A Cold Day in Hell

by Terry C. Johnston

  Brave Wolf shivered. Not so much from cold as from fear. Down there in the village remained his sacred Thunder Bow. Last spring, when he had taken the vow of a Contrary, the bow had been blessed by the old shamans—never to be used in hunting, only in battle to protect the People. And it was never to go inside a lodge. So Brave Wolf always hung it outside his door, in the branches of a nearby tree. Where the Wolf People scouts now would find it, perhaps burn it when they destroyed the camp.

  Worse yet: they would steal its magic from him!

  Oh, how he felt hollow and cold, as if a shaft of frozen winter ice had been driven through the center of his chest. So sad, yet so afraid, he could not cry. At least not while they were fighting their way out of the west end of the village, each man scurrying from tree to tree, dodging from rock to rock, then working his way into the ravines and across the valley to the far side where he could huddle among the rocks on the northern slopes.

  The soldiers were not all that lucky trying to pin down the warriors who used every cleft and shadow to their advantage in staying out of sight, where they could snipe at the ve-ho-e in the valley.

  Below Brave Wolf some of the young men were talking excitedly, pointing, planning how they were going to sneak back in among the pony herd that was already captured—to steal it back from the soldiers and their Indian scouts. As he watched, the first two went to their bellies among the thick, leafless willow that stood taller than a man and crawled out of sight, like snakes making their creep upon an unwary prey.

  “Help me, brother.”

  Brave Wolf turned at the sudden address from a clump of brush, thinking he recognized the voice. “Is that you, Braided Locks?”

  “Here is my hand, brother,” the wounded warrior said. “Pull me in there with you.”

  As he dragged his friend by the arm, Brave Wolf could see all the blood smeared across Braided Locks’s belly. As the wounded warrior twisted over, he saw the exit wound in the small of the back.

  “You are dying?” he asked, laying his friend in his lap.

  Braided Locks rested his head upon Brave Wolf’s thigh, his eyes clenched in pain, his breath short and ragged until his breathing came easier. “No. No, I am not dying, brother. This hurts too much to be dying.”

  “How long have you been shot?”

  “It seems like all morning,” Braided Locks replied, finally opening his eyes in the shadows of those rocks at their shoulders. “I was in the deep ravine below, with the others when the soldiers on horses charged us. Some of us were near the top of the ravine and fought the soldiers there, close enough to see their eyes. Just as the others did farther down the ravine—toward the village. They too fought close enough to see the soldier eyes.”

  “We lost many of our friends down there at the ravine.”

  “I know,” Braided Locks said softly, his voice reverent with remembrance. “As I fought and fell, then crawled all the way up here to these rocks, the bullets struck around me so loud, I thought it was hailing. I thought I was crawling on bullets, there were so many.”

  Brave Wolf shuddered looking at that dark, purple pucker of a bullet hole. “I have only this to put on your wounds,” he admitted, slashing two strips off the back of his long wool breechclot.

  Braided Locks looked down at himself, regarded the bullet hole in his belly. “Thank you, brother. But it seems the cold is enough that I do not bleed anymore. See?”

  He watched his friend’s eyes slowly close and immediately became more frightened. “Are you dying?”

  The warrior wagged his head slowly. “No. I am … just so tired. Now that you are here with me … I want nothing more than to sleep for a little while.”

  As it became painfully clear that his men were going to pay a hefty price for not sealing off the Cheyenne escape, Mackenzie sent First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton across that dangerous no-man’s-land with another order for his dismounted units.

  Stop all firing except at close range, and then—only when sure of a target.

  Across that snowy valley fell an eerie quiet, punctuated from time to time with a short burst of gunfire from both sides before the rifles and carbines fell silent once more. During the lull Mackenzie dismissed his orderly.

  “I don’t need you for a while. Get some rest and some food.”

  More tired than hungry, William Earl Smith led his horse back into the thick brush where a few other soldiers had hunkered down, tied off his horse, and made himself comfortable enough to doze in the cold shadows.

