Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  God knows Howard had the manpower and the resources coming to crush the upstart rebels … if only the army could only get the hostiles to stop and fight. It seemed that not only the division commander, McDowell, but also the leaders of the army itself in Washington wanted to snuff out this little fire, and as quickly as possible.

  To Sutherland’s way of thinking, despite the general’s numerous setbacks, Howard simply refused to regard the Nez Perce as a serious threat. What he was fearful of more than anything else was the possibility that Joseph’s hostiles would form a junction with the Indians south in the valley of the Weiser River, or with the noisy renegades along the Columbia River, even the small bands of Spokanes and other inconsequential tribes to the north and northwest who, while they were no danger of and by themselves, could make for a lot of trouble when confederated under Chief Joseph’s bloody outlaw banner.

  “You do realize there are some twelve thousand Indians residing in the Northwest, Mr. Sutherland,” the general declared. “If Joseph is able to score a decisive victory over our forces, why, the disaffected among those tribes would likely swell the ranks of Joseph’s fighting men. Instead of us having to fight hundreds, my army would be pitted against thousands! I simply must stop them and stamp out this fire in the next few days.”

  So as his troops sweated and groused constructing their huge raft of hewn timbers that fifth day of July, Howard disclosed to Sutherland the details of just what plans he had put into operation to counter such threats of a full-scale territorial outbreak.

  “Counting what I presently have in this column, and what is already on its way to me,” Howard explained, “I’ll soon have ten companies of cavalry—six hundred and seventeen men. In addition, Mr. Sutherland, I’ll lead six companies of infantry, one hundred and seventy-seven men. Add to that five companies of artillery, more than one hundred and sixty-six men, and your final tally shows that I’ll presently be leading an army of more than nine hundred and sixty soldiers drawn from two departments of the army. Once we catch up to the Non-Treaty bands, you can plainly see why this war will be brought to a swift and dramatic conclusion.”

  “How long do you believe that will take, General?” he had asked while the raft took shape.

  “No more than a matter of days,” Howard proposed. “Tell your readers, east and west, that we’ll have this outbreak over within a matter of days.”

  Taking what ropes they hadn’t used in constructing the bulky raft, the soldiers tied the lariats end-to-end, fastening one end to the rivercraft, the other wrapped around a stout tree so that a gang of some two dozen soldiers could belay the raft into the river—hoping the men on the craft could get drift close enough to the opposite shore that a soldier could plunge into the current with a section of rope over his shoulder and make it to the north bank, where he would secure the line to another tree. Whereupon Howard would have his ferryboat!

  Despite their best efforts to construct that raft, Howard’s men were stymied by the full fury of the Salmon on the morning of the sixth.

  While Lieutenant Otis’s crew prepared to launch their raft, Lieutenant Parnell of the First U. S. Cavalry and fifteen selected men stripped naked, mounted bareback, and attempted to force the horse herd across the river. After losing more than a dozen to the Salmon, the sixteen soldiers admitted defeat and turned back to the south bank. Then came the most stinging disappointment of all.

  The unimaginable power of that river was simply too much for that raft the soldiers constructed on the south bank. It came apart in the torrential current, ropes splitting and hewn timbers creaking as they were ground into nothing more than children’s jackstraws by this mighty western river. Otis, his men, and materiel were all tossed into the frothy current and hurtled downstream more than four miles until they could struggle to one shore or the other. The tossing timbers of Luke Billy’s dismantled cabin tumbled on, making for a junction with the Snake … and Lieutenant Otis fondly went down in campaign legend as “Crusoe.”

  Indeed, some of the young man’s fellow officers quickly made up a campaign ditty, sung to the tune of “Turn Back the Pharaoh’s Army”:

  “The raft went down the river, hal-le-lu!”

  Despite those grand attempts at good humor, Sutherland watched how that string of defeats registered on Howard’s bearded face. Hell, he felt the frustration take root in himself—realizing how these unschooled warrior bands had outwitted West Point’s finest graduates and methodologies at every turn!

