Cries from the Earth

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Jesus God!” he gasped when he stumbled across the first body.

  It was the youngster, Henry’s nephew: lying on his back, his pockets pulled out of his pants like they were droopy mule ears. A black smear across his chest—so dark in contrast to the pasty white of the young man’s cheeks. And those lifeless eyes glazing over just the way a deer’s eyes would by the time you had it split open from brisket to bunghole—

  “Jesus God!” Whitfield exclaimed again, this time cursing himself for standing there, thinking of such stupid, ghastly things when Henry Elfers’s nephew lay dead in the hayfield—

  Did Henry kill the boy? No, couldn’t have, Whitfield thought as he started off toward those Belgians again, this time at a trot, loping along fast enough that he didn’t see the second body until he had tripped right over it.

  Sprawling into the short grass, Whitfield rolled onto his side and looked back. Just a yard beyond the soles of his dusty boots lay the hired man. The back of his head was a shiny, black, pulpy lump of gore where the flies were already buzzing a swarming clot. Staring dumbfounded at that, Whitfield wanted to curse again … but discovered his mouth was too dry to utter a goddamned thing.

  He realized he had to tell Henry, had to find Henry. Jesus God.

  Dragging himself out of the bloody, dusty grass, he wheeled clumsily, then stumbled forward to scoop up his rifle—

  And that’s when he spotted Jurden Henry Elfers.

  Lying there on his back, a boot missing and his dirty stocking halfway off his foot. A patch of blood on his upper arm and more staining his armpit. Despite the hole in the middle of Henry’s face, Whitfield was certain it was Elfers. The graying beard and that big waxed mustache. He’d know that German anywhere.

  All three of ’em. Jesus G—Who was there to tell now?

  Likely Injuns. Goddamned red-bellies. Probably got to Catherine and had their way with her, too. Cut the throats of the little ones …

  Whitfield did the best he could to squeeze that image out of his mind as he lunged onto the trail where the milk cows were bunched, chewing away at the grass as if hell weren’t falling in all around them—then caught himself, stopping suddenly. Better that he don’t go down the trail to the yard and the house. If the bastards were still about their savage business—

  Turning slightly, Whitfield dropped over the side of the plateau, plunging almost straight downhill. He figured he could strike the John Day just above the milk house, maybe hide there beside the creek if he caught sight of any skulking redskins in the Elfers yard.

  Breathless by the time he reached the creek bank, he peered back through the trees, squinting through the salty drops that dribbled into his eyes, spying the stone wall of the milk house in the midst of the verdant brush. Wheeling, he dropped to one knee, clutching the rifle in his sweaty hands, and peered through the trees in the opposite direction at the distant yard. Nothing moved around the house; no one he could see at the barn or the corral. In fact, he spotted none of the critters at all.

  Then Whitfield got back on his feet and turned away from the buildings, this time starting upstream. Realizing his mind had become all the more numb as his breath came short and hard.

  Gould. He had to find Gould. Norman would know what to do.

  Whitfield was near done in by the time he had loped those two miles between the Elfers place and the sawmill that Norman Gould operated for Henry up at a wide spot in John Day Creek.

  “Nor—Norman!” he cried out, pasty-mouthed, as he lurched into the yard between Gould’s small cabin and the large shed that housed the steam-driven sawmill that was sitting quiet for the moment.

  “What’s the bee under your bonnet?”

  Whitfield whirled around, finding Gould stepping out the cabin door, George Greer at his elbow. A settler from farther up the Salmon, Greer was there getting some planks sawed for an addition he was nailing onto the side of his barn.

  “Henry!” Whitfield gasped, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  “Good God, man,” Greer said as he stepped up. “What’s the lather?”

  “They killed ’em!” Whitfield gushed. “Injuns killed ’em all!”

  “Killed who?”

  “Henry. Saw him: shot in the face,” he continued, struggling to work up enough saliva so he could get more words out. “The other two. That nephew Harry and the hired fella. All.”

