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

To the rising despair of the young hunters, it was indeed their own people—their own families, their own relatives and friends who had been driven into this winter wilderness with little but those green horsehides frozen on their backs. The young men rushed back to the coulee, leaped atop their ponies, and kicked them into a lope.

When the hunters were still a long way off, the women started trilling their tongues in warning. At first the warriors escorting the sad procession hurried forward on cold, stiffened limbs—prepared to meet the attack. But in a few moments they realized the young horsemen had not come to attack them. The older warriors, the chiefs, began to call out.

And the young hunters answered to their names, quickly searching among the many for their loved ones and relatives. Women began to cry and old men began to weep. And it made Wooden Leg cry too, for here he looked over the three Old-Man Chiefs. And thanked Ma-heo-o that Coal Bear’s woman still carried Esevone upon her back. Too, Medicine Bear helped the feeble prophet called Box Elder hobble forward, his bony hands still clutching his Scared Wheel Lance and the Turner over their heads.

While they might have no lodges and few weapons, while they no longer owned the finest in clothing and an ample supply of winter meat—the Ohmeseheso still had what mattered most. They had protected their most sacred objects. The People could rebuild!

“The soldiers and Wolf People came to our camp in the Red Canyon,” the story was told to the young hunters in a gush of words and tears, both happy and sad.

“We were camped far up Powder River near where you left us,” said another.

“Our women and children had to run away with only a few small packs.”

Wooden Leg nodded bitterly with remembrance, then said, “Just as we did last winter far down on the Powder River.”*

“This time the soldiers and their Indian scouts made sure they burned all our lodges and most of our horses were stolen. Many of our men, women, and children have been killed in the fight. Others have died of their battle wounds or have starved or frozen on our journey here.”

And a woman shrieked, “One of my sisters and her boy were captured with two other women by the Wolf People!”

“Where are you going?” Wooden Leg asked.

Little Wolf looked away into the distance a moment, then back into the young warrior’s face. “We are going there.” He pointed north. “Down the Tongue River … to find the Hunkpatila people.”

“Here,” Wooden Leg replied as the other hunters came forward, “take our horses for those who cannot walk. We will cross the ice with you and go down the river until we find Crazy Horse. Last winter when the soldiers drove us out into the snow and cold, Crazy Horse welcomed us … welcomed us as if we were his brothers.”

Headqrs. Mil. Div. of the Mo.

Chicago, Dec. 1, 1876

Gen. W. T. Sherman

Washington:

The following telegram from General Crook, dated Crazy Woman’s Fork, Wyoming Territory, November 28th, has just been received:

(signed) P. H. Sheridan

Lieutenant General

Before reaching General Mackenzie, I learned of the Indians’ retreat, and that he was returning with his command; so I countermanded the foot troops to this place. I sent you Mackenzie’s report of his operations against the Cheyennes. I cannot commend too highly his brilliant achievements and the great gallantry of the troops of his command. This will be a terrible blow to the hostiles, as those Cheyennes were not only the bravest warriors, but have been the head and front of most all the raids and deviltry committed in this part of the country.

(signed) George Crook

Brigadier General, U.S.A.

Commanding

The day before had been a damned forgettable Thanksgiving, Seamus brooded that next morning, the first of December. What with the burials of those dead soldiers, and the presence of that lone pine box Crook would have Lieutenant O. L. Wieting of the Twenty-third Infantry deliver by rail to McKinney’s family back in Memphis, Tennessee. For the rest of the afternoon details of the Fourth Cavalry rode teams of horses back and forth over the mass grave, and that evening the men started fires over the site in hopes of betraying that sacred ground to both the enemy and any four-legged predators roaming this wilderness.

Donegan could not remember ever seeing Mackenzie nearly as melancholy. The colonel marched to the grave site with Crook and Dodge at the head of the procession, but while the others sang the hymns and bowed their heads in prayer, Mackenzie only stared into the distance, transfixed on the clouds mantled across the snowy mountains. The man looked numb, almost unaware of events around him, his face a mask to some private torment and despair.

Perhaps Mackenzie was dwelling on the same dark thoughts that tormented Donegan: more soldiers buried in more unmarked graves, those final resting places abandoned to the ages.