  He awakened to find only one soldier still nearby. Smith inched over, figuring to nudge the man awake—but found the soldier dead, his mouth and eyes open. Shot through the head, right where he had been sitting. No more than an arm’s length from William Earl.

  A cold drop slid down his spine as he leaped to his feet, nearly collapsing as one leg refused to move—frozen. Tingling with the pricks of renewed feeling, Smith rubbed it hurriedly, then dragged the reluctant leg along, back to the brush where he had tied his horse.

  Mounting up, he led it down into the boggy ground, where he eventually reached the streambank. There he pulled off his boot and plunged his leg—britches, stocking, and all—into the icy water, figuring that was sure to end the sharp pains he was suffering. After a bit he struggled back into the saddle and, dripping wet, endeavored to report back to Mackenzie. He was weaving back and forth atop his McClellan, finding it difficult to keep the frozen leg in its stirrup when he spotted the rest of the orderlies ahead, signaling him from the high, rocky observation point.

  “Smith! You’re wet! Where the hell have you been?” the colonel demanded as the private reached headquarters.

  “Tending to my leg, General.”

  “You’re wounded.”

  “Not rightly, I ain’t, sir,” Smith admitted. “After you let me go off to sleep, ’pears my leg never wanted to wake back up!”

  “Go on down there and report in to the hospital the surgeons have established,” Mackenzie ordered. “See if they can do something for you, then report back to me when you’re in shape to sit a horse.”

  By the time Smith loped down to the hospital, he had decided against reporting to the surgeons. They had their hands busy enough with bullet wounds. Pushing on past the field hospital, the orderly found some of his old company settled in on a skirmish line and taking a moment to enjoy some well-deserved victuals.

  “Is that Smith I see?” hollered one of them as the orderly came up.

  “It is,” he called out, grinning, happy to see his old comrades. “Is that tacks and bacon I see you wolfing down?”

  “They sure as blazes are,” cried another soldier, holding up his rations. “Sit yourself and eat up with us!”

  “Where’d you come on to them vittles?”

  “Don’t you know? The pack train’s in,” the first soldier replied. “The general don’t know?”

  “I don’t figger the general much cares to eat anyhow,” Smith replied as he snatched up an offered tack and a small slab of fatty bacon. “Knowing him—Mackenzie won’t give his belly no nevermind till he wins this fight.”

  When Young Two Moon had turned from the women who moved off, cradling the body of Crow Necklace, hurrying into the mouth of the ravine, he immediately headed for the warriors who lay upon the rounded knoll, firing their rifles at groups of soldiers near the fringe of the captured lodges.

  Reaching them, he said, “Come with me into the village. We must see if anyone is left alive.”

  Only Brave Bear chose to leave the sniping from the hill with Young Two Moon. Together they mounted up and raced around the back of the knoll heading for the lodges, but suddenly turned away before reaching the camp circle. Already too many Wolf People were busy among the lodges—shooting, looting, slashing the hide-and-canvas covers, trampling the Cheyennes’ sacred objects hung on those tripods erected in front of most of the dwellings.

  When the two warriors galloped back for the hills, fired upon by the soldiers, the pair became separa
ted and Brave Bear’s horse was shot from under him, spilling its rider. Nevertheless, he managed to crawl unseen for some distance before he finally ran to safety behind some rocks where he carried on a long-range shooting match with the soldiers.

  Under heavy fire, Young Two Moon whipped his pony to greater speed, dodging bullets and rocks, the animal slipping and nearly falling several times on the icy ground. By the time he made it to the base of the ridge where the women were singing their strong-heart songs behind the breastworks, the young warrior decided his horse was of no more use.

  He let it go and chose another from among those few some of the herder boys had managed to drive into the ravines and hillsides at the moment of attack. Leaping onto its back and taking up the rein, Young Two Moon headed east along the north foot of the valley—hoping to find a good place to fight, seeking to find where the soldiers were holding more of the Ohmeseheso ponies.

