Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  Woodbridge nodded to Silverthorne. “Sure. We’ll ride double or swap off horses. See you get to town.”

  “We better skeedaddle come morning” Matte said as he glanced around at the dark.

  “They find we’re missing,” Silverthorne said, “they’ll come looking, I’ll bet. ‘Sides, them reds up near the pass anyways.”

  Woodbridge swallowed. They had covered a lot of ground, crossing over the pass, something on the order of sixty-five miles from Missoula City. “We hadn’t seen any sign of the Indians when we stopped up at the top and looked down the west approach.”

  “Didn’t see all of them?” Matte cried, his voice rising two octaves in disbelief.

  The lieutenant wagged his head, ready to speak, when Silverthorne blurted out, “Shit, soldier! That bunch of Nez Percey strings out on the trail for better’n two miles, likely more! And that horse herd of theirs! I’ll lay a bet there’s more’n two thousand, twenty-five hundred of ‘em … and you say you didn’t see anything of ‘em when they had us climbing up the other side of the goddamned mountain?”

  With a shrug, Woodbridge admitted, “Not a thing. So how far back from here you get away from the Nez Perce? They still on the other side of the pass?”

  “Other side of the pass?” Silverthorne snorted, waving an arm off into the darkness. “Those red devils is already coming down this side fast as you please, soldier.”

  Woodbridge stared into the night as if trying hard to listen, hearing nothing more than the crackle of the fire and the pulse of his own blood in his ears. “How far up the trail are they from us here?”

  “Six, maybe seven, miles,” Silverthorne said. “It’s goddamned hard to tell stumbling down the trail on foot in the dark, y’know.”

  Turning on his heel, the lieutenant waved his two pickets in. “Finish out your last two hours, then come wake me to take over. That way you can get a little sleep in before we ride out soon as it’s light.”

  “Awright we use their blankets?” Matte inquired with a grin.

  “Yeah—but don’t get too comfortable,” Woodbridge advised. “Soon as we can see far enough in front of the horses’ noses that we don’t stumble over down timber, we’re making a run down the trail for Missoula City.”

  *Via what is known as the Southern Nez Perce Trail, over Nez Perce Pass, southwest of present-day Darby, Montana.

  **Sitting Bull, the spiritual leader of the Hunkpapa Lakota.

  *Several white ranchers and their hired hands took advantage of the war and its confusion to run off some neighbors’ stock for themselves, along with the cattle and horses belonging to the Christian Indians, hoping the blame would fall on the Non-Treaty bands. Nervous settlers raised a protest when Howard prepared to march away from the Camas and Clear-water country—crying that they would be left to the mercy of the savages. Their clamor would cause the general to remain in the area another ten days before Howard was convinced the warrior bands had indeed abandoned Idaho.

  * Recently released from prison after serving a sentence for horse theft.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  KHOY-TSAHL, 1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  —

  Late War News and General Intelligence.

  —

  OREGON.

  —

  Captain Perry and His Men Defended.

  SAN FRANCISCO, July 10.—The following has been received here: General McDowell, San Francisco:—Your dispatch of the 10th just received … The difficulties of communication have been great. The country from front to rear has until now been infested with hostiles, and couriers and supplies in many instances have failed to get through, though none have been lost. I am not aware of the exact tenor of the reports to which you refer, but I infer that they are principally those reflecting upon General Howard and Captain Perry. I have investigated the most important ones, and find them to be false. The statement in the local papers of the affair at Cottonwood on the 5th, to the effect that seventeen citizens were surrounded by Indians and the troops under Perry refused to go to their relief for an hour and a half, is a wicked falsification. The troops, 113 in number, were themselves outnumbered, environed and attacked by Indians, but nevertheless were sent instantly a mile away to the rescue, which was accomplished within twenty minutes, and not only the life of every man in the command was risked, but the safety of a most important position and a large amount of ammunition and other stores. The accounts as published originated with one Orrin Morrill, of Lewiston, who was at Cottonwood at the time, but who, although armed, remained ensconced in a little fortification there, instead of going with the soldiers to the aid of his imperilled fellow citizens. The other citizens who were present agree with the officers in this statement of facts. The conduct of officers and men has, under the most trying circumstances, been particularly good. They have justified all reasonable expectations. The campaign has been successful. The hostiles have operated skillfully and fought desperately, but they have been defeated and driven from this section with great loss of numbers and supplies. Gen. Howard reports by this courier the events of the last two days and the present situation. The number of killed and wounded on both sides in the action of the 11th and 12th turns out to be larger than at first believed.

