Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  “So what you figure to do now on your own?”

  “We’ve rode down to the mouth of the White Bird late yesterday, where Howard gave our battalion some ammunition since I told him we was going to find out where them hostiles are for him. You wanna come on a little ride with me?”

  “Ride? Where?”

  “We’re gonna cover some ground before nightfall and maybe do a little fighting on our own by morning. It’s for certain this army doesn’t wanna rub up against the Injuns.” Then McConville reached out to grab Wilmot’s forearm. “That’s why I wanted you to get said what needed saying to Louisa and the young’uns now.”

  “Just you and me going on this ride?”

  “The whole outfit,” McConville declared. “Now we got seventy-five ready to ride out tonight, my boys from Lewis-ton, your bunch from Mount Idaho, along with Hunter’s men from over at Dayton—they throwed in with us at Rocky Canyon for the rest of the war. Hunter and Jim Cearly just come back in. From the sounds of things, Joseph’s can muster more’n three hundred fighting men. We gotta go find that camp.”

  “Where you figger on looking?”

  McConville said, “Forks of the Clearwater. Wanna get that far north before first light.”

  Wilmot grinned in the shadows. “Sounds like a fine plan, Captain McConville.”

  “That’s another thing, Lieutenant Wilmot.” McConville cleared his throat self-consciously. “I ain’t a captain no more.”

  “Shit—don’t tell me someone else is boss of this outfit now!” Wilmot groaned, his belly turning a flop with disappointment. “Not that goddamned Cearly who wanted to take over Randall’s bunch when D. B. was killed?”

  “Naw,” and McConville shook his head. “Way things turned out when we was planning our scout this afternoon, the whole bunch elected Hunter as their lieutenant colonel, and voted me to serve as their colonel.”

  ”C-colonel are you now?” Wilmot shrieked with joy, slapping McConville on the back as they turned and stomped away, past the tangle of barricades erected at the end of the street, approaching that large cluster of horsemen gathered back near the shadows cast by a grove of pines.

  As they stopped among the others and George Shearer handed them both the reins to their horses, Lew looked over the more than seventy men who stood at the ready beside their fresh mounts selected from that herd taken from Looking Glass’s band seven days before, every grim-faced volunteer bristling with weapons and eager for this scout to find the enemy village.

  Wilmot smiled in the morning light as he turned to their leader just then swinging into the saddle and said, “All right, Colonel McConville. Let’s go put our noses on the scent and scare us up some Nez Perce.”

  As they had crossed the Camas Prairie, war parties from the Non-Treaty bands fanned out to search each settler’s homestead. Knowing full well that every Shadow family had already scurried toward the towns where they had erected their barricades, the warriors tore through every room in every building, looking for anything of value to them or in trade with the white men for ammunition. The rest they destroyed or burned. Shore Crossing’s party left each structure they came across no more than a smoking ruin when they mounted up and rode on to find the next farm dotting the lonely prairie.

  If the Shadows had attempted to force the Nee-Me-Poo off their ancestral lands, then his warriors were going to see that those Shadows had little to return to once the Non-Treaty bands had cut a swath of destruction through central Idaho. Maybe then, their leaders hoped, the white men would clear out and allow the Nee-Me-Poo to live unmolested and in peace once more.

  Following the narrow canyon of the Cottonwood east to its junction with the South Fork of the Clearwater—at the traditional camping place called Pitayiwahwih*—the fighting bands were reunited with Looking Glass’s Alpowai, who had at first refused to join with White Bird and Toohoolhoolzote at Tepahlewam. Now two days** after the fighting bands’ skirmish with the Shadows on a low hill, the Non-Treaties set up a large camp erected for the most part on a wide plot of flat ground stretching down the west bank of the narrow river, just upstream from the mouth of the Cottonwood. A handful of families chose to erect their lodges on the narrow strip of ground between the east bank of the Clearwater and the high, steep bluffs that protected the valley. The village numbered a minimum of 750 women and children and boasted of more than two hundred fighting men.