  Slipping around the northwest end of the canyon toward the twin red buttes just west of the deep ravine where many warriors had surprised some of the gray-horse soldiers, Young Two Moon halted, spotting a rider approaching some distance away, a horseman hugging the thick brush along the high plateau at the northern foot of the valley. As the man and horse drew closer, Young Two Moon could tell the rider was an Indian: he rode easily without a saddle, his feet and legs hanging free of stirrups. Nearer and nearer he came until Young Two Moon saw that it was the youngster called Beaver Dam, riding a cream-colored horse with a white mane and tail.

  But … Beaver Dam had left the village many days before—traveling with a small band of the People who were heading north, seeking out the camp of Crazy Horse.

  Could this be that he was back?

  Young Two Moon grew concerned—because Beaver Dam was coming from the east, the same direction the soldiers had come. But even more damning: that cream-colored pony Beaver Dam was riding happened to be one of the ponies stolen from Sits in the Night by strangers during last night’s dance!

  Oh, how could this be?

  With a pounding heart Young Two Moon knew there was only one way Beaver Dam could have got his hands on that horse. He was in league with the soldiers’ Indians!

  The young man had betrayed his people and their village.

  As the horseman drew closer to Young Two Moon, Beaver Dam raised his arm in greeting, a smile coming to his face. Then the smile suddenly disappeared and the youngster froze at the very moment Young Two Moon heard ponies coming up behind him.

  “Who is that?” a voice demanded behind Young Two Moon.

  He looked over his shoulder and recognized the old warrior Gypsum and a handful more coming to a halt on the hill beside him, all of them watching the approaching rider.

  Young Two Moon said, “It is Beaver Dam.”

  “Aiyeee!” Gypsum cried wildly. “Then he is the one who brought these soldiers here!”

  In a flurry of hoofbeats, the half-dozen warriors kicked their ponies into motion and stopped only when they had the youngster surrounded, frightened, and at gunpoint, when Young Two Moon reached the tense scene.

  “I am going to kill you myself!” Gypsum growled. “My sons were killed in the ravine by the soldiers you brought down upon our village. So now I will be the one to avenge their deaths!”

  “No!” Beaver Dam shouted, his wet eyes like a frightened rabbit’s caught in a snare. “I am not a scout for the soldiers. Many days ago I left Buffalo Bull Sitting Down’s* camp to come home to my People after they had two fights with the soldiers and began marching north.”

  “So you’re coming home now with the soldiers’ scouts?” Gypsum demanded. “Planning to loot and plunder like the Wolf People?”

  “No, I tell you,” Beaver Dam’s voice quaked. “On my way here I saw a party of Arapaho. When I got close, they looked like friends, so I went to their fire and ate their food. After they asked me all their questions about our village, only then I found out they were wolves for the blue soldiers. They pulled their guns and pointed them at me. They captured me.”

  Young Two Moon asked, “Did they take you to the big soldier camp?”

  Beaver Dam nodded emphatically. “The soldiers tied me up tight, hit me, put guns to my head—here—and to my breast—here—trying to make me tell them more about our village. I saw you and Crow Necklace in the soldiers’ camp … saw you steal the scouts’ horses that night you walked through the soldier camp.”

  “Why didn’t you call out to them?” Gypsum demanded. “Ask them to help you escape?”

  “If I had, Young Two Moon and Crow Necklace would be dead—killed by the soldiers or their scouts. I could not betray them, so I kept my mouth closed and waited.”

  “Your story is very hard to believe,” one of the others snorted.

  Beaver Dam looked at the warrior. “We were a small group coming home from Buffalo Bull Sitting Down’s country, and when we spotted some people far off, they sent me to find out who those people were.”

  “And they were the Arapaho who captured you?”

  “Yes!” Beaver Dam replied anxiously, then wagged his head dolefully. “Now I do not know where my people are.” He looked up at Young Two Moon anxiously. “Are my relatives here?”

  “No,” he told young Beaver Dam. “Your people have not come here.”

  So the youngster said hopefully, “Perhaps when I did not come back, they turned around and headed back to Buffalo Bull Sitting Down’s people.”

  “That is too far away,” Young Two Moon said. “Wiser to seek out the Crazy Horse people.”

  “Perhaps,” the youth considered. “White Bull is still with them.”

