would have stirred up a lot of dust had it not been for the season of the rains. By the time the procession went into camp, Johnny had them figured for Lakota. One band or another—but Lakota for sure. How he wanted to taste the words on his tongue once more, and forget the white man’s language for the rest of his days.

Riding down from the slope slowly, he saw several of the young warriors turn and notice him while lodgepoles were being set in their proper order, lodge covers being unfurled over the first. Johnny kicked that big American horse in its flanks and rolled into an easy gallop. With a burst of noise and a flourish of the hat he ripped from his head, Bruguier shot past the warriors coming out to challenge him—dashing straight into the camp, knowing enough to aim for the center of the great village. Dead in the middle of the two horns of the crescent, he would find the chief’s lodge. There he should be safe—despite the fact that he was dressed in white man’s clothes. Despite the whole summer of bloody warfare against the white man.

Already he could see that he could not make it to the center of camp. Suddenly there were too many horsemen forming up, galloping to meet him. His way was blocked.

In panic, his eyes shot over the nearby lodges being raised. But ahead, close at hand, there was a big one. Well painted with dream symbols. A tripod stood outside with many scalps hanging from it. This man must surely be a war chief. Besides, it was one of the few already erected and close at hand.

Outside the big lodge he dismounted before his horse even stopped, and ducked within the lodge door without ceremony. Outside the children screeched in their high voices, the women shouting to their men that a white man had just invaded their camp, a lone white man. But inside the lodge all remained eerily quiet.

Before him the middle-aged warrior looked Johnny over carefully. The wrinkled, copper-skinned woman said nothing at all, but went back to laying out the buffalo robes and blankets while her husband eventually went on loading his pipe.

“Welcome,” the warrior said finally as he raised a twig from the fire he had started with flint and steel.

When Johnny answered in Lakota, “Thank you,” no surprise seemed to register on the warrior’s face.

“Sit. We will have something to eat soon. Would you like to smoke with me?”

Bruguier answered, “Yes—”

But there would be no smoking, not just yet, for at that moment a wide-shouldered warrior burst through the open doorway and stood to his full height within the lodge, towering over the old warrior and his sudden guest.

“White Bull!” the young warrior cried, gesturing aggressively at Bruguier.

“You are welcome too, One Horn,” White Bull said, gesturing for the warrior to sit. “Even though you left your manners outside this afternoon.”

The young man sputtered angrily, “Is this man a friend?”

White Bull pulled on the pipe stem, drawing smoke into his mouth and lungs for several moments, then exhaled it and regarded the smoke that he cupped in a hand and dragged over the top of his head in a sacred fashion. “He is in my lodge. And we will eat soon. You are welcome to stay and eat with us.”

“Sitting Bull wants to know,” the young warrior spat. “If he is your friend, then the Bull wants you to bring this visitor to his lodge. But if he is not your friend, then Sitting Bull says we can kill him.”

White Bull’s eyes dropped to look at Bruguier. For a long time he seemed to study the swarthy-skinned intruder wearing the clothes of a white man. After interminably long minutes, he looked back at One Horn.

“We will go to Sitting Bull’s lodge … together.”

“S-sitting Bull?” Johnny asked in a croak. “The same Sitting Bull who crushed the soldiers at the Greasy Grass?”

“Yes,” White Bull said. “Come, now. We will go see my uncle.”