by Vella Munn
"What are you doing here?" he asked, remembering he wore the uniform of the U.S. Army, or at least most of a regulation uniform. "I could have killed you, you know."
"No. You cannot."
No. Were her menfolks hiding nearby, waiting for him to make a wrong move? Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his rifle until it was aimed at the ground just ahead of her. "It's loaded."
"Is that what you do, Jed Britton? You kill a Modoc simply because she speaks to you?"
"A lot of folks would call me a hero if I did." He took a frigid breath. "You and that eagle. What was that about?"
Luash had been waiting for the now clean shaven, too broad-shouldered soldier to ask her that. She shouldn't tell him, at least not give him an answer that came from her heart. Yet she spoke honestly. "Eagle and I are one." She touched the mark Eagle had left on her, and then indicated the feather her spirit had gifted her with today.
"One? What are you talking about?"
"You will never understand. You do not belong here, Lieutenant Jed Britton. This is my people's land; it does not want you standing on it."
"I hate to tell you this, but rocks don't give a damn what happens to them."
He was wrong. Kumookumts had created everything, even the smallest piece of sand. But whites believed in other things. They spoke of God and Christ, of a woman called the Virgin Mary. Many reservation Indians had turned their backs on their ancestors' teachings and prayed to the white man's gods, but she never would.
Not with Eagle spreading his wings over her.
"You are so wise that you know everything?" she threw at him, not sure why she was standing here with the cold buffeting her instead of returning to her people. "If that is so, then surely you know why Eagle came to me."
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking, would I? It makes no sense."
Why had she let him see her meeting with Eagle when she'd always believed that only her people should know of what existed between her and her spirit? When she first spotted the soldier, she hadn't been sure he was the man from the morning of the attack, but it hadn't taken long for her to recognize him. And that, for reasons she didn't understand, was why she'd still lifted her arms to the sky and answered her spirit's silent call. "You are not Maklaks—Modoc. You will never understand."
"Maybe," he said after a silence that lasted so long she stopped being comfortable with it. "What I do know is that what I saw couldn't happen."
"But it did."
"Yeah. It did." There was an expectancy to his voice and she knew he wanted her to explain. But what happened between her and Eagle was for them alone. She'd given the lieutenant all she could, more than she should have. Enough that he would be forced to acknowledge the truth about someone he considered little more than an animal.
Maybe that was why she'd let him see Eagle, why she'd spoken in English.
He hadn't taken his eyes off her, but his rifle now hung by his side. His knuckles were white, and he shivered slightly. If Eagle touched him, he would be able to better withstand the winter, but of course that would never be.
"This rebellion of yours isn't going to work," he said when neither of them had spoken for a long time. "There isn't a chance in hell that a handful of Modocs can hold off the army, especially one that has-the government behind it, as behind as they ever get that is. You'll starve."
"We were starving on the reservation."
"If you'd gotten along with the Klamaths—"
"Could you do that, Jed Britton?" she interrupted. Rage flowed through her like fire; she didn't try to stop it. "If you were forced to live in the same valley with the Modocs, would you put down your rifle and your hate and sit with them? Would you embrace those who have turned their backs on their ancestors, the old ways?"
"If it came down to that or dying..."
"If you say you can make your peace with my people, I will believe you lie."
Jed shook his head. "It's the Sioux I'll never forgive."
She'd heard of the Sioux, a warlike tribe that had long defied white man's government and army. But the Sioux were far away. What did this man care about them? "Is that why you are here? Because your hate for the Sioux is so strong that it might kill you if you remain near them?"
His features darkened, and in his narrowing eyes, she realized he was closing a part of himself off from her. "What I do or don't feel for the Sioux is none of your concern."
"You make what is happening here your concern. Why can it not also be the other way?"
He glared at her; his fingers tightened around his rifle until his bones showed. His breath escaped in a steady stream. Still, she didn't regret saying what she had. "Before the settlers came, Modoc and Klamath walked in a wide path around each other. We cannot do that anymore. Instead, we are told we must lie down together. We are told we must learn to write and read the white man's words and forget our own. That we should build houses, no longer live in wickiups. That our ways are wrong."
"I don't make the laws. I'm simply here to carry them out."
The gray in his eyes seemed lighter today than when they'd first met. Still, there was nothing soft or giving about the man. The white, jagged scar over his right temple seemed a natural part of him, a memory proudly carried. He was, she sensed, someone who had learned not to trust or care. She couldn't imagine wanting to be like that. They were nothing more than strangers staring at each other across a deep canyon. And yet she'd let him see what no white man had before—her and Eagle together.
"You never question those laws?" she asked, wondering why she cared about his answer.
"Oh yes, I question. But not on this."
"You believe the Modocs have no right to the land where their ancestors' ashes are scattered? That the yainax—the mountains and valleys and streams and lakes created for us by Kumookumts—are no longer ours?"
"If this Kumookumts is your deity, I can tell you, he doesn't exist."
Suddenly angry, she threw back her shoulders and refused to blink despite the cold weather. "You have never heard of the Creator and what he did and yet you say he does not exist. How can that be?"
"Because I know what I'm talking about."