  “Catherine and the babies?”

  Whitfield nodded, even though he admitted, “Didn’t see ’em myself. Dared not go to the house. But there wasn’t a soul stirring. I’m feared they butchered the whole lot.”

  Greer and Gould looked at each other for a long moment. Then Norman Gould asked, “You brung you a gun, didn’t you, George?”

  “Only this,” and the settler tapped the pistol stuffed in the front of his belt. “But I got a dozen more bullets on me, too.” He patted a britches pocket.

  “I don’t like thinking on what we’re gonna find over to Henry’s place,” Gould said quietly as he returned from the small cabin with his repeater in one hand, a box of shells rattling in the other. “C’mon—let’s go see if there’s any of ’em left alive.”

  “Jesus God,” Whitfield groaned quietly as the three of them set off on foot. “Hard to believe them goddamned Nez Perce gone on the warpath.”

  * * *

  Catherine Elfers hushed the children the moment she spotted the three young warriors crossing the small patch of open ground that would take them to the back of the house. Little Fritz was the fussiest, always had been, so she slipped free a half-dozen tiny buttons at the front of her dress and pulled out the engorged breast. Guiding the nipple into the infant’s mouth, she quieted the child and took another look out the crack she maintained in the milk house door.

  The trio of Indians rode past, more than forty yards away, likely unaware of the milk house tucked away in the thick vegetation here beside John Day Creek. Unlike last evening when the three of them showed up in the yard, now they were each mounted on a horse of their own, driving along at least a double-handful of horses.

  Seems they found the stray ponies they were searching for, Catherine thought as she watched the trio drive their herd slowly into the distance, heading for the Salmon River Road.

  One of the children tugged on her dress. Catherine looked down.

  “I need to pee, Mamma.”

  She pulled back the door with her free hand, feeling safer now that the Indians were out of sight. “Go pee right outside, then get back in here till I get my butter done.”

  It took less than an hour before Catherine Elfers finished churning and laid little Fritz into the basket made of rived ashwood, then re-covered the infant with his blanket. She took her time scooping the butter out of the churn with a big pewter soupspoon, ladling it in a tinned bucket, then set the top on the bucket and stood to rebutton her dress.

  After kneeling for a moment to wash her hands in the shockingly cold creek water that kept this milk house cool, Catherine picked up the bucket and pinned it beneath one arm, then hooked the basket’s handle over her other elbow and pushed out the door, the other two little ones in tow. She leaned her shoulder into the door to close it against the jamb and started for the house.

  She had the children nearly to the porch when she saw the four horsemen hurrying down the trail from the pasture. Stopping a moment, she squinted a bit, trying to see who the riders were. Henry, Harry, and Mr. Bland only made for three. Catherine watched a moment longer, wondering who the fourth man might be, then shooed the kids into the house before her.

  “Mrs. Elfers!”

  She had set the butter tin on the sideboard, then nestled the baby’s basket onto the cane rocker she kept in the kitchen where she could rock the child to sleep as she prepared meals … when she heard the second, stirring call.

  “Mrs. Elfers!”

  Still wary of the Indians, she went to the window and peered into the yard, able to see only the four horses. Sure as sausage wasn’t Henry an
d the others. When she got to the door, Catherine recognized the little Frenchman—Victor something or other. Had himself a mining claim just upriver a bit.

  “Miss-suss … Miss-suss Elfers,” he gasped when her face finally appeared in that six-inch space she opened up between door and jamb.

  “Victor?” And she peered behind him at the other three who waited down in the yard, for some reason not wanting to look up at the door.

  “Yes, Miss-suss Elfers—”

  “What is it?”

  Running his dirt-crusted hand beneath his nose, Victor gushed, “We found ’em dead, Miss-suss Elfers—”

  “Found who dead?”

  When he told her that Henry and her sister’s boy and the hired man were all dead in the upper pasture, Catherine didn’t believe him. Not that she went numb with the news. Just that it had to be someone’s idea of a sad, sick dream.

