Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  Lew was still brooding on the uncertain odds stacked against them if they ran into trouble after covering some two-thirds of the distance to Norton’s ranch—when Wilmot’s eyes caught some distant movement on the sweep of prairie far off in their advance, a little to their right.

  “D. B., you look at all that ahead of us; I think we need to hold up a minute,” Lew suggested to the man riding just ahead of him.

  “All right,” Randall agreed. “Give us a minute to figger out what all this is.”

  “Lookit all them horses!” Ben Evans cried behind him.

  The herd slowly undulating off the last slope of the divide and pouring onto the prairie was impressive in size, to say the least. But it wasn’t those Nez Perce horses that held Lew Wilmot’s attention. It was those fighting men who suddenly popped up, right out of the low swale about halfway between Randall’s volunteers and their village on the move.

  “Here, Lew! Look for your own self.”

  Turning, Wilmot found James Cearly handing him a small looking glass. Lew quickly twisted the outer section until the distant figures slipped into focus. Then he twisted it back, taking the advancing horsemen out of focus as he concentrated on the distant forms among the structures that were Cottonwood Station. The house, barn, and outbuildings appeared clearly, and all those soldiers rising out of their rifle pits, too, at least a hundred of them, watching, what was about to happen. Watching, and waiting.

  “Have a look, D. B.” Wilmot jabbed the spyglass at Randall. “We don’t stand a chance of getting to Cottonwood now.”

  As their leader was studying the distance, most of the untried men behind Wilmot were shifting nervously in their saddles, an uneasy banter and hollow bravado coming over them as they stared at the distant line of more than a hundred-fifty warriors just then stringing itself into a wide but uneven V, its long side adhering to the Mount Idaho Road, the other angling across the pitch and heave of the Camas Prairie itself.

  “While we still got time, we oughtta turn around for the barricades,” Lew proposed.

  “No!” James Cearly screeched like a bull calf with its bangers tangled in some cat claw.

  “I ain’t never been yeller!” cried Frank A. Fenn,* elected sergeant of their volunteer company just that morning.

  “If we ride back to our families now, nobody’s gonna say we was yellow,” Wilmot protested, refusing to listen to their angry protests. “Besides, that village is headed in the direction of our towns. Don’t you boys figger we oughtta protect our families?”

  “G’ won back now if you don’t wanna get in on the fighting, Lew,” Cearly snapped, edging his horse up on the other side of Randall’s.

  Even young Alonzo B. Leland, the Lewiston Teller editor’s son, refused to consider retreat while they still had the chance. “Captain Randall, you can lead the rest of us through to the soldiers. I know you can.”

  “That’s right, Captain!” Cearly agreed boldly. “If anybody can get us through, you can.”

  Lew pleaded one more time, “We’ve all got families to protect—”

  But Randall sternly interrupted, “Helping them soldiers stop those Injuns is the best way I know of protecting our families back at Mount Idaho.”

  His eyes darting across the rolling sea of tall grass, Wilmot grabbed Randall’s elbow with one hand, pointing with his right arm. “Lookit that hill way off there to the left. We got time to make it there. That’s the kind of place where we can make a stand, D. B. Just tall enough, let the Indians attack us there, we can wait for the soldiers to come out and drive ’em off—”

  “No,” Randall growled, his eyes squinting testily. “I’ll get everyone through to Cottonwood like I promised.” Then he turned away from Lew, looking at James Cearly. “Jim—I think it’s time you took over for Lew. I need someone I can count on behind me, so you’re lieutenant of this outfit now.”

  Most of the group hooted and hollered like schoolboys on a summer’s lark down to the fishing hole. Wilmot quickly glanced around at them—looking into those eager faces, realizing there wasn’t a single one of them who knew what they were about to plunge themselves into.

  Suddenly he scolded himself for even caring about these men whom he had known—well, thought he knew—friends who were turning their backs on him and the loved ones all of them had left behind in Mount Idaho to wait and wonder.

  The wide formation of distant warriors disappeared down the slope as the Nez Perce dropped into the low swale of Shebang Creek. They were getting closer and closer yet still approaching at an easy pace. So there had to be enough time to get to the top of that low hill nearby—

  Right now it didn’t matter who the hell was lieutenant or sergeant … or even the goddamned captain. Gulping, Wilmot vowed to try to convince them all one last time.