  Perhaps most depressing to the general was the news brought to him here at Craig Billy Crossing by those two Christian trackers James Reuben and Captain John Levi, a report that the hostiles were in the neighborhood of Norton’s ranch, where Captain David Perry had established a base of operations on the Camas Prairie. What few depressing details Sutherland overheard quickly proved that Perry’s soldiers were not up to the task of stopping Joseph’s devils as the Non-Treaty bands pressed on east for the Clearwater, where they would likely join forces with the Looking Glass village Captain Whipple had failed to neutralize.

  After watching his cavalry’s failure in their attempt to swim their horses across on the afternoon of the sixth, followed by the disintegration of Lieutenant Otis’s raft on the seventh, Howard had had himself enough of this northern crossing. The shortest line that would carry him to the seat of the conflicts was to turn back upstream.

  Ordering the destruction of some twenty ponies the Non-Treaties had abandoned on the south bank before their crossing, the general gave the command for a countermarch. Noisy, none-too-quiet grumbling reigned as soldiers who had just spent the last five days in this Salmon River wilderness were now told to retrace their steps back through those same hills to that crossing opposite the mouth of White Bird Creek … where they had first attempted to tackle this river back on the twenty-ninth of June!

  “The Non-Treaties have no intention of surrendering anytime soon, Mr. Sutherland,” explained young Lieutenant Wood in confidence the following evening, 7 July, when they were camped nearly opposite Rocky Canyon, close by the traditional Nez Perce gathering ground.

  Having left orders for his infantry to come on with all possible speed, Howard had pushed ahead with his cavalry—accomplishing that retrograde march in something less than two days! Sutherland asked, “The general doesn’t believe Joseph and his outlaws are running?”

  Wood shook his head. “First came word of the defeat of Lieutenant Rains and his scouting detail, and now friendlies have brought us news of Colonel Perry’s skirmishes with the hostiles around his Cottonwood bivouac. General Howard isn’t waiting until first light to dispatch help: He’s sending McConville’s and Hunter’s volunteer companies across the river here at Rocky Canyon to make their way to Colonel Perry’s troops at Camp Rains.”

  “The general shouldn’t be angry with himself,” Sutherland observed.

  Wood asked, “Why shouldn’t he be upset with these setbacks? We’re still more than a day from reaching our crossing at White Bird Creek and Joseph’s henchmen are roaming at will!”

  “But Howard’s demonstration on this side of the Salmon has had a great effect on the hostiles, Lieutenant,” Thomas argued. “By getting this great army over here and keeping them in motion, he prevented Joseph from leading his hostiles south and west back to the naturally fortified country of his Wallowa homeland. Now he can’t reach those impregnable valleys with his herds of cattle and horses to hold out against five or six times his number of fighting men. Don’t you see?”

  Wood’s brow knit in consternation. “See what?”

  Thomas had warmed to his argument. “Now Joseph and the other renegade chiefs have been forced out onto the open ground of the Camas Prairie—where they have no cover. In sending those volunteer companies across the river, General Howard is executing a bold maneuver. If all the civilians now holed up at Grangeville and Mount Idaho can be united with Colonel Perry, surely they can stop the enemy village and turn it back on General Howard … if not annihilate the r
enegades outright by themselves.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JULY 8, 1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  —

  Several Stores and Contents Burned at Pueblo.

  —

  General Grant Quietly Arrives at Brussels.

  —

  OREGON.

  —

  Later from the Indian War.

  SAN FRANCISCO, July 6.—A dispatch to the Portland News from General Howard’s camp, on the Salmon River, up to June 30th, says: Five Indians passed along Bald Mountain, opposite camp on the 29th, in full view of the soldiers. General Howard is hurrying with all possible dispatch in order to pursue or find the direction taken by the Indians. If the trail indicates that Joseph intends escaping to the buffalo country, General Howard will immediately retrace his steps to Lewiston, and endeavor to head him off by way of Harmon’s creek. Captain Conneville, of the Lewiston volunteers, starts to-day to skirmish the country in the vicinity of Slate creek to find the direction Joseph has taken. The Malbar Indians, in Baker county, Oregon, are restless, and fears are entertained that they will effect a junction with the hostiles. The squaw men say that Joseph has gone toward Spokane river mill, and taken up his position in impassable gulches and canons, intending to stay and fight it out in Walowa valley. The opinion at headquarters is that he will strike for the buffalo country. Joseph has now a day and a half start on the troops. General Howard has telegraphed for a regiment of regulars, which it is understood can get here in ten days from Omaha, Nebraska. He has now about 500 men, three howitzers, and two Gatling guns.