  That night, a furious and resentful Looking Glass called a gathering of the leaders so that he could speak to those men he had disdained and rebuked the last time they gathered.

  “Six days ago my camp was attacked by soldiers,” he told those faces lit by leaping flames. “I tried to surrender in every way I could. My horses, lodges, and everything I had was taken away from me by the soldiers we have done so much for. But I know better.”

  Looking Glass waited for the grunts of approval to fade, then continued, “Now, my people, as long as I live I will never make peace with the treacherous Shadows. I did everything I knew to preserve their friendship and be friends with the white man. What more could I have done?”

  Again he waited while the approval became noisier. His eyes narrowing with menace, Looking Glass said, “It was because I was a good friend of theirs that I was attacked. The soldier chief who came to my camp may say it was a mistake what he did. But that is a lie. He is a dog, and I have been treated worse than a dog by him! He lies if he says he did not know it was my camp. I stand before you tonight to say I am ready for war!”

  Every war chief and fighting man was suddenly on his feet, for this was a great reunion of the warrior bands who had never buckled under to the treaty.

  His strong voice becoming a powerful roar, Looking Glass harangued the crowd, “Come on and let us attack the soldiers at Cottonwood. Many a man dies for his dear native land and we might as well die in battle as any other way!”

  The clamor raised from all the war cries and wolf yelping made the hair bristle on Shore Crossing’s forearms. Now they had the strength of a man’s fist, with all five fingers tightly united into action: White Bird, Toohoolhool-zote, Joseph, along with Huishuishkute, known as Bald or Shorn Head, the Palouse leader … and finally Looking Glass.

  Three of these other chiefs came forward one-by-one to call for an all-out fight against the treacherous Shadows. Only Joseph did not step into the firelight and add his voice to the call for total resistance.

  The following day was one of nothing but relaxation for the warriors who lay about in camp while many of the Non-Treaty people journeyed north to Kamiah to attend Dreamer services that Christian morning.* From this camp a few raiding parties came and went, striking the nearby farms of Lawyer’s reservation Indians—driving off their stock of horses and cattle. Scouts, too, rode in and out of camp, slipping onto Camas Prairie to watch for movements of the suapies and the civilians venturing out from their fortified settlements. The chiefs needed to know if Cut-Off Arm would come traipsing after them again after they had embarrassed him across the Salmon.

  They didn’t have long to wait for an answer.

  But this time the Nee-Me-Poo were completely surprised that it wasn’t soldiers who came looking for them.

  *Literally meaning “mouth of the canyon,” a few miles above the present-day town of Stites, Idaho. In the historic literature, this Nez Perce term is sometimes rendered Peeta Auuwa.

  **July 7, 1877.

  *Sunday, July 8, 1877.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JULY 9,1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  —

  Incoherent Accounts of the Indian War.

  —

  Hard to Tell What the Hostiles are Doing.

  —

  OREGON.

  —

  Latest from the Indian War.

  SAN FRANCISCO, July 7.—A special dispatch from Lewiston, July 4, via Walla the 6th, says Colonel Whipple’s command, with volunteers under N. B. Randall, came across Looking Glass’ band at Clear Creek at 7 a.m. The Indians told th
e colonel that they were prepared to fight, and opened the ball by the first shot. When the order was given to commence firing the Indians soon broke for the hills and places of shelter. It is not known how many were killed or wounded, as they scampered in all directions. The command captured the Indian camp, burned all their provisions and plunder, and took about a thousand Indian horses, which they brought here. No citizens or soldiers were killed or wounded. The command returned last night …

  News received at department headquarters from Gen. Sully, commanding at Lewiston, says Col. Perry with thirty men, on his way to Cottonwood, was attacked by hostiles. Lieut. Rainez and ten soldiers and two civilians were killed. Col. Whipple joined Col. Perry, and drove the Indians off. The fight is still going on. Maj. Jackson’s company of first cavalry, which left Fort Vancouver yesterday morning, will arrive at Lewiston tomorrow at noon. The following dispatch comes from Walluwa. It was probably received by the steamer Tennie, which arrived at headquarters Thursday night. They say that Joseph decoyed Gen. Howard across the Salmon river, and then Joseph recrossed the river and got on the Cottonwood between Howard and Lapwai, within thirty miles of Lewiston …