  “D. B., it’s better we have us some high ground ’stead of getting caught out—”

  “Lew,” Randall interrupted, flinging Wilmot’s hand off his arm, “if you wanna go back, I said you can go. Me and the rest of the boys have started for Cottonwood and we are going.”

  Wilmot’s horse seemed to sense the tension and sidestepped. Lew leaned over, grabbing for Randall’s wrist again. Nearly breathless, he pleaded, “D. B., you know I ain’t going back ’less the rest of you go. These here fellas brung near all the guns in Mount Idaho with ’em when we rode out. And now there’s enough Injuns between us and Norton’s place to have us outnumbered ten-to-one.”

  “C’mon, Captain!” Fenn shouted. “Let’s ride right through those sonsabitches!”

  Emboldened by the confidence in the others, Randall shook off Wilmot’s hand again. Smiling like it was all a joke, he said, “Well now, Lew—if you’re afraid of all them Injuns, why don’t you climb up here behind me on my horse?”

  The instant laughter was cruel and metallic, sharp-edged, as it fell about Wilmot. There were muted murmurs from some of the others who suddenly voiced criticism against him and Ready for running to Grangeville when the Nortons and Chamberlins were fighting off a brutal attack. Their laughter, even at his expense, showed just how little they understood what they were confronting as the warriors reappeared out of another low swale, closer still.

  “D. B.,” Wilmot said with a sigh and rocked back in his saddle, fighting down the frustration threatening to overwhelm him, “this is too goddamned serious a situation for you to be making a joke of. I can stand to ride with you if the rest are going. But lookit them warriors now—I still think the best thing is for us to get back to the barricades before it’s too late.”

  Instead of answering, Randall jabbed his heels into his horse and reined away. Caught by surprise, the rest quickly put their mounts into motion, yipping and cheering as they lumbered past Wilmot. Lew quickly sawed the reins around and kicked his horse into a lope to catch up with the other fifteen men who were riding at the rear of D. B. Randall’s mount. They had their noses bravely pointed for Cotton-wood Station.

  Trouble was, a hundred or more warriors stood between them and there.

  The half-naked horsemen had emerged out of the swale and put Shebang Creek behind them when they stopped, arrayed in a half-mile-long line that stretched across the road, covering the movement of their women and children and that huge herd of horses. Some of them still sat atop their ponies, while a number of them dismounted and stood alongside their animals, all of them waiting as the small band of white men drew closer and closer.

  By now Wilmot could hear a little of the distant yelps and songs from those warriors. Some of them were anxiously shaking their weapons. Hell, yes, he thought. They’d be worked up for a fight. There’s enough of the red bastards right out there to chew us up and spit us out in the time a man takes to piss.

  But … still … those Indians were just sitting there on their ponies.

  After weeks of unseasonably cool and rainy weather, the summer sun felt very, very hot on the back of Lew Wilmot’s neck. Cold sweat dribbled down his backbone.

  Those goddamned Inju
ns weren’t making a move.

  Just … waiting.

  * Cries from the Earth, vol. 14, the Plainsmen series.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JULY 5, 1877

  LEW WILMOT COULDN’T TAKE THE SILENCE ANYMORE, NOT the way they just kept riding, riding, riding toward that broad V of the Nez Perce that surely outnumbered them by more than ten-to-one … none of Randall’s men saying one goddamned word.

  “D. B.!” Lew shouted into the dry, hot breeze of that midsummer day. “What the hell you propose to do? Just keep on aiming straight for them warriors?”

  “Shuddup, Wilmot!” James L. Cearly growled like a half-sick yard dog.

  “I’m fixing to charge the Indians!” Randall announced suddenly before anyone else had a chance to speak. He turned slightly in his saddle, flinging his voice behind him so that all could hear. “We’ll charge the Indians!”

  They whooped and hollered with that news.

  But in the midst of the noise, Lew prodded their leader. “We gotta have some idea what every one of us is gonna do, Captain. What are your orders if someone’s shot, or a horse goes down under one of the boys?”