She watched his hard and expressive eyes and waited for him to break the silence. He didn't. "You are as wise as Grizzly?" she asked.
"Grizzly? Another of your so-called deities? Look, unless you ever lose everything and everyone you care about, unless you're so scared you think you're going to die and you pray until you can't pray anymore and those prayers aren't answered, until that happens to you, don't tell me what to believe or not to believe in."
She hadn't known he had that much anger in him, yet now that he'd opened himself to her, she realized she'd sensed the rage lurking deep in his eyes. "You are a bitter man, Jed Britton."
"If I am, it's because I have a right."
"You have a right not to believe in anything beyond yourself?"
"A reason. A damn good reason." He glanced up, drawing her attention to the fact that the weak winter sun would soon slide out of sight. The unseen birds continued their ceaseless noise, would sing through the night and join their voices with those of the owls. "Look, I've got a piece of advice for you to take back to Captain Jack."
"Kientpoos."
"What?"
"All his life he was called Kientpoos—until the ranchers and soldiers gave him another name."
"Whatever." He shrugged. "You tell him this. There's no way, absolutely no way the Modocs can hold off the army. We'll run over you—starve you out—"
"You are wrong."
"No I'm not. Do you have any idea what a howitzer is? As soon as they get here, they'll blow those beds apart."
"Can a howitzer fly?"
"What?"
"I have seen the army's cannons. They are foolish weapons. What will you do? Put them on wagons and pull them over endless sharp rocks? Your wagons will break down; your horses' legs will shatter."
"Then maybe we'll just wait until the Modocs run out o
f water."
Thinking of the ice river trapped underground but accessible from one of the caves, she nearly allowed herself a small smile.
Melted, the ice would supply enough water for everyone. But Jed was right about one thing: if the army prevented them from hunting and foraging, the Modocs would have to surrender.
That was why she'd sought Eagle today. Only a shaman could heal and protect. But although Cho-ocks was doing magic so the Modocs would have the power to defeat their enemies, Luash had needed Eagle's message. Her spirit had blessed her as he'd done so many times before and she prayed she had her answer. Eagle's strength and courage meant the warriors would continue to feed their families' bellies.
"You are very sure of yourself, Jed Britton. Perhaps I will take you back with me and the Modocs will make you our chief. When you say all should surrender, they will not argue."
"Only if you explain why the hell your warriors slaughtered innocent ranchers."
"I do not know," she whispered, suddenly wishing she didn't understand a word of what he was saying.
"What's the matter, Luash? Don't tell me you think your people were wrong?"
"Not all my people," she said with her head held high. "Only a few braves who took their anger and turned it into revenge."
"A few? Rumors are that every Modoc man was in on it."
She wasn't sure what the word rumor meant. What she did know was that she couldn't let Jed think revenge ruled everyone. "That is not so. Only—" She wouldn't tell this army man who was responsible. "Only—a few."
"Curley Headed Doctor. Slolux. Hooker Jim. That's the stories anyway."
"Cho-ocks, not Curley Headed Doctor. Not Hooker Jim, Ha-kar-Jim. They acted alone, without Kientpoos's blessing."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He shifted his weight, the movement startling her. "Damnit, the army isn't going to let these killings go unpunished. The only way you're going to save your necks is by surrendering."
"Is that what you want to do? Force me to go back with you so your leaders will call you a great warrior?"
His mouth twitched, but she couldn't tell whether she'd angered or amused him. As she'd done before, she waited for him to say something. Instead, he looked at her with his gray, deep eyes until she no longer saw his rifle and uniform, until he became nothing except a man—tall, strong, and straight, blessed by sun and wind and rain.
Shaken, she tried to make her legs turn and run, but the fog had wrapped itself around them and she couldn't move. Couldn't tear her gaze from his.
He was a soldier, a man who hated who and what she was, and yet today, she couldn't make herself hold onto that.
His arms were filled with strength. His voice carried power and determination. He came from a world she didn't understand, had seen and done things she never would.
But he was a man; this winter blasted afternoon, nothing else mattered.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?"
"Maybe I am."
"If you were, you'd be back among those rocks. You knew I was out here; still, you came."
"Eagle was waiting for me."
"Eagle? That doesn't make a damn bit of sense." He drew his fingers through his hair.
"Because you do not understand."
"There's nothing to understand! Look, I don't believe any of that nonsense about what's his name, Kumookumts, so don't try to tell me he had something to do with what that bird did."
"If not Kumookumts, then who?"
He didn't answer, but in his silence she found his unspoken reply. He had no explanation. "Ask your own god, Jed. Maybe that is who sent Eagle to me."
"I don't have any god."
Although he'd thrown the words at her, she sensed an awful loneliness behind them and wanted to know what had happened to bring him to this. But if she asked for the truth, he might not be satisfied until she'd given him the same thing—told him about a despairing girl in search of something, anything, and how that call had been answered.
She didn't know him well enough for that, would never trust him with what was in her heart. "No god? Then I feel sorry for you," she said.
"Don't!" he spat and lifted his rifle.
She stared at the deadly weapon. "Why do my words anger you so?"
"You don't understand, do you? You and I are at war. Nothing else matters."