  “How is it you have this horse?” Gypsum asked angrily, his hands flexing as if he would jump the youngster at any moment. “It is not a soldier’s American horse.”

  “I know this horse!” cried another of Gypsum’s warriors. “It belongs to Sits in the Night! The enemy stole his horses last night during our dance!”

  Gypsum edged his pony closer, grabbing Beaver Dam’s rein. “Where did you get this horse?”

  He swallowed hard, his voice tight with fear. “Once the soldiers began their attack this morning, the Arapaho let me go, saying that it was too late for me to spoil their surprise. They said to pick a horse from the captured herds. I knew this horse. It belongs to Sits in the Night, and I knew it is a strong one which can outrun most soldier horses. I picked it.”

  “You’ve had time to come up with a good story, little one,” Gypsum snarled, then suddenly lunged for the youngster, knocking him off his pony.

  Both of them toppled to the ground, grappling as other warriors leaped into the fray, attempting to pull Gypsum off Beaver Dam. Two men held the older warrior back as he swung for the youngster.

  Left-handed Wolf said, “This young man has told his story, and it is not so long since he left us that he could have betrayed his people to the soldiers. I think you should let him be.”

  “No!” Gypsum snapped, lunging for the youngster although restrained by the others. “I must kill him! My sons are dead because of him!”

  “This man did not kill your sons,” Left-handed Wolf argued as Gypsum struggled. “Listen! Hear those soldiers shooting? They have not stopped shooting at our people all morning long. Those soldiers and their Indians—they are the ones who killed your sons. Not this boy! If you want to fight, go fight the soldiers, Gypsum. Don’t let me catch you fighting this boy now! He is one of our people—”

  “He is not our people!”

  “He is Tse-Tsehese!” Young Two Moon shouted, shoving his way into the tightening circle of angry men. “We have enough enemies among the soldiers and their scouts from the agency who betray us—we must not fight among ourselves.”

  “I will fight the soldiers,” Gypsum growled, flinging his arms out wildly, knocking down one of those who held him. “But first I will kill this one who caused the soldiers to kill my sons in the ravine!”

  Yanking up his long braided rawhide quirt, Left-handed Wolf pressed it
hard against Gypsum’s cheek as the others regained their hold on him. The cold wind tousled its ten thin strips of leather. “If you touch this youngster—I will come back to whip you myself!”

  Gypsum’s eyes narrowed. “So—you are turning your back on your people too?”

  In a flash Left-handed Wolf raked the quirt down Gypsum’s cheek, cocked his arm back, and snapped it forward, striking the warrior on the temple with the thick antler handle.

  Gypsum’s knees turned to water as he slowly sank between his two holders.

  “Let that be a lesson to any of you!” Left-handed Wolf shouted. “We have enough enemies to fight out there, and there, and over there too. We must not make enemies of our strong-hearted people!” Then he turned to Beaver Dam. “Go yonder to the high ridge west of the village. You will find the women and our children there. Among our families you will be safe from soft-headed fools like Gypsum.”

  For a moment Beaver Dam glanced at Young Two Moon, as if seeking permission.

  Young Two Moon nodded, telling the youngster, “Yes. Go ahead. You will be fine there. Help the women pile up rocks at the breastworks.”

  Without another word the young man leaped atop his cream-colored pony and hurried away to the west. In his wake Gypsum stood shakily, his angry eyes filled with tears of rage and loss.

  “This day two sons have been taken from me, and I do not know where I can find my wife!” Then he shook off the two warriors holding his arms. “Tell me, Left-handed Wolf: how is it you find it so easy to know your friends from your enemies when they are both Tse-Tsehese?”

  “No matter the color of his skin or how he wears his hair,” the other warrior replied, “it is always easy to tell a friend from an enemy.”

  “No,” Young Two Moon said sadly. “I do not think it is so easy anymore, Uncle. Even if they are Tse-Tsehese, I do not think it will ever again be easy to tell a friend from an enemy.”

  * Sitting Bull, Hunkpapa Lakota leader.

  Chapter 32

  25 November 1876