Cries from the Earth: The Outbreak Of the Nez Perce War and the Battle of White Bird Canyon June 17, 1877 (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  “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.

  He fired, seeing the Shadow’s hat fly off his head. An instant later his cousin fired his new rifle. The white man spun off his horse into a clump of tall grass and brush.

  Red Moccasin Tops whooped, brandishing his rifle aloft as he screamed in utter glee.

  “Come on!” Shore Crossing commanded. “We’ll make sure he’s finished!”

  They loped their horses up to the spot where the Shadow had fallen beside the trail. Both of them peered at the white man’s legs sticking out from the thick underbrush, watching the britches and boots for some time.

  “I think he’s dead,” Red Moccasin Tops ventured.

  “I knocked his hat off.”

  “But I knocked him off his horse!” Red Moccasin Tops boasted.

  Shore Crossing grinned at his cousin. “As it should be. This Shadow cheated our people in every trade we made with him. And he shot at you. So now you have killed him. It is very good.”

  Yelping again in joy, Red Moccasin Tops said, “But he didn’t have a gun for me to take from him.”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Then I will keep his horse.”

  Shore Crossing nodded in agreement. “The horse is yours, brother,” he said. “It is your coup.”

  Whoop-whooping, the younger man wheeled his pony about and reined it up beside the white man’s horse. He leaned over to snag the drooping reins, then rejoined the small herd of stolen animals.

  “Let’s take our prizes back to Tepahlewam now,” Shore Crossing said.

  An easy grin finally spread across Swan Necklace’s face. He answered Red Moccasin Tops’s wolf howl with one of his own. Shore Crossing joined them as they put the horses back into motion.

  They were warriors now. Let no man ever doubt that. He and Red Moccasin Tops had drawn Shadow blood.

  Which meant they had started a war.

  * * *

  Samuel Benedict barely breathed.

  His head was foggy, but with his ear against the ground Benedict could easily hear the horses approaching. How he wanted to open his eyes, but he didn’t know for sure just where he was lying—or if the red sonsabitches would see his eyelids part into slits.

  The hooves came to a halt nearby, and he heard the bastards talking. Two voices. But he had seen three of them. Where was the third? Damn, he wanted to open his eyes … to leap up and run—but Sam realized that he wouldn’t stand a chance, not with the way his leg burned.

  He’d be Injun bait before he got very far.

  The two of them kept talking.… Benedict was pretty sure one of the three was in that bunch that had tried to break into his store late one August night back in ’75. He had yelled out at the pricks that his store was closed, but they kept shouting and shoving against the door, so he fetched the scattergun he kept under the counter, always loaded with buckshot and handy for driving off any of the sparky bastards.

  He hadn’t worried about giving them a warning shot, goddammit. Flinging back the door, Sam let them have the first barrel. Benedict heard the pricks scream in pain and alarm with that sudden roar and bright muzzle flash. Isabella was sobbing behind him, wailing and yelling, too as the little bastards lunged off into the summer darkness.

  Benedict had decided he’d show them once and for all, so he stepped out onto the porch in front of his store and spotted the shadows scattering for their ponies left at the tree line. Dropping from the low porch onto the dust and grass, he had taken a half-dozen more steps, deciding just who would get the second goddamned barrel as the red pricks scattered for their lives. The shotgun roared into the black of that night.

  Just shy of their ponies, one of them fell, crying out to his friends. Two turned back and struggled to get that screaming one off the ground. Benedict hoped he was gut-shot, for it would be a long and painful way to die. Served the little prick right.

  Turning to his left, Benedict snapped open the action and ejected the spent shells. He pulled two fresh loads from his front pants pocket and shoved them home. Snapping the breech closed, the storekeeper braced the stock of the scattergun against his hipbone and cocked both hammers. Wheeling the muzzle at the dim, starlit forms, he yanked back with his finger, immediately realizing that he had made a mistake, and pulled both triggers that instant after he had found a likely target and clenched his eyes shut against the muzzle flash.

