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

As steady as was their progress, by two o’clock that afternoon Otis’s column had made no more than six miles since morning, virtually fighting tooth and nail for every yard beneath the high autumn sun that caused the men to sweat despite the season.

“Looks like they don’t intend to budge from that bluff to our front, Colonel,” Sharpe cried out to Otis.

For a long moment the train commander appraised their situation. Just ahead of him lay the narrow valley of Clear Creek, the stream having cut itself to the bottom of a narrow gorge some two hundred feet deep. On the far side of the rocky ravine at least two hundred Sioux held a commanding position—awaiting the soldiers. The wagon train came to a clattering halt.

“We can’t make that crossing,” Lieutenant Kell complained.

“We must, sir,” Sharpe argued, turning to study Otis’s face—hoping to find some resolve there. “We must make the crossing, Colonel.”

“Or?”

“Or we’ve been defeated and we’ll never resupply Tongue River again.”

Otis turned on Sharpe, bellowing loudly, “Absolutely correct, Mr. Sharpe! Gentlemen—those fiends will not turn us back. It’s up to you. Do you understand?”

Sharpe saluted smartly and said, “Requesting that you position one of the Gatlings to lay down a covering fire for my men, Colonel.”

“Dandy idea, Lieutenant!”

Within minutes the field piece was rolled into position and a crew set to rake the far side of the valley where the Indians waited while Sharpe quickly formed up his men and led them off on the double, rushing to secure the crossing. Just as they reached Clear Creek, with the bullets kicking up spouts of dirt around them, Sharpe’s sergeant Hathaway grunted, falling to his knees beside the lieutenant.

“I’m hit, sir!” and he threw a hand to his breast as he collapsed to the ground.

In that moment Sharpe watched the sergeant pull his hand away and inspect himself. There was no blood, no bullet hole, but there at his knee lay the spent bullet that had whacked him on the chest. Yet in the space of that few heartbeats, the warriors on the far side of the stream got their range and began to lay in a galling fire on the gallant men of H Company.

“Into the stream! Now, men—be lively!” Sharpe called out, knowing if he did not keep them moving now, they would waver, fall back, and they would never secure the crossing.

Waving his service revolver in the air with one arm, he tugged his sergeant back to his feet; then together they raced to the creekbank, leading the soldiers through the skimpy brush and into the shallow water. To the far side they splashed, shooting and bellowing as the warriors on the far bluff yelped and screeched in dismay.

“Fire by volleys!” Sharpe ordered on the far bank. “First squad! Forrard …” waiting for them to kneel, then, “aim—fire!”

The first six slogged forward, drenched above their knees, shivering in the cold autumn wind that knifed down the sharp ravine, immediately went to their knees, and fired on command.

“Second squad!”

A second set of six moved through the ranks of the first.

“Aim!”

Kneeling immediately, throwing their long rifles against their shoulders, cheeks to the stocks, eyes along the barrels.

“Fire!”

One after another Sharpe had the rifle squads leapfrogging forward, slowly purchasing a few more yards of ground on that far bank with each volley, inching their way up the slope to the rocks where the warriors held on, firing down on them.

“We can take the hill!” Sharpe shouted as the enemy fire began to taper off. “Now, men! On the double: charger

Like fiends themselves, H Company sprinted and skidded, slipped and clawed their way up the slope toward the Sioux. Some cursed, others screamed, and most silently went about their reloading, shell after shell after shell, foot by foot pushing back the enemy.

Atop the bluff now they could see that the last of the warriors had set fire to the tall tinder-dry grass. The flames leaped and crackled beneath each strong gust of wind, driving layers of stifling smoke down on the soldiers as they clambered up the rocky slope.

Near the top, Sharpe turned to look behind him for but a moment, and in that moment saw Otis himself leading the first of the wagons out of the stream and up the trail. By damn! H Company had secured the crossing. Wagon by wagon, the teamsters and soldiers were stopping in the shallow creek to water the stock as they reached the stream. Beside each wagon soldiers quickly refilled the water barrels before more teams pushed on down into the creek bottom. Two or three wagons at a time now rumbled up to the west bank of Clear Creek—which meant that now the warriors might swarm in on all sides of H Company and the supply train.

What made things all the more frightening for the lieutenant was that with the smoke and the fires, the noise and the way the battle rolled here, then there—for the life of him it seemed even more warriors were coming to reinforce the horsemen all the time.