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

“Sir, he said nothing about that. Just that he wants to see you.

Flinging himself into the saddle, Wheeler led the pink-faced private back down that winding, narrow path to the site on the south slope overlooking what that morning had been the Cheyenne village, where Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie was overseeing the final mop-up of the enemy camp.

The young officer dismounted, handing his reins to the orderly, then stepped up, clicked his heels together, and saluted.

“General. Lieutenant Wheeler: G Troop, Fifth Cavalry. Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Mr. Wheeler. Very good,” Mackenzie replied, returning the salute as the muscles along one side of his jaw convulsed. “I have an important duty for you.”

“Yes, sir. Anything to help.”

The colonel nodded, turning away to look across the decimated camp where scouts and soldiers were busy at that moment dragging plunder from the lodges, stripping the lodgepoles of their hide-and-canvas covers. Wheeler stepped up at the tall Mackenzie’s elbow to look down upon the scene.

“Do you see our hospital?”

“Yes, General.”

“The surgeons certainly have had a time of it today.”

“I can quite imagine, sir.”

Now Mackenzie momentarily glanced at Wheeler. “Lieutenant—I’m placing you in charge of transporting our casualties back to our wagon camp on the Powder.”

“Y-yes, General,” he said, his shoulders snapping back proudly. “It is an honor, sir!”

“What will you require?”

His mind burned with adrenaline as it raced over what he needed. “Twenty men, General.”

“Certainly.”

“And as many packers as the mule train can spare to handle the animals.”

“You have my authority.”

“With the general’s permission: can I inform you later just how many civilians I will require?”

“Yes, by all means. Now you must speak to the surgeons and see to things at the field hospital yourself.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll go there now, with your permission. Thank you.”

“Very well, then,” Mackenzie said quietly, almost too quietly to be heard above the commotion of the destruction being pursued downslope at their feet. “Do you have any further questions of your assignment?”

Wheeler turned on his heel, coming to attention, saluting smartly. “None at all, General. Thank you, sir. Thank you!”

Mackenzie saluted, murmured, “Good day, Lieutenant.” Then the colonel wheeled about on his heel, his shoulders sagging as he returned to his headquarters group—looking more like a man who had just suffered a defeat than a man who had just claimed a major victory in this long and indecisive campaign.

For a few moments more, Wheeler stood there, rigid—letting the personal triumph of it wash over him, enjoying this singular honor.

When he finally realized he must look a sight standing there by himself, staring from that outcrop of rocks at the village and the valley beyond, Wheeler quickly took his reins from the young orderly and remounted. Going to Tom Moore, he requested four packers at that time to lend a hand to the twenty troopers from his own company who could construct the travois they would need from the Cheyenne lodgepoles.

They had found it no easy task that late in the afternoon to scrounge up enough poles, rope, and robes or blankets for those travois. Most everything had been cut up and was in the process of being consigned to the leaping bonfires crackling throughout the village. Throughout the rest of that afternoon and on into the night, the two dozen men under Wheeler went through the grueling work of constructing thirty travois by firelight, using rope and strips of hide and canvas beneath those robes they had saved from destruction.

Because of the twenty-six enlisted men who had been wounded, as well as three more men so sick they could not ride in the saddle on their own, the surgeons reported to Wheeler that they would have no trouble filling those thirty travois. Dr. LaGarde and the others had decided to bury one of the six privates who had been killed there on the battlefield. Because his transport detail could not come up with material to construct more travois, Wheeler and the surgeons decided they would have to carry four of the dead unceremoniously slung over the backs of Tom Moore’s mules.

As each of the travois was finished, it was immediately taken to the hospital, where it was placed in a slightly inclined position and another wounded soldier was gently lifted onto it. In that gray light of Sunday morning, 26 November, the last casualty was put to rest on his travois, joining all the rest who faced one another in two long rows on either side of a string of fires that had kept them from freezing throughout that frightful night.

A cold gust of wind slashed across Wheeler’s face when he turned slowly, thinking he had heard Mackenzie’s voice. The lieutenant shivered suddenly as he rose to greet the commander, his stomach growling hungrily, feeling the stupor of having gone without sleep for a second night.

“Lieutenant Wheeler.”

“Yes, General. Good morning.”