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

“I told ’em,” the soldier grumbled morosely, stepping up to the body sprawled on the bloody snow. “Told ’em I found her—in that lodge right there.”

Seamus asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“Private Butler,” he answered, staring down at the woman’s body. Between the bullet hole at close range and the crude scalping, there wasn’t much humanly recognizable about the head. His hands shook as they squeezed his carbine. “S-second Cavalry. I told ’em to leave her be. Said I was coming back with something to tie ’er up with so’s I could take ’er somewheres the general could talk to ’er a bit.”

“I suppose she was armed?” Luther North asked.

Butler looked up at the younger brother. “If you’re asking because you figure that’s why your Pawnee killed her—the answer’s no. The old woman wasn’t armed when I found her hiding under a blanket and some robes. Shaking like a autumn leaf. She could barely walk when I dragged her to her feet.”

“Yeah, lookit that legs of hers,” Grouard replied, kneeling beside the corpse. “She’s had trouble healing that old wound.”

“Likely she got herself left behind,” Frank North surmised.

“And shot before we could take her prisoner,” the soldier growled.

“The army don’t often take prisoners in a fight like this,” Luther North boasted.

“That’s plain as the nose on my face!” Butler snapped. “Look around you! Ain’t a prisoner left in this hull goddamned village, is there?”

The elder North swiped the back of his glove across his cracked lips and said, “I suppose there isn’t, soldier,” then quickly nudged his horse in the ribs and moved past the private and the old woman’s bloodied body. “C’mon, Grouard. Mackenzie wants you and me to put a count to these lodges before we start torching any more of ’em.”

“You going with us?” Luther North asked Donegan.

“Naw. I’ll stay around here for a while,” Seamus replied, easing out of the saddle. For a moment he watched the three civilians inch through camp, counting aloud; then he walked the bay over to some willow, tying off the horse.

Turning, he stepped over to the back of a lodge where the canvas cover had been slashed open at the moment of attack. Parting the fold with his two hands, Seamus peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. An interior liner of undressed hides hung from a rope strung around the circumference of the lodge from pole to pole to provide more of a wind buffer and insulator. It too had been hacked through at the moment of escape. By the fire pit sat kettles of water and a skillet filled with dried meat. Rawhide parfleches and boxes hung from the liner rope or sat here and there against the liner itself atop the beds. Everything, including the rumpled blankets and buffalo robes, appeared as if the inhabitants might return at any moment.

Here one moment. Driven into the teeth of winter the next.

When he pulled his head from the slit and his eyes had adjusted to the startling sunlight, Donegan watched more of the Pawnee dragging plunder from nearby lodges. Piles of clothing, knives and axes, kitchenware, craftwork, and a few weapons were already being deposited on separate piles destined to be loaded upon the captured ponies and driven home to make a good many Pawnee wives very happy that they had allowed their husbands to go riding off to make war on the Cheyenne.

A high-pitched sudden scream rang out across the camp near the stream—louder and more grating on his soul than the intermittent din of battle. Then a pistol shot. And all fell quiet—except for the rattle of a far-off, long-range gun battle.

As he moved around the side of the lodge, Seamus saw a seventh pile of plunder the Pawnee were collecting. By far the smallest in size, it would nonetheless prove to be the most jarring of the spoils.

Stopping at the edge of the small mound, the Irishman knelt down, picking up the fringed sleeve of a buckskin jacket. He dragged it on out into the light; finding a small, bloody bullet hole in the back. Beneath the coat lay the bright red, white, and blue of a few of the Seventh Cavalry’s regimental guidons. A motley collection of leather gloves and gauntlets, some clean, most greasy, dirty, and stained with blood. Soldiers’ blouses and officers’ coats—gold chevrons and bars and hash marks sewn up the cuff. Here and there a smashed felt or straw hat, even a few old kepis, all having seen their better day.

Besides, there were saddles and currycombs, memorandum books and tiny bundles of letters tied with twine or faded hair ribbons, numerous canteens and wallets still containing a few of the green-and-yellow army scrip the victorious warriors had no use for.

“Hey, mister—it’s time to eat!” a soldier called out from a nearby lodge. “Pack train’s set up camp over yonder near the willows. By the butte where the wounded get took.”

Seamus waved in thanks, then looked back down at the pile at his feet.