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

They were leaving a trail chopped with the footprints of the old and the small ones, footprints spotted with blood. As well as a trail of pony carcasses. A few times each day a horse would be slaughtered for food to feed the many cold, empty bellies. As the warm green hide was stripped off to be wrapped around cold children, or cut into crude boots to protect frozen feet, some of the half-dead old ones stumbled over to stuff their own hands and feet into the warm gut piles steaming in the terrible cold. Just enough warmth to allow them to trudge on, on through the wilderness to find the Oglalla wintering on the Tongue.

One of his old friends, White Frog, had been wounded four times in the battle as he drew bullets to himself protecting the women and children. Although he stumbled with the agony of his wounds and oftentimes fell in the snow, White Frog nonetheless struggled to be one of the first who led the others from fire to fire, cheering them on.

Behind White Frog proudly walked Comes Together, White Frog’s woman, clutching their infant son beneath her hide dress, sharing what warmth she had with the tiny, sick child.*

“Ma-heo-o!” Little Wolf called out as loudly as he could with a hoarse throat. “Hear your people! We belong only to you! When you remain steadfast to us—not even the power of the ve-ho-e can ever destroy us!”

A generous portion of the meat butchered from those buffalo killed during last night’s folly was distributed among the wounded that Homer Wheeler was escorting back to the wagon camp on the Crazy Woman. Those soldiers who could eat found themselves strengthened for the arduous journey that Tuesday, 28 November—their third day struggling through a mix of sand and deep snow icing the hilly country.

Well after sunrise the lieutenant’s detail loaded the frozen dead onto the backs of the restive mules once more, preparing to move out with their ghoulish cargo. Then the travois were attached to the mules, each set of poles strapped to their aparejos pair by pair. The wounded had not been moved since sundown the day before, placed at that time in two rows, their feet to glowing fires, their travois pitched at an incline upon pack saddles for their comfort.

“Sir?”

Wheeler turned, finding one of his men coming up. “What is it, soldier? We’re preparing to move out.”

“I know, Lieutenant,” the private answered, grave worry carved on his face. “It’s … it’s private McFarland, sir. He’s … well—he’s gone out of his mind.”

“Out of his mind?”

“I don’t think he’ll make it through the day,” the soldier replied. “He’s in a real bad way.”

Sighing, Wheeler said, “All right. See that you make him as comfortable and warm as you can. Then get him hitched up with the others. There’s nothing we can do that the surgeons haven’t already done for him.”

“You mean … them surgeons say he’s gonna die anyway?”

“That’s no concern of yours,” Wheeler snapped impatiently. “You have a job to do for Private McFarland while he’s still alive. So you go do it.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted and turned away.

Already Homer could hear the chanting as the Indian scouts were the first to pull away from last night’s bivouac. Throughout most of the last two days’ march they sang over the few scalps Mackenzie had allowed them to take from the Cheyenne, holding the hair aloft at the end of long wands where the bloody trophies tossed in the fitful, icy wind.

Not long after they set off that morning, Wheeler spotted three Shoshone horsemen sitting motionless atop their ponies at the side of the trail. As he drew closer, the lieutenant recognized the greasy blanket coat the middle warrior wore. Homer halted before them. “Anzi,” he said, not surprised to see the pain written across the Indian’s face.

“Melican medicine man,” the wounded warrior said, the mere sound of his words echoing the agony of his wound as he stoically remained hunched over in the saddle.

“Want to ride,” said one of the other two riders in his broken English. He and his companion supported a wobbly Anzi between them.

“Ride?”

“There, Melican medicine man.” Anzi pointed at the travois just then going past them.

“On one of the litters?” Wheeler asked in consternation. “You want to lay down in a travois?”

“Yes, yes, medicine man,” Anzi gasped, seized with pain. “No whiskey—Anzi do no good.”

“No whiskey, Anzi,” Wheeler replied sourly. “And I’m afraid I don’t have a litter for you either.”

“No?” asked one of Anzi’s companions.

“No,” Wheeler repeated. “The one you got out of two days back is now carrying a sick soldier.”

“Soldier sick as me?”

“No,” the lieutenant admitted. “But you gave up your travois when you found out we had no more whiskey.”

“Yes, whiskey. Whiskey good for Anzi.”

“No travois, Anzi,” Wheeler replied, beginning to feel his patience draining. “You’ll make it.”

“To Cluke wagon camp?”

“Yes. Hang on. You’ll make it there. And—you’ll find more whiskey there too.”

“Whiskey. Anzi not die he got whiskey in belly with bullet.”