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

From this high ground they had struggled so hard to reach and to hold against terrible odds, the lieutenant now dared look back at the narrow valley where the Indians swarmed against the rear guard. Now the Sioux held the valley behind them. The enemy had possession of water and wood while the soldiers had only what they hurriedly had taken on in crossing the creek. To attempt to run that gauntlet back to the creek for water would be nothing short of sheer suicide.

Up here on the high ground there was little to no firewood. What there had been was now all but burned to ash as every footstep and every hoof raised the stifling black dust into the air. As a biting wind came up, the sun continued its rapid fall, closing on the far horizon.

Out there to the west … where Miles and his Fifth Infantry knew nothing of their predicament.

Chapter 5

15 October 1876

“We are not done yet, brother,” William Jackson said as he sat down beside Robert at the small fire they had dug into the prairie so that its low flames would not show.

There wasn’t much wood to speak of in that cold bivouac the soldier column made on a broad depression that dominated the high ground that night. But at least they had plenty of food to eat—if a man could call hard bread and pig meat real food. And water. At least they had taken on enough water to see to the mules, enough for each man to refill his canteen for the night.

William’s stomach rumbled. He stared at the tiny fire and remembered the meals his mother had set before them when they had been boys on the high Missouri: the boiled buffalo boss ribs, pemmican sweetened with chokecherries, stewed pommes blanche, and his favorite—dried camas. It made his mouth water, made his stomach feel all the more pinched to think on such feasting. Here at least, he told himself, they were warm.

The Jackson brothers and Bear Plume had scoured the scorched campground, pulling up the twisted branches and limbs of the scrub oak and cedar with their hands, gathering the charred wood within the flaps of their coats while the nameless Ree scout used his belt knife to dig a fire hole in the blackened earth. Now the four of them sat huddled around the low flames, talking in whispers.

From the best estimation of the soldiers, Otis’s column had made all of fifteen miles during their day-long running fight before making camp at five o’clock, close to sundown. The Lakota continued to flit around on all sides of the soldiers as the wagons were formed into a large corral, and shots were exchanged between pickets and the daring horsemen until darkness fell just past seven P.M. From time to time one of the infantrymen made his shot count, so that by the time night sank over that bivouac, Otis’s men could claim to have knocked at least half a dozen warriors from their ponies.

No soldiers had been killed during the day’s skirmishing, but three men had been slightly wounded by spent bullets—the infantry’s Long Toms had simply held the Lakota too far out of range to make effective use of their charges and whirling attacks. These foot-sloggers had, by and large, kept the maddening dash of those hundreds of horsemen at bay, holding them back at least a thousand yards, just beyond the range of their Springfield rifles. Otis had begun this journey with ten thousand rounds for his rifles. This evening his men reported they were down to less than half of that. Many miles yet to go, and surrounded by the enemy who outnumbered them as many as four to one.

“Tomorrow come,” Robert agreed. “That will be a new day for Sitting Bull.”

“Sitting Bull?” Bear Plume asked, recognizing the sound of the Lakota shaman’s name in English.

“Yes,” William answered as he held his hands over the glowing fire pit to warm them with the other men. “These are Sitting Bull’s warriors. They cross the Yellowstone. Come to hunt all these buffalo we see after leaving Tongue River. Good hunting—always means lots of Lakota around.”

Bear Plume grunted and fell silent.

Occasionally they would hear the clink of a tin cup against a rifle barrel, or the bray of a mule, a gust of muffled laughter, or the sneeze of some man down with a cold. It was that season of the year on the high plains. Even for men who spent most of their lives outdoors. With warm, sunny days and the sort of nights that could chill a man to his narrow—most folks out here simply put up with a seasonal cough or sniffle.

Tonight Otis’s men were all on alert, out there in the rifle pits the soldiers had hastily dug on a perimeter five hundred yards out from the corral where they huddled, quiet and sleepless, watchful through the cold autumn night.

As the high plains awaited the coming of another winter.