  KEELER, A.D.C.

  NOT ONLY DID THE WOMEN HAVE TO COAX THE HORSES over, around, and through a maze of deadfall, but every day that village on the move discovered even more trees blown down by high winds or uprooted by heavy, wet snows the higher they climbed toward the summit of Lolo Pass.

  Because of the many outcroppings of sharp rocks, not to mention the neck-wrenching switchbacks as they inched from ridge to ridge, the Nee-Me-Poo were unable to use their travois in this flight from war. Instead, the strong young men stumbled along, carrying the litters with their war wounded, carrying those too old and weak. Besides, they simply hadn’t dragged that many poles along with them anyway. Those they had managed to dismantle before escaping the Clearwater fight they ended up having to abandon one camp out of Weippe, at a place the People named Dead Horse Meadow. It was nothing but a small, elongated patch of meadow ringed by a windbreak of timber. Stacked into the forks of every tree available went the hundreds upon hundreds of peeled, dried lodgepoles the women were leaving behind against the prayers they could one day return to everything they had ever known.

  Here in the middle of summer they found the trail little more than a muddy ribbon disappearing through the impenetrable timber that, even at this late season, still shaded deep drifts of soggy, slow-melting snow. Each step upon the saturated ground soon became an ordeal of its own: muddy water gushing into every footprint and hoof hole as the grim, silent procession continued, this march away from everything that had ever been.

  Day by day, they were forced to abandon more and more of the poorer horses on the trail—those animals who had stumbled off the rocky path and broken a leg, those with severe, gaping lacerations from shoving through the narrow gaps between boulders and thick timber, along with those growing progressively weaker from what poor forage was available at the infrequent forest glades. The Nee-Me-Poo did not have time to stop and tend to their horses now. They pushed on.

  Instead of following one ridge all the way to the top, this long-used, traditional trail snaked up and down ever-ascending slopes, a physical necessity that made the journey more taxing than the mere distances on a map would ever indicate. From first light until late afternoon, they put one foot in front of the other and climbed a little more with every step—waiting for that day they would stand at the top and look down on the land of Montana, the buffalo country.

  Because of the difficulty of finding one site big enough for all the families, a site that possessed enough grazing for the huge herd and enough water, too, the Nee-Me-Poo chiefs usually ordered a string of camps made along the trail rather than the hundreds congregating in one site. These stops were usually at what they called woutokinwes tahtakkin, or meadow camps, when they could find them for the night. If not, the c
olumn leaders pushed on until they eventually came across a place big enough for their weary people and their exhausted animals. Some of these spots were beautiful, unexpected interludes in the harsh severity of the trail—lush marshlands dotted with shallow ponds of bone-chilling ice melt, their placid surfaces blanketed by pond lilies, each of these tiny meadows ringed by a verdant, chest-high brush, the leaves of which were boiled into a delicious tea.

  But many times the People could find nothing better than cramped, waterless sites where the poor horses had nothing more to feed on but the wire grass and dwarf lupine, where the men, women, and children wearily collapsed and slept until it was time to awaken and start out all over again.

  It was not an entirely joyful exodus. The People simply made forced marches, went without, and endured in the cause of freedom.

  Nonetheless, a couple of days ago when they finally reached the top and everyone paused a few minutes to take in the breathtaking view both ahead of and behind them, there was much cause to celebrate. Many of the women trilled their tongues in joy and the children laughed with unfettered happiness while most of the older men sang their victory songs.