  Randall’s eyes glared at Wilmot a moment, angry at being questioned. Then their leader said, “Any one of us is shot, or killed, or if their horse goes down—it’s every other man’s job to stop and pick up that man!”

  That edgy bravado of his caused a wild cheer to erupt from the fourteen who were bunched behind Wilmot, Randall, and Cearly.

  Moments had passed, mere heartbeats and yards gobbled up and gone, when D. B, Randall bellowed a raspy cry that was immediately answered from all their throats. Something wild and feral that swelled around their tiny group as they kicked their horses into an uneven gallop down the long, low slope of the rumpled prairie.

  By then they were so close to that line of warriors that Lew could almost make out the eyes of the enemy—maybe even close enough to read some of the confusion on the faces of those Nez Perce who had no earthly idea why such a pitifully small bunch of white men would be riding straight-out for an overwhelming number of warriors.

  “We got ’em!” Cearly shrieked, almost in glee. “By God, D. B.—we got ’em!”

  Wilmot was screeching and hollering with the rest as the seventeen charged across that last hundred yards.

  The nervous Indian ponies fought their handlers. A few of the Nez Perce rifles popped, but from where Lew sat, he didn’t see anyone get hit or their horses falter with the enemy gunfire.

  Ten more yards—

  Some of the warrior ponies bolted away from the line as the white men slammed against the wide array of Nez Perce.

  Jerking his head around, Wilmot peered over his shoulder at the Indians suddenly behind them, realizing he hadn’t taken a breath in the last few moments. He dragged the hot morning’s air into his lungs and hurrahed right along with the rest of them. They had made it through the enemy and were on their way for the rifle pits at Cottonwood! A little more than three miles to go. That was all!

  Then the bullet snarled past his left elbow.

  Wilmot twisted with a jerk and looked over his shoulder again. They were coming now. Make no mistake about that. Those warriors had whipped around, regrouped, and were on their way. Not a one of them left standing on foot any longer. Had to be more than a hundred-twenty of them all told. Not just full of false bluster now—but every last one of them angry as spit-on hens as they swarmed like summer wasps after the fleeing white men.

  Off to his left, just ahead, Frank D. Vansise’s horse crumpled clumsily, pitching its rider ahead into the tall grass. Vansise rolled off his shoulder, hunched over as he frantically searched the grass for his rifle.

  “Henry!” Lew hollered at his friend who was coming up behind him. He reined up, levered a shell into the chamber of his saddle carbine, and brought it to his shoulder. “Get Frank! Pull ’im up behind you!”

  He fired at the closest warrior, watching the rider immediately drop to the side of his pony, out of sight.

  As Vansise’s horse keeled over onto its side, neck thrusting as it tried to rise one last time, Henry C. Johnson, who lived close to the White Bird divide, reined up in a whirl, holding down a hand and kicking his boot out of a stirrup. Vansise grabbed the offered hand, hurtling off the ground to plop behind Johnson as Henry wrenched his horse around and both men kicked the animal into an ungainly, lumbering gallop.

  Wilmot levered another cartridge into the chamber, expelling the hot copper cylinder, its shiny glitter spinning into the tall green grass beside his horse.

  By now more and more of the civilians were strung out to the left of Wilmot, following Randall and Cearly into a wide depression between three low hills after Wilmot stopped to cover the rescue of Vansise. At the moment Lew yanked the reins aside to turn around and light out, more warriors burst over the edge of the prairie; tall grass split in waves as their ponies heaved in the race. But instead of following Randall as the others were, Wilmot turned slightly to the right, away from the distant rifle pits at Cottonwood.

  There was no way they were going to make it to the soldiers anyway, Lew reflected. Randall and the other followers—now they were making directly for the ranch. But that would take them over ground where they wouldn’t have a single advantage against the warriors … especially if the Indians kept picking off a horse here, dropping a rider there.

  “Cearly!”

  Wilmot heard Randall’s anguished cry just before he fired the next shot, holding on a Nez Perce pony. He jerked aside without waiting to see if the pony fell, finding D. B. Randall was rolling onto his knees, hollering for James Cearly, who was hauling back on his reins that very moment. Randall vaulted onto his feet and scrambled for his downed horse. It lay thrashing in the grass at the bottom of that low swale, legs beginning to slow the moment he reached the animal and yanked his carbine from the saddle boot.

