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

Throughout their march away from the Cheyenne village that Sunday afternoon, Mackenzie’s men came across the horse tack, clothing, and superfluous equipage the cavalry had cast aside in its hurried, cold-night march to reach the canyon of the Red Fork, abandoned litter that spoke eloquently of a trooper’s privations and sacrifices in service to his unit.

Which only made Seamus dwell all the more on those men who had suffered through the night with their wounds, given whiskey and laudanum and kept as warm as possible. On their shoulders more than any other the weight of battle had been borne.

At least Mackenzie’s sawbones could give them something to ease their goddamned pain, Donegan thought as the procession wound in and around to the east. Too damned many good men fated to die were all too often forced to die in pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the spill of tears and took a deep, shocking breath of that cold wind. Thinking on Samantha to ease some of the private torment in his heart, thinking on the wee boy who would soon have a name.

Late in the afternoon of that first day’s countermarch, a cadre of Shoshone and Pawnee scouts rejoined the column after making a reconnaissance to learn more of the Cheyennes’ intentions. Back on the twenty-third they had departed Crook’s camp on the Crazy Woman Fork, sent north toward the Bighorns. As it turned out, the fourteen scouts brought in a few head of ponies, and a report of their own skirmish with the enemy.

“Seems they ran across what the Cheyenne have left of a pony herd,” Frank North explained to Donegan as the two marched along with the slow column. “No more’n two hundred head at the most.”

“But our scouts cut out almost half of them before the Cheyenne herders discovered what they were up to,” Luther jumped into the conversation.

“And for their enthusiasm our boys nearly got themselves chewed up by those Cheyenne licking their battle wounds,” Frank declared. “If the snow clouds hadn’t rolled over about that time, our Pawnee and Cosgrove’s Snakes would not be here to tell the story.”

“They have any guess how many Cheyenne they saw?” Seamus asked.

Frank replied, “Could be as many as twelve hundred, maybe more.”

Luther said, “But the good news is—from what our boys could see, the Cheyenne really are badly cut up, all but naked, without moccasins, blankets, or ammunition … dragging all their wounded through the mountains toward the headwaters of the Crazy Woman.”

“They’re headed for the Crazy Horse people,” Seamus replied. “Just like they did after the Reynolds’s debacle in March.”

Frank stated, “That was right about the time the warrior bands started coming together for the spring and summer hunting seasons.”

For the rest of the day rumors ran through the anxious command because of that nearby contact with the fleeing Cheyenne. Fears arose that Morning Star’s warriors would be waiting to ambush the column somewhere along the trail. So frightened were some of the wounded that the colonel ordered his Indian scouts to the head of the command, where they stayed for the rest of the day in the event of a surprise attack. Indian would again be the first to bear the brunt of any ambush by Indian.

Just past sunset Mackenzie ordered a halt for the night on the far side of Willow Creek, which would lead them out of the mountains and back to the plains, where they could rendezvous with Crook and Dodge on the Crazy Woman Fork. The weary, cold cavalry had put twelve miles behind them by the time they kindled their fires and settled in among the snowdrifts for the long winter’s night.

Tom Cosgrove waved the Irishman over to his fire. “Come. Sit. Have yourself a cup of my terrible coffee, you no-good, sonofabitchin’ blue-belly.”

Seamus took the tin from Yancy Eckles at their cheery fire. He asked the two, “You mind if I bunk in with you here?”

“Sure you don’t mind the noise?” the short squaw man Eckles asked, throwing his thumb back to indicate the loud, uproarious scalp dance the Shoshone were holding nearby.

“No,” Donegan said all too quietly. “The noise won’t bother me near as much as the quiet would tonight.”

“Sit yourself down, then,” Cosgrove replied, stretching out his long frame. “My home is your home!”

“Truth be—I don’t want to stay down there with the others where I was,” Donegan replied, then sipped at the scalding coffee.

Eckles inquired, “With Wheeler’s wounded train?”

Wagging his head, Seamus said, “It ain’t the wounded. It’s them dead ones.”

With a snort Cosgrove threw a fist at Donegan’s shoulder. “That’s a pretty one! With all the dead men you’ve seen in all your goddamned wars—now you’ve gone and got yourself funny feelings about a few dead soldiers?”

For a moment Seamus stared into the fire. “They’re frozen.”

“We all are,” Cosgrove replied casually.

“No. I mean really frozen, Tom,” Donegan argued. “They froze near solid on the ride here this afternoon.”

His eyes narrowing, Eckles asked. “Hanging over the backs of them mules?”