  Benedict had opened both eyes just as he heard a grunt. The son of a bitch was flying through the air, landing on his belly.

  Realizing he stood right out in the open without a loaded weapon, Benedict had turned on his heel and sprinted back to the store, yelling at Isabella to get down behind the counter. By the time he had pulled the empties out of the two-eyed stage-rider scattergun and stuffed in two new loads, Sam had reached the porch—snapping the barrels closed against the breech. Benedict found the troublemakers had scooped up their wounded and hightailed it into the dark.

  Good riddance to the little pricks.

  As he lay there now listening to the two voices, praying he could keep his breathing shallow, Samuel Benedict remembered how good it had felt to drive the little bastards off like that. Figuring it would teach them not to come strutting around his place no more.

  But then he recalled that he had to teach the red bastards one more lesson. That was last spring, little more than a year ago, when Isabella called to him from the store. He was working outside when one of them bucks came flushing out the door with Isabella squawking behind him.

  “He’s got some liquor!” she was squealing. “He’s got some of our liquor!”

  The brazen bastard saw Benedict and leaped into a sprint. But Samuel was quick enough with that pistol he kept tucked into his belt whenever any red niggers were about. There in the midst of a half-dozen other warriors standing around in the yard, Benedict pulled his revolver and popped the son of a bitch in the back.

  Damn if when he turned the dead man’s body over with his boot toe Samuel didn’t find the bullet had blown out the front of the prick’s belly, busting that stolen whiskey bottle in the process. Waste of not only a bullet, but a shameful goddamned waste of some good whiskey, too!

  Pricks—

  He wanted to be sure they had gone now—to open his eyes and be sure when he heard the hoofbeats fade. How his side hurt and he wanted to take a deep breath, his lungs crying out so. Wondering if he shouldn’t just stay right here.

  Someone would come looking for him. After all, Isabella knew he was out looking for stray cows. Someone would come soon enough. But what if they didn’t?

  How he wanted to get to his feet and run. But he waited, that ear pressed against the ground hearing the hoofbeats quickly fade away.

  Letting his breath out as quietly as he could, Benedict felt the blades of grass brush against his nose, his hairy upper lip, too. And lay there a while longer just to be sure before he cracked one eye into a slit. Then opened the other slowly, looking about without moving his head.

  The red bastards were gone. Sure enough. They’d left him for dead, by God.

  Now all he had to do was figure out how bad off he was and get himself on down to Slate Creek to tell the others the little pricks had let the wolf out to howl.

  Son of a bitch, but now was the time to finish off all them red niggers, once and for all. With war finally come, white folks and the army could rub out every last one of ’em: bucks, squaws, and nits, too.

  Ever’ last one of ’em hardly worth the bullet it’d take to blow ’em to kingdom come.

  * * *

  Here beside Round Willow Creek at the western edge of the Tepahlewam, Shore Crossing raised his arm and the three of them stopped their small herd of stolen horses.

  He waved his nephew over. “You look very fine on your ne
w horse.”

  Swan Necklace patted the roan’s withers. “And I have a fine gun now, too. Never had a gun before.”

  “Plenty of shells?” Red Moccasin Tops asked.

  “Got me some, yes.”

  Then Shore Crossing said, “The camp is just beyond those trees ahead. I want you to go in to announce that we are coming with our horses.”

  “You want me to tell the village?” Swan Necklace asked in sudden excitement.

  “Yes. Show them your horse, and the rifle we took from the Boston Man. Tell the camp that Red Moccasin Tops and I have killed five of the Shadows who have done our people badly. Tell them that news so they will be ready when we ride in.”

  “You’re coming soon?”

  “Yes, Nephew,” Shore Crossing assured him. “We will give you a few minutes to tell everyone so that it will make for a grand parade when we run our horses through the camp.”