  THE LAST THREE DAYS SINCE THAT FIGHT ON THE KNOLL and the army’s shilly-shallying in sending out a rescue from Cottonwood had been little more than an angry blur for Lew Wilmot.

  A little while after the survivors reached Norton’s ranch with their dead and wounded packed in that lumber wagon, D. H. Howser died from his injuries.

  Fires were refed near twilight, not long before more than sixty civilians galloped in from the southwest, just after 6:00 P.M. It was a happy reunion for both groups: Perry’s soldiers were relieved for the reinforcements who had just managed to reach them after leaving Howard’s column on the far side of the Salmon, and the citizens were gratified to reach the security of the army bivouac after a narrow escape with an Indian ambush in Rocky Canyon.

  Finding that the leader of the Idaho volunteers was an acquaintance from Lewiston, Edward McConville—a Civil War veteran and a steady hand who ofttimes put Wilmot up when he and Pete Ready came north to pick up supplies at that Snake riverport town, it turned out to be a happy, and intriguing, reunion.

  “Tell me what happened out there today,” Ed had asked that evening of the fifth as he settled onto his haunches beside Wilmot’s fire.

  “Ain’t so much what happened out there on the prairie,” Lew disclosed, “as it was what didn’t happen right here in the soldier camp.”

  Then Wilmot let fly with the whole story, not dismissing a single detail about the fight that had done nothing to improve the strained, prickly relations between the army and the local civilians. Even George Shearer showed up to fill in some gaps in the story by divulging those arguments he had heard between officers, the temporary arrest of Sergeant Simpson for disorderly conduct, and Shearer’s own dash to reach the volunteers ahead of the wary soldiers.

  “That war party was already pulling off when the soldiers decided to come rescue us,” Wilmot sneered. “Wasn’t any fight left in the Injuns by then—so it was safe for them soldiers to come out to help us.”

  “I’ll bet some of the same bunch pulled off you came to lay an ambush for us,” McConville disclosed. “You ’member which way they rode away from your hill?”

  Wilmot shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. Just glad to see ’em go! Why, you figger your outfit was jumped by the same Injuns killed Randall and Ben Evans?”

  “Had to be the same li’l red bastards,” George Shearer declared bitterly. Earlier that evening he had been elected as “major” of McConville’s militia.

  “I’d lay a month’s wages they was the same redskins,” McConvilie asserted, then went on to tell how General Howard had ordered his bunch and William Hunter’s civilians to go to Whipple’s aid.

  To reach the army’s camp at Cottonwood, the volunteers had stripped naked to swim their horses across the Salmon just above the mouth of Rocky Canyon. But that was only the beginning of their adventurous ride. Because that route offered the fastest journey out of the Salmon River breaks, all sixty-seven riders hurriedly redressed in their clothes and started into the narrowing canyon, repeatedly peering up at those walls towering some two thousand feet over their heads. Every man was understandably on edge, wary of ambush and knowing just how vulnerable they were…. The whole bunch nearly jumped out of their skins when they spotted a dozen warriors when they popped into sight about two hundred yards up the trail.

  “Some of the fellas were more’n ready for a fight by then,” McConville confessed. “No matter it was only a handful of the redskins.”

  But cooler heads prevailed and both leaders decided they had to get themselves out of that canyon. After all, their argument went, those had to be decoys, nothing less than tempting bait a larger war party was dangling out to draw the white men farther and farther into the ever-narrowing canyon.