  But she did start to slowly go numb as Victor and the three strangers were describing what they’d found in the pasture, when suddenly three men sprinted from the tree line at the side of the house, making for the porch.

  “Catherine!”

  “Norman?”

  “Dear Almighty,” Gould said as he bounded up the creaky steps onto the narrow porch. “It’s Henry and the others—”

  “No, no,” she uttered almost too quietly, the cold fuzziness beginning to seep in. “This man—a Frenchman, aren’t you? He said the same thing … b-but it can’t be true.”

  “Come, sit, Catherine,” Gould said as he took her by the elbow and got her through the doorway.

  It was a long time after he had put her into the chair and left one of the Frenchman’s companions to keep an eye on the two little ones that Norman Gould returned to her side. She knew this would all be cleared up when Henry came home near sundown as he always did after a long day in the hay field. Then they’d all learn that it must have been someone else—

  “Catherine.”

  She found Gould kneeling before her, his hand resting lightly on the back of hers. Gazing over his shoulder, Catherine realized a lot of time had passed while she had been sitting there, what with the way the shadows were different now than they had been when she had returned from the milk house.

  “Norman,” she said softly. “You know Henry will be home soon and he’ll tell you—”

  “Catherine, I brung Henry down from the pasture,” Gould told her, gripping her hand hard, like it was a hoe handle. “Your sister’s boy, too. And your mister’s hired man.”

  She stood without saying a word, looked at Norman, then finally whispered, “I suppose you want me to come with you?”

  “They’re in the wagon. All three,” Gould explained. “We brung ’em down to show you.”

  In a moment she found herself out on the porch, the two little ones holding onto her skirt like a pair of bookends as Catherine stared down at the wagon box. The three of them were laid out, side by side by side, three sets of dusty boots poking out from the edge of a small sheet of oiled canvas.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes, it’s him, Catherine,” Gould replied, then turned away. “One of you, go get the baby in the house.”

  George Greer clambered away from the wagon, stopping midway up the steps to the porch. “Norman—we gotta go now,” he said with great apprehension. “Gotta get her and the children outta here.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gould agreed with a little irritation. “If them reds are letting the wolf out to howl, then chances are they’ll be coming back soon, Catherine.”

  Greer turned to Whitfield, who was sitting on the wagon seat, reins laced through his fingers. “Get that wagon into the barn and hurry—we gotta get.”

  “We ain’t taking the wagon?” Whitfield asked.

  “No,” Gould said. “Going on foot. Can’t take the chance of staying to the road.”

  “W-where?” Whitfield stammered. “Where we gonna go to be safe now?”

  Gould started down the steps with Catherine in tow, then stopped and took the basket with the fussy baby inside from Greer as he shuffled back onto the porch. Holding the woman’s elbow, Gould dropped step by step to the yard and started past the death wagon on foot. “We’re lighting out for the Cones’ place on Slate Creek.”

  Chapter 10

  Season of Hillal

  1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  WASHINGTON.

  Overhauling the Indian Department Generally.

  WASHINGTON, June 7.—Secretary Schurz, today, by order, created a board … to examine into the methods now in force in the finance and accounting division of the Indian bureau, especially as to an analysis of the money and property accounts of Indian agents, and whether the accounts of agents are rendered in accordance with the law and regulations; whether any expenditures are made without proper authority and whether the present system is such as to show at all times the condition of the money and property affairs at each agency … particular examination will be made as to the number and compensation of employees at each agency, and whether they are given or allowed to purchase subsistence or clothing in violation of the law …

  To avoid the Shadows’ village that stood near the mouth of Slate Creek, Shore Crossing decided the three of them would drive their stolen horses into the hills, where they could follow the upper trail along its rugged contours on their way north, heading back to Tepahlewam. It proved difficult for them to keep that small herd together. Here and there along the steep slopes a horse would wander off the narrow path, then another.