  Swan Necklace kee-yi-yied like a coyote as he reined the big roan about in a tight circle, kicking it hard with his moccasin heels and leaping away. Shore Crossing and his cousin sat grinning at each other.

  “This is a good day,” Red Moccasin Tops said.

  He nodded, finally realizing that from the moment he had left the rendezvous camp at Tepahlewam he—Shore Crossing—had held the destiny of more than seven hundred of his people in his hand. No more could they sneer at him and call him a coward. He alone had been brave enough to start this war that would free his people from the tyranny of the Shadows.

  “Yes. This is a very good day!” Shore Crossing exclaimed with joyous certainty. “And for you and me—the two men who saved our people from the reservation—all of our days will be good from now on!”

  Chapter 11

  Season of Hillal

  1877

  Sun Necklace got to his feet as the youngster raced into camp on a strange horse. Big Morning, his older brother, stepped up beside him. Sun Necklace sensed those first claws of fear wrap themselves around his belly.

  Young Swan Necklace started yelling as he came in sight of the first lodges, but it took a moment for Sun Necklace to understand what the exuberant youth was shouting as he brandished a carbine high over his head, his big roan frightened and sidestepping as women and children began to crowd in around him.

  “What does this mean?” asked Hemackkis Kaiwon, the man called Big Morning or Big Dawn.

  “The boy will tell us what has become of Red Moccasin Tops,” Sun Necklace replied with steely resolve, fearing desperately for his son’s life.

  He hadn’t slept at all last night, his belly tight with apprehension from the moment the three young men rode off on their two old horses. When he found them leaving, Sun Necklace had leaped atop his own war pony and easily caught up with the trio not far from camp.

  “Come back home, Red Moccasin Tops,” he had ordered.

  But his son had stiffened his backbone and quickly replied, “I am not a boy anymore, Father. You cannot order me about as you once did. For many winters now I have been old enough to become a warrior.”

  Sun Necklace had glanced at Shore Crossing. “Nephew, you are the cause of this trouble for my son. Because you did not go after the Shadow who murdered your father when you should have, because your pride has been pricked now … you will take my son from me so that some Boston Man can kill him far from his family.”

  “I will bring him back a hero, Uncle,” Shore Crossing had vowed. “Or he will die with me, become a true warrior of the Nee-Me-Poo.”

  “Good-bye, Father,” Red Moccasin Tops said as he turned his horse away.

  Shore Crossing put his old pony into motion, Swan Necklace riding double behind him.

  “Son!” he had cried in desperation, his voice no longer drenched with paternal bluster.

  But the young men said nothing more as their backs grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared through the trees. Sun Necklace had sat there for a long time on his war pony, wondering how he should feel now that his son wanted to prove that he was a man, old enough to rise or fall by his own hand.

  But all night Sun Necklace had lain awake in such gut-wrenching fear: wondering if this was what his own father had felt. Still, this was something different: the two cousins had been drinking, if not that morning before they left, then surely the night before when they had caused a disturbance at the dance.

  And he brooded that what the cousins had set out to do would in all probability ignite a war, would with all surety change the lives of the Nee-Me-Poo forever.

  At first he had grown sad, his heart cold with despair at the fate awaiting his people. Then, gradually, his heart warmed with anger, boiled with fury. Perhaps the time had come for their people to rise up in glory once more and throw off the yoke of the white man!

  “Swan Necklace!” he hollered apprehensively now as he lunged forward, grabbing hold of the leather rein and stopping the youth’s horse. “Where is my son?”

  The youngster was grinning, his whole face radiant with the glow of unbridled victory. “See my rifle? I took it from a Shadow. We killed him! We killed him for his rifle!”

  On the other side of the roan Big Morning reached up and snatched the carbine from Swan Necklace. He inspected it with admiration. “This is a good rifle!”

  But Sun Necklace did not care about the rifle. He repeated his question: “Where is Red Moccasin Tops?”