  “So we backtracked a ways and somehow managed to scramble up the side on a deer trail to reach the prairie,” McConville declared. “Once we were all together on top, we lit out east for Johnson’s ranch, then come round the head of the canyon, making for Cottonwood on the run.”

  “You see anything more of them Injuns as you come in?” Shearer asked.

  The leader wagged his head. “Nothing but some smoke signals on Craig’s Mountain, and a big dust cloud off the far side of Camas Prairie.”

  “Over toward the South Fork?” Wilmot asked.

  McConville nodded. “Yep—there’s no doubt that village is making for the Clearwater.”

  Shearer proposed, “Don’t you fellas think the army would appreciate knowing where the Injuns are camped once the red bastards make theirselves to home on the South Fork?”

  “Damn fine idea, George,” McConville said, a twinkle coming to his eye. “What say we head back to Mount Idaho? That’s where we can rest up a day or so, while we remount our outfit on some fresh horses. We can cull what we need outta that herd you run off from Looking Glass’s camp.”

  “Once we got horses, then what?” Wilmot asked.

  McConville grinned. “We have ourselves a little look-see over toward the Clearwater.”

  The next morning, 6 July, McConville’s volunteers had escorted Randall’s dead and wounded, along with most of the survivors, out of Cottonwood Station, bound for Mount Idaho. About the same time, Captain Whipple’s men mounted up to ride west with Assistant Surgeon William R. Hall, assigned to retrieve the bodies of Lieutenant Rains’s doomed detail. This burial detail had Perry’s orders to inter the remains of the ten soldiers, which had been lying out in the hot sun for several days where they had fallen near the boulders. The officer’s body would be placed in a crudely fashioned coffin and brought back to Norton’s ranch for a decent Christian burial, complete with military honors.

  For his part, over the last three days Lew Wilmot had stewed in his own juices, growing all the angrier, and resolved to confront General Oliver Otis Howard with the cowardice and dereliction of duty perpetrated by his subordinate Captain David Perry. Especially after Lew and his friends had laid poor Ben Evans in the ground, then held a burial for D. B. Randall with full Masonic rites in Mount Idaho’s little cemetery—a quiet, shady place tucked back among some peaceful pines. Just the sort of place where Lew could get to brooding on his dead friends, all the while nursing his loathing for the man who had delayed and deliberated before sending the civilians any assistance.

  As for David Perry, the captain went on with his prosecution of the war: loading up those supplies he had transported down
from Fort Lapwai, then led his entire command out of their Cottonwood bivouac on the night of 8 July, after a courier brought word that Howard’s advance was approaching Grangeville, exactly where the army had started out on their merry chase thirteen days before!

  Earlier that Sunday, McConville had come looking for Lew at Wilmot’s tiny home in Mount Idaho. “We’re leaving, Lew. Give the family your farewell.”

  After warmly embracing Louisa and his four children, Wilmot followed his friend into the shadows between some ramshackle buildings.

  “There’s much afoot, Lew,” Ed McConville said as they stood watching three soldiers slowly walk past the nearby barricades. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and talking with some of the men while you been to see your family, Lew.”

  “What’s this got to do with?”

  McConville took a deep breath. “I don’t figger the army means to do much fighting.”

  Wilmot snorted, his gall rising again just to think about how the soldiers were far, far better at sitting on their hands than they ever were at fighting, “Howard or Perry, they’re the same when it comes to catching the Nez Perce: always a day late and a dollar short.”

  McConville nodded. “These officers can bumfuggle all they want, but they’re never gonna catch up to the Injuns. Why, Frank Fenn and I went to talk with Howard himself when he was sitting on his thumbs at Craig Billy Crossing.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “It’s what I showed him,” McConville explained. “That’s a narrow ford, Lew. A few of his men could’ve defended that crossing if he’d sent some cavalry ahead—or sent word to Whipple for him to get soldiers over from Cottonwood to block the road.“

  “I don’t figger Howard listened to you.”

  “Oh, he listened to our suggestions politely enough,” McConville replied. “Then told us that he believed himself fully competent to manage his own campaign!”