  Shore Crossing finally gave up and let them go. It did not matter, because the three of them still had several good horses as well as the rifles to shake in the faces of those who had dared call him a coward.

  Once they put two tall crests between them and the white man’s settlement, the three warriors turned off the upper trail to begin their descent. No sooner had they returned to the Salmon River Road than Shore Crossing spotted a rider approaching.

  “He is coming from the north,” he told his two companions who rode out on the flanks of their stolen herd.

  Swan Necklace visibly stiffened as he and Red Moccasin Tops watched the white man draw closer.

  “It is the one called Cone,”1 Shore Crossing announced as soon as he recognized the Shadow who waved to them some distance away. “We will stop and give him some good advice.”

  Now that they had slowed, the weary ponies milled off the road, tearing at the tall grass growing in scattered patches between the trail and the river.

  “Cone!” he sang out in a good imitation of the white man’s tongue.

  The Shadow grinned, clearly relieved that Shore Crossing recognized him. But the white man’s eyes flicked nervously to his two companions, then to the stolen horses and back to the two warriors again, before coming to rest on Shore Crossing. Cone cleared his throat and began to talk haltingly in the Nee-Me-Poo tongue.

  “Good horses, strong horses. Where you going?”

  “Tepahlewam,” Shore Crossing answered. “Where you going?”

  “Slate Creek,” Cone replied in English. “Home.”

  Nonetheless, Shore Crossing understood the sound of those Boston Man words. “You have never been bad to my people.”

  Cone’s eyes narrowed as he suspiciously regarded the young warrior. “No, I have always been good to the Nee-Me-Poo.”

  “You know these horses, don’t you, Cone?”

  “Y-yes, I do,” the white man answered nervously. “John Day ranch horses. You buy them from Elfers?”

  “No, we kill men. Take horses and guns.”

  “K-killed the men?” Cone’s face went tight, drained of color and pasty.

  “You have never been bad to my people, so I will give you some good advice, Cone.”

  “Yes, good advice,” he echoed nervously, the tip of his tongue licking at his lower lip.

  “My people are on the warpath,” Shore Crossing explained, pausing a moment while the Shadow looked again at the other two warriors.

&nbs
p; The white man repeated, “Warpath.”

  “You are alone, Cone?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “We will not harm you,” Shore Crossing sought to relieve the Shadow’s fear. “But it is dangerous now for a man to be out here alone. You go home, stay there.”

  “That is good advice,” Cone said, lightly tapping his heels into his horse’s ribs. “I will go tell the others about the warpath.”

  “Some white men will already know.” And he was sure Cone understood what he meant.

  “Thank you. I will go now to tell this news.”

  “Do not get in any fights against us, Cone,” Shore Crossing said as the white man passed him by, knee brushing knee. “You are a good man and should not get yourself killed!”

  With those last few words he flung at the fleeing Shadow’s back, Shore Crossing saw Cone tear the hat from his head and wave it as if in answer while he galloped out of sight.

  The three young men hadn’t gone much farther down the trail before they saw another rider approaching from the north.

  “Red Moccasin Tops!” Shore Crossing shouted to his cousin gleefully.

  “I see, brother! It is my shooter!”

  “Shooter?” Swan Necklace asked.

  “Two summers ago, that Boston Man2 shot me in the back of my head at his store,” Red Moccasin Tops grumbled, his eyes narrowing cruelly. “Now I’m going to finish him.”

  “Only after he knows who will kill him!” Shore Crossing advised as the Shadow neared them, drawing back on his reins.

  Chances were the white man didn’t recognize Red Moccasin Tops, he figured, but from the look on his face the white man clearly realized that he had plopped down in a bad situation with both feet.

  “Hep-hep-hah!” the Shadow yelled at his horse before it had even come to a complete halt, sawing the reins hard to the right.

  “Shoot him, brother!” Shore Crossing ordered as he brought his rifle to his shoulder and sighted in on the fleeing man’s back.