She didn't say anything, didn't move, hung onto a spent breath long after she should have released it. At war. He might be wrong about a great many things, but in that he spoke the truth. Why then had she revealed herself to him and let him see what was private to her?
The answer she'd given herself earlier slipped off into the fog. She cared nothing whether others of his kind ever understood what it meant to have a Modoc heart.
Only he mattered.
And she didn't know why.
Chapter 5
The everlasting wind slapped noisily at canvas. Tents that had been erected only a few days ago already were covered with snow crystals and debris. Smoke and sound hung in the air as if incapable of escaping the frozen earth. Despite the large number of soldiers, volunteers, and reservation Indians, there was surprisingly little movement as most of the men clung to what heat they could get from the campfires dotting their night-darkened world. From a distance, the still-growing army camp looked like silver and gray blisters protruding from the flat land, vulnerable despite their number.
Troops were being sent from everywhere to help quell the hostilities. Their sheer number was responsible for the sense of disorganization, the lack of unity. The Twenty-first Infantry, all the way from Fort Vancouver, was still resting up from its arduous journey through rain and mud. The weary soldiers muttered that they'd better not have to spend much time here, cursing the miserable conditions, the bone-chilling cold.
Rancher Oliver Applegate, who'd argued that there hadn't been enough troops to force the rebel Modocs to leave Lost River, and had been proven right, had organized sixty-eight men on his own, most of them Warm Springs Indians, who camped as far from the troops as they could. Obviously, they trusted the soldiers as little as the soldiers trusted them. Volunteers from local ranches had come to guide soldiers unfamiliar with the area. So far, all they'd done was sit and wait, none too patiently.
A couple of times, Modocs had ventured so close to Crawley Ranch that their taunts had rankled everyone within earshot, but Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton had given strict orders not to engage in battle before the campaign began in earnest. In the meantime, men waited and grumbled and cursed both the damnable weather and Captain Jack's Indians.
His head down to protect his eyes, Jed walked from the hastily erected rope corral where he'd left his horse toward the filthy, oversized cook tent. From the looks of things, the other officers and most of the enlisted men had eaten already, which meant he'd have to be content with whatever the cook scraped from the bottom of the pot, but years of army food had hardened his belly. What he needed was strength, not a culinary experience. After the silence of the lake, the din caused by too many voices, carelessly handled weapons, and livestock set his head to pounding.
There was no design to the military camp. Everything from bedrolls to stockpiled ammunition had been dropped carelessly wherever the whim struck. Jed slowly threaded his way around the many knots of men and equipment. A number of them looked up at him expectantly, pausing in the middle of their endless card playing. Obviously, they'd identified him as an officer and were hoping he'd have some information to impart to them. He didn't, and kept walking.
Although his mind felt overloaded from trying to make sense of what lay all around him, the sounds, the heavy smell of smoke and unwashed bodies, a movement to the side caught his attention. Second Lieutenant Wilfred Ellenshaw, a long, lean rope of a man half hidden under a heavy wool coat motioned for Jed to join him near one of the campfires. When Jed reached him, Wilfred handed him a tin plate with a meat and potato stew rapidly cooling on it.
"I saw you ride in," Wilfred explained. "Thought I'd better grab you
something while there was something to grab. Don't ask me what the meat is. It tastes like old dog. My grandfather could cook better than this and he nearly starved to death after my grandmother died. You missed yet another strategy session, this particular one about whether we can spare enough men to place guards at all the ranches hereabouts. Lieutenant Wheaton's so upset over what the ranchers are charging for grain and hay that he doesn't much care whether they get any protection."
Jed leaned forward and let the fire start to warm him, glad that he and Wilfred were a small distance from most of the activity. He stared through the gloom at the officers' tents but saw no sign of movement there, just the shadowy flickering of lanterns burning inside. "I've heard. They're asking more than enough, and the grain's not that good."
"It's a crime, that's what it is. It doesn't help things that the ranchers are nervous and angry as hell. They aren't going to hold with being put off much longer and aren't interested in hearing that there's no saying when those two howitzers and more ammunition are going to get here from Fort Vancouver. They just don't understand what it takes to support an army."
"So that's what the session was about, trying to appease the ranchers?" Taking his attention from the tents, Jed studied the horizon, or rather what he could see of it in the dark, which was damn little. Crawley's Ranch had been built in a small meadow with a creek running through it. There'd once been a number of trees. Now nothing remained except for stumps, one of which he was sitting on.
"Mostly. They also want the army to explain why so few soldiers were sent to round up the Modocs. Wheaton has started an inquiry, but I doubt if that's going to satisfy anyone. Major Green keeps pointing the finger of blame at that Interior Department Superintendent Odeneal, and Captain Jackson says he was just following orders. They're both trying to protect themselves, never mind the truth. Where you been?"
Jed wanted to shrug off the question, but Wilfred would only keep after him until he had an answer. "If I'm going to see General Canby, I want to be able to give him as clear a picture of the situation as possible. I decided to look things over." It was still noisy, men shouting, horses milling about, the clang and clatter of weapons and other possessions. He needed the lake's silence—a silence that in reality was something else.