  Spinning on his heel, Randall started hollering into the dry, hot air.

  “Boys! Don’t run! Don’t run! Let’s fight ’em! We can fight ’em here!”

  Lew Wilmot turned his back on Randall, reining his horse around savagely, kicking its flanks with his boot heels, pushing it up the easy slope to the crest of that low hill. It wasn’t much, save for being the highest thing in this part of the prairie now. The only knob where they could take refuge, maybe make a stand. Everything else was out of the range of possibility now, like those hills Lew had wanted them to light out for minutes ago. No way to reach them or those soldier rifle pits, either. Just this bare, grassy knob still some two miles from Cottonwood.*

  Right where he felt like an inflamed boil sticking up on the rounded ass of the world. Up here where they could be easily seen by the enemy, at least the remains of Randall’s brave volunteers could command a good field of fire—

  “D. B.!” Wilmot shouted as loud as his raw throat would allow while he kicked his right foot free of the stirrup and spun out of the saddle to land on that leg.

  Lew fired three rapid shots with his repeater, hot copper cartridges spinning, spinning, spinning out of the weapon in a jagged arc as they tumbled through shafts of bright, brilliant sunshine.

  “Eph! Cash! All of you—get over here! C’mon! C’mon, now!”

  Ephraim J. Brunker was the first to join Lew on the low rise. Then Cassius M. Day. Charley Case and Pete Bremen rode up together, as lathered as their horses. Lew was among them immediately, darting here and there as he shouted for them to dismount, grab their weapons and cartridges loose, then free the horses.

  “Let ’em go!” Cash Day agreed. “Maybeso the Injuns chase off after’em!”

  D. H. Howser lumbered up, wobbling in the saddle, clutching his side. “I been hit.”

  “Git ’im down!” Brunker bawled.

  They dragged Howser to the ground. Someone slapped the frightened horse on the rump and sent it clattering off, stirrups flapping crazily.

  “George!” Lew hollered at Riggins the moment the man hit the ground on his fe
et. “Grab up D. H. there and get him over to that rail fence yonder. Stay with ’im and you watch that right flank!”

  Riggins glanced over his shoulder to a spot at the side of the rise where Wilmot was pointing, nodded, then sank to one knee beside Howser. “Let’s go, D. H. We got a li’l walking to do.”

  “Cash Day!” Wilmot called out. Day fired a shot and turned before Lew continued, “Get on over to our left! You cover that side!”

  Day wagged with his rifle in agreement and rose to a crouch, all hunched over as he shuffled through the tall grass in the direction opposite to that taken by Riggins and Howser.

  “Where you want me, Lew?” Ben Evans shouted as he leaped off the wide back of the wagon horse a few yards down the slope from Wilmot.

  Lew watched the draft animal lumber away, racing for the end of the Indian line as the warriors fully encircled their knoll. “Stay down there at the bottom, Ben!” he hollered. “You’ll be out of sight where you can pick ’em off when they come by you ’cross the bottom!”

  Evans shook his carbine and scurried down the slope, where he plopped to his belly, disappearing in the tall grass.

  “Where’s D. B.?” Bremen asked.

  Quickly looking around, Lew spotted Randall hunkered down between the legs of his horse. Nearby sat James Buchanan, slowly firing his carbine as he squatted in the grass, his legs crossed and drawn up under his elbows for a proper shooting rest.

  The two of them might do well enough, Wilmot thought. Well enough to hold the bastards back for as long as it will take for the soldiers to come out and drive them off us.

  But the next time Lew Wilmot turned to gaze over his shoulder at Cottonwood Station some two miles distant, he was baffled why there weren’t any figures clambering out of their rifle pits, much less mounted up and riding out on horseback.

  A few minutes later Charley Case grumbled, “How long you figger we’re gonna be till them soldiers come get us, Lew?”

  Wilmot shook his head. “Don’t know, Charley. From the looks of things, we may damn well be on our own out here.”