  Fort Lapwai

  July 9, 1877

  Dear Mamma,

  I must send you a note this morning or you will be anxious about us. We are all alive and well, though all very anxious and in confusion. If you were not so far away, I would come home at once, but I can’t bear to think of leaving John and going so far from him. I am thinking seriously of going down to Portland on the next boat and waiting there until things are settled. This post is in such confusion and excitement continually that I feel my strength departing, though I do so want to be a strong woman and able for whatever happens.

  There have been so many alarms of Indian attacks, and so many horrible stories are continually being brought in that John says he wants to send us away. This matter may be settled in a few days, and I will not make up my mind what I will do until we hear further.

  Our trouble is not enough troops. Another regiment is expected here in this Department at once, but what is a regiment these days? The companies are so small that it only means a hundred or so men after all. Joseph has had strong reinforcements and he has managed so wonderfully that he has been successful everywhere. Another fine young officer, such a nice fellow, has been killed, and we have lost about fifty men. It is time the tide turned!

  … I will write a longer and more connected letter next mail. We are all right here. Don’t be alarmed about us. It is only the worry and anxiety that Doctor wants to save me by sending me away. I don’t think I will leave Lapwai, not unless the troubles increase. We all join in love.

  Your loving daughter,

  Emily F.

  THE LOUD REPORT OF THAT SINGLE GUNSHOT SNAPPEDLew Wilmot awake.

  “Shit,” someone nearby whimpered in the dark. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

  In a blur, McConville loomed over John Atkinson, wrenching the volunteer’s .50-caliber Springfield rifle from his hands. “Keep your eyes open now, boys,” the leader growled. “I expect some company to show up real soon.”

  Wilmot swallowed hard as he swiveled the lever down and opened the action on his big needle-gun. He had a reputation as being the best shot on the Camas Prairie. And now that this poor daisy from Hunter’s bunch had just announced to the whole canyon that they were there … Lew Wilmot was going to have to prove just how good a shot he was, all over again.

  By midday on the eighth, McConville’s seventy-five volunteers had crossed the open, rolling land to reach the canyon of the Cottonwood, following the creek until dark, when they decided they could go no farther and went into a cold camp. McConville’s subordinate “Captain” Benjamin F. Morris divided the men into two watches, then put out the first round of pickets while the others tried to catch a little sleep right where they had landed when they came out of the saddles. Lew tried but could not do anything but listen to the sounds of the night, thinking about his three daughters and that brand-new baby boy.

  Them and poor George Hunter—who lay back in Loyal P. Brown’s hotel turned hospital after he had been shot in the shoulder by another volunteer from Dayton in Washington Territory, Eugene Talmadge Wilson, climaxing a quick, hot argument reaching the boiling point after a long-simmering feud the two had carried with them into the Nez Perce War. Wilson was under arrest back in Mount Idaho.

  Wilmot wondered why a man like Wilson had failed to realize there were more than enough warriors to go around when he got mad enough he had to shoot George Hunter. A few of Hunter’s friends had been understandably edgy as they lit out on their scout, and Wilson’s friends were even standoffish by the time they made camp night before last.

  Just as Wilmot was dozing off in the dark, one of the pickets from the first watch clambered back into camp to announce that he had discovered that they were less than a mile from the Nez Perce village located at the mouth of the Cottonwood. McConville picked John McPherson to carry word back to Howard that night, since the general was expected in Grangeville before morning.

  “You might figger to send another rider or two off with the same news,” Lew suggested in the dark as the anxious men settled down to await the dawn.

  “Think McPherson might get jumped?”

  Wilmot nodded in the starshine. “They’re bound to have scouts and outriders sniffing around.”

