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

Nodding, Donegan said, “And when Wheeler’s men took the bodies off the mules, they just set each dead man up to stand all on his own, bent over in a half hoop, posted on hands and boots.”

Cosgrove trembled involuntarily. “Like they was bowed up?”

As the war cries and songs of the Shoshone reached another crescendo, Donegan only nodded, his cracked, bloody lips warming at the rim of the coffee tin and didn’t say another word.

Finally Cosgrove stated quietly, “Sure, Irishman. We’ll always make room for you here.”

They drank their coffee in silence for some time, each of them listening to the noisy Shoshone celebration, until Eckles spoke.

“You figure Grouard got to Crook already?”

“Yeah,” Seamus replied. “I’ll wager the infantry’re headed this way already.”

“General?”

George Crook sat upright at the sound of the orderly’s voice, rubbing at his gritty eyes. Damn, but it was dark. “Yes! Yes! What is it?”

He could see it was not yet light. Nothing more than the first seep of gray from outside, a gray that streamed through the canvas shelter half he had stretched out from the sidewall of one of Furey’s freight wagons to keep the snow off his bed. Crook shifted on his mattress of blankets and sagebrush, hurriedly grabbing for the first boot in the dark.

“It’s a courier, General.”

His heart rose to his throat. “From Mackenzie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?” he snapped, bursting to his feet and bolting out of the shelter half with one boot on and the other in his hand, both braids of his long red beard flung back over his shoulders.

The orderly fell back two steps, surprised by the general’s sudden appearance. “Th-th-there’s been a f-fight, sir.”

“By Jove! That’s exquisite news!” Then he noticed the courier at the fire, having just filled his cup. “So you’re the one who rode in with this splendid report, Frank?”

The half-breed Grouard nodded, taking his first sip at the coffee sending curls of steam into the frosty light of predawn. “Cold as hell out there, General.”

Dammit, he wanted answers—now. “Mackenzie … he won?”

Nodding, Grouard replied in that easy, slow way of his. “Not like Reynolds last winter. Not like that at all.”

Crook did a quick little stamp with his feet, something on the order of a Phil Sheridan Irish jig, only then realizing he hadn’t put his second boot on as he stomped down on the pounded snow with his thin stocking. “A victory, Frank?”

“Damn right, it’s a victory, General. But the Tse-Tsehese are up in the rocks around their camp and the carbines can’t bring ’em down. Mackenzie said to tell you he needs the Long Toms.”

“Fix this man some breakfast,” Crook ordered the men around the fire, grinning from ear to ear and waving his arms like a man possessed, getting all of his orderlies and dog-robbers moving at once. “And pour me a cup of the strongest coffee you’ve got. Wait right here, Frank—I’m going to grab my coat and hat … then go roust Dodge. When we’re back, you’re going to tell us all about Mackenzie’s fight.”

The commanding general of the Department of the Platte awakened Colonel Richard I. Dodge that cold dawn of the twenty-sixth, literally pulling the infantry commander from his trestle bed.

“Mackenzie sent back for your boys and their guns! He’s got the whole lot of ’em on the run!”

“M-my guns?” Dodge said, shuddering as he pulled on his tall boots, blinking his eyes.

“Damn. Tucked away up there in the rocks, one of those blasted warriors is worth ten of my troopers,” Crook growled, grinding his gloves together thoughtfully. “But your riflemen should more than even the odds for General Mackenzie.”

Dodge stood, buttoning his long caped coat. “When shall we embark?”

“As soon as you’ve drawn two days’ rations and issued every man one hundred rounds of ammunition.”

The infantry commander stabbed his way out from the flaps of his canvas tent. “I’ll return shortly, General—to report to you when we’re ready to depart.”

“Perhaps you misunderstood, General,” Crook said to Dodge, watching the colonel freeze in the middle of his salute. “I am accompanying you on this forced march.”

“Of … of course, General,” Dodge finally replied with studied disappointment, and finished his salute.

It wasn’t until close to noon that Dodge had his men dressed, fed, outfitted, and mustered into columns. By then the sky had lowered and the tops of the nearby Bighorns had once again disappeared among the gray, heavy clouds. Three inches of new snow had fallen atop the eight inches already on the ground from last night. And even more was dropping as the column of foot soldiers set out at a trudge, their faces pointed into a harsh west wind.