  Yes, this, too, had been a battle. But now the long side of the trail lay behind them. From here it would be a quick journey down to the Bitterroot valley. Not only had they won a victory over the Lolo Trail, but this flight meant they had secured a victory over Cut-Off Arm and his soldiers. A victory over the Shadows in Idaho country. A victory that meant they had escaped without any more loss to those who wanted to steal away their long-held way of life.

  That was the day, too, when Red Moccasin Tops and his four companions had caught up with the retreating column. This five-man rear guard reported that Cut-Off Arm had given up, marching away from the Kamiah crossing, leaving only a few suapies to protect Lawyer’s Christians from raiding warriors. What soldiers they hadn’t defeated outright they had managed to hold off long enough to exhaust the resolve of Cut-Off Arm. The war was behind them!

  So at the top there was much singing, keening, chanting, and prayer giving before they passed over into the Montana buffalo country. Much, much thanksgiving to Hunyewat, their Creator, because they had reached a land of plenty and of peace. Truly Cut-Off Arm’s war and his angry soldiers were far, far behind them now.

  Still, there was another, although less important, reason to celebrate. Just below the pass they would find the lush meadows surrounding those pools of hot water said to possess a magical power to heal and refresh the weary traveler. And here was the first good grass and clear water for their horses encountered since leaving the Weippe six camps ago. The People had arrived.

  For summers without count, many women returning from the buffalo country had left their lodgepoles here at the hot springs* so they would not have to drag the travois over the roughest part of the crossing from here into Idaho. As the first, eager Nee-Me-Poo rushed into these meadows surrounding the steamy pools, those peeled and dried poles stacked in the forks of so many trees stood like a warm and welcoming gesture.

  As one of the young warriors riding advance for the village, Yellow Wolf quickly tore off his shirt, moccasins, and breechclout, then eased himself into the hot waters. As more and more of the Nee-Me-Poo arrived, singing out with joy as they reached the meadow and selected a camping spot, the men and women, children, too, all stripped off their dusty, trail-sweated clothing and plunged into the life-affirming springs. Yellow Wolf could not remember a finer day since this war had begun.

  In fact, Sun Necklace and his son, Red Moccasin Tops, were so relaxed and jovial that they invited their two white captives to strip off their clothes and join them in the pools. The ropes were freed from the prisoners’ wrists and ankles, but the pair hesitated to tear off their clothing and sink into the springs like the rest of the Nee-Me-Poo were doing all around them—coming and going, yelling, joking, laughing, a raucous cacophony of sounds and a blur of long-denied happiness. Why the Shadow was a man to keep so much of his body covered with clothing in spite of the summer’s heat was something Yellow Wolf doubted he would ever sort out. The white man simply thought with a different brain than did his own people! The Shadow looked at things with a different eye, heard with a different set of ears, too, perhaps even tasted life with a foreign tongue as well.

  Here in the riding steam of the pools with the sun going down and the sky behind them turning to a brilliant rose, drinking in the fragrance of those many fires where strips of meat sizzled, hearing the soft tinkle of women’s laughter and the playful giggles of the many children—Yellow Wolf wondered if he ever would go back to Idaho country now. After all they had gone through, life seemed far better over here on this side of the mountains.

  On this eastern slope of the Bitterroot, the Nee-Me-Poo would no longer have to worry about Cut-Off Arm and his soldiers, would not have to concern themselves with the angry Shadows who many winters ago had started the conflict by stealing, raping, abusing, and killing their people. Perhaps one day the Idaho men would get over being mad and the Nee-Me-Poo could go back home. But for now, this was a good country … where they could hunt buffalo, court young women, and sleep till midday if they wanted, because they would not have to look back over their shoulders ever again.