  “Then why the hell haven’t they found us?” James Cearly goaded in a whisper.

  Before Wilmot could snap, McConville said, “Unless you two figger out a way to get along, I’m gonna order you both back to Mount Idaho.”

  Wilmot was just waiting for McConville to take a breath. “Colonel—”

  “Your arguing likely gonna cost the lives of some of these men,” McConville interrupted. “Either you get along, or you get out.”

  Lew looked at Cearly’s face, waiting for the other man to make the first move … then said, “All right, Colonel. I can get along with any man if I’m given half a chance.”

  “Me, too,” Cearly replied, holding his hand out. “Besides, we’re gonna need to have the best shot on Camas Prairie with us if we run into trouble tomorrow.”

  “All right,” McConville said as he settled on his haunches. “I’m gonna send out two more men with orders to get word to Howard.”

  After George Riggins and P. C. Malin were on their way, each taking a different route back to Mount Idaho, McConville dispatched E. J. Bunker and nine other men toward a high hill figured to be halfway between their bivouac and the enemy camp.

  “Bunker, you and your men are under orders to hold that hill at all hazards. Be sure you give the alarm at the first approach of Indians.”

  Hours later; McConville crawled back to where Wilmot was resting, propped against a tree. He signaled Lew to follow him and together they crabbed over to where James Cearly was dozing.

  “We got about an hour or so left till first light,” McConville whispered. “I want the both of you to have a look at that camp. Close as you can. Count the lodges; see the strength of those Injuns. Then get back here afore sunup.”

  The two of them had gotten well within a half-mile of the village before they decided they had little time to beat a retreat back to the bivouac.

  Wilmot had reported upon their return, “We counted seventy-two tepees, Colonel. From what we could see in the dark, we counted more than one hundred and fifty of their ponies staked right in camp.”

  “It look to you that all the bands were there?”

  Cearly nodded. “We waited till the first light started to show across the Clearwater—just to be sure we had counted everything we could see.”

  “We headed back when the herder boys crossed the river toward a few other lodges and their ponies,” Lew explained.

  McConville called the rest of the men together that dawn, and they discussed their options. Couriers were already on their way to the soldiers, although a significant number of the volunteers doubted Howard and Perry would ever
have the will to prosecute this war the way it should have been fought from the very beginning. In fact, many of the volunteers from Mount Idaho even feared the murdering redskins would either get away with their crimes completely or come slinking back to Howard for a compromise and protection from the outraged citizens. To their way of thinking, General O. O. Howard had proven he would make a better missionary than an Indian fighter. At the end of their long, angry discussions, however, they decided to wait and see what the soldiers would do, what word might come back from Howard.

  “We’ll wait out the day right here,” their leader told them. “If we haven’t heard from the general by nightfall, I’ll send out another dispatch with news on the strength of the camp. When Howard gets here, we’ll join in the attack.”

  They had waited out the morning, then midday as the sun rose higher and hotter, making Lew all the sleepier as the insects buzzed and droned around their faces. He had just been drifting off when that gun belonging to one of Hunter’s men tumbled from its stand against a tree and discharged.

  They were in the soup now!

  “Bring the water!” Wilmot was yelling as he clambered to his feet.

  “Where we going?” one of the Dayton volunteers demanded.

  Lew pointed at the hill. * “There—where the colonel sent Bunker and his men.”

  “T-that’s toward the Injuns!” another Dayton man whined.

  “But it’s the highest hill we can reach in this country before the Injuns get to us,” McConville snarled. “Now do what Wilmot told you: get your canteens filled at the creek and push on for that hill—on the double!”

  Those who had brass kettles along filled them with water, making the sprint for that hill an interesting one as they attempted to keep as much water from sloshing out of the vessels as possible as they covered that broken ground and deadfall. By the time the first of them reached Bunker’s position, they found those ten guards already prying stones out of the ground with their belt knives and dragging up downed trees to throw up some sort of breastworks.