  They had left the Idaho country behind. They had put the angry Shadows at their backs, and now they were in a new land—

  There arose a sudden commotion as three older warriors raced into the meadow from the east, returning from a scout made on down the trail toward the Bitterroot valley. Yellow Wolf could tell they brought word of something important, something very grave, from the way the trio of riders gestured, pointed, held up their hands to indicate numbers of strangers—and from the way the chiefs and old headmen quickly gathered around those scouts, drawing up close around the three who had arrived with some terrible news like a piece of rawhide shriveling beneath the midsummer sun.

  “Where are those two Shadows of yours, Sun Necklace?” someone called out in the middle of the hubbub.

  The older man, and his son, too, turned this way and that as they searched the trees on three sides of them.

  “Ha!” another man laughed at them. “Did your prisoners get away from you while you were getting your manhood soaked?”

  Red Moccasin Tops angrily slapped the surface of the steamy pool as the clamor continued to grow down in the meadow around those three horsemen.

  But it was Shore Crossing, his older cousin, who snarled like a dog restrained too long on a short rope, “We will find them for you, Sun Necklace. Your son and I are good at finding runaway Shadows—”

  A loud yell arose from many throats in the meadow as more than two hundred men and women cried out in unison—a sound that raised the hair on the back of Yellow Wolf’s neck as he stood, the hot water sluicing off his sinewy muscles, down his bony shoulders and boyish hips. Through the midst of the cries and keening, he heard Ollokot calling his name as the war chief loped toward him on foot.

  “Yellow Wolf!”

  “I am ready, Ollokot!”

  With an impish grin the Wallamwatkin war chief skidded to a halt and peered at this naked young warrior. “You better put on your clothes before you cause a stir among the young women in the camp! I want you to come with me.”

  “Come? Where?”

  “Even though we have left Cut-Off Arm’s suopies behind,” Ollokot began as a serious expression came over the Wallowa war chief’s face. He pointed to the east, in the direction the Lolo Trail took into the Bitterroot valley, then finished, “it seems there are some Montana soldiers waiting down below to make new trouble for us now.”

  * * *

  REINFORCEMENTS were coming, but—at best—they were more than a hundred-fifty miles and a week away. Back when the captain in charge of building the army’s newest post four miles southwest of Missoula City came asking for volunteers to ride up the Lolo Trail with one of his lieutenants in a search for an overdue reconnaissance party, Chauncey Barbour volunteered right there and t
hen. Even though he was editor of the Weekly Missoulian, putting out a newspaper would have to wait, and folks might just have to miss an issue for the first time in many years—because settling these Indian troubles was that much more important.

  Besides, those oncoming Nez Perce had made themselves the biggest news of this summer.

  Along with a handful of other local citizens, Barbour had climbed toward the pass with Lieutenant Charles Coolidge of A Company, Seventh U. S. Infantry, hoping to run across another officer named Woodbridge. They ended up finding the lieutenant’s party coming down the trail, at which point Coolidge’s detail turned back for town themselves. Woodbridge’s men would spend one more day taking a more leisurely pace down to the valley.

  But Woodbridge had hurried back to the unfinished post by midday with two hard-used Bitterroot civilians, both of them reporting to Captain Rawn—along with every one of his quartermaster employees helping in the fort’s construction—that the Nez Perce had reached the hot springs!

  The warrior bands who had chopped up Perry’s First Cavalry at White Bird Canyon, the butchers who had wiped out Rains’s eleven-man scouting detail, then went on to play cat and mouse with Randall’s seventeen civilians before killing two of them … the very same bunch of Joseph’s henchmen who had stood off more than half a thousand of General Howard’s finest troops were now thundering down the east slope of the Lolo Trail and heading right for the Bitterroot valley!

  “I need your help, more than ever,” Charles Rawn had proposed to his eager civilians. “I don’t think I can stare down seven hundred and fifty Nez Perce with only the thirty-five soldiers I can muster in my command.” His intense eyes started to rake over the civilians slowly.

  “Count me in, Captain,” Chauncey Barbour was the first to declare.

  “If any of you volunteer,” Rawn offered the rest, “I’ll do my best to provide you with ammunition and rations.”

  “Sounds fair ’nough to me,” responded E. A. Kenney.