  “They are coming!” Swan Necklace declared, twisting about on the back of the big Boston Man horse. “Right behind me! They wanted me to come first and tell everyone to be ready when they brought in their guns and horses!”

  “G-guns and horses?” Sun Necklace echoed, sudden joy shoving his apprehension aside. “Both of them, they are alive?”

  “Yes—alive!” Swan Necklace roared. “There! Look! They come!”

  Of a sudden the huge crowd became animated all over again: shouting, crying out, the women u-u-uing with their tongues in exultation. Beyond the fringes of the gathering Sun Necklace could see the bobbing heads of several horses—perhaps as many as he had fingers—then he saw the heads of the two young warriors as they herded their captured ponies in among the lodges. Everyone was cheering, some men shouting their war songs in deep voices, women crying out in falsetto celebration.

  “My son! My son!”

  “Father! Look what we have brought!” Red Moccasin Tops cried as he approached.

  “Get down, Swan Necklace!” Big Morning ordered, tugging on the youngster’s arm.

  “This is my horse!” the youth whimpered as his uncle began to pull him down.

  “I will bring it back to you,” Big Morning promised as he leaped onto the roan’s bare back once Swan Necklace hit the ground. He settled himself and raised the youngster’s rifle aloft, tapping the big horse in the ribs so that it started walking slowly through the tightly packed crowd.

  Now it was Big Morning who was leading the two warriors through the joyous throng.

  “Come, Swan Necklace!” Sun Necklace shouted above the tumult and put his arm around the youngster’s shoulders. They fell behind his brother on that big roan horse. “Swan Necklace—walk with me and my son, the brave warrior known as Red Moccasin Tops!”

  “I am truly a warrior now, Father!” the young man hollered down at them as he brought his stolen horse up beside Sun Necklace.

  His eyes were filled with glistening tears of joy as he gazed up at his son in deep admiration and pride. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “Today … you are a warrior. And you, my son … you have reminded all of us of something we have forgotten.”

  “What, Father?” the young man cried over the rising excitement and noise from hundreds of throats. “What have I reminded you of?”

  “You make us all remember what it means to be a warrior for our people!”

  * * *

  Lepeet Hessemdooks was his name. Two Moons.

  An older warrior of more than forty winters, he had lived about as long as Big Morning and Sun Necklace. His father had been a noted Sal
ish warrior who had come to live with the Wallowa after he married a Nez Perce woman. Two Moons was their firstborn. And now he had grandchildren, a man who had enough winters behind him that he had watched the slow, painful dissolution of the old existence once lived by the Nee-Me-Poo. Enough winters behind him to know this war would bring about their final ruin.

  Joining several of the headmen and chiefs in White Bird’s lodge late that morning, Two Moons and the rest debated their misgivings about surrendering to a life on the reservation. Although they had guaranteed Cut-Off Arm they would bring their bands to Lapwai, many of these leaders still harbored grave doubts that they were doing the right thing.

  So again this morning they had talked and talked—some arguing that they should stay on their old lands and fight the soldiers if they came. Others declared that what they should do was wait until later in the summer when their best warriors would return from the buffalo country, and then all the bands would be at full strength and could decide to go to war.

  But a few claimed there was no way to defeat the white man, who was as numerous as the stars. Back and forth the deliberations rumbled until they suddenly heard the growing tumult outside the council lodge.

  An old man came to the lodge door and yelled at the chiefs, “Now you will have to go to war!”

  Closer and closer the shouting men and keening women came, along with a call heard constantly above the din: “Prepare for war! Prepare for war!”

  “What can this mean?” White Bird asked, his voice shattering the stunned silence in that council lodge.

  Suddenly the door flap was hurled aside and one of White Bird’s young nephews poked his head inside, announcing, “You old men are talking of peace and war for nothing! Three boys have already started the war. They have killed some white men on the Salmon and brought their horses and guns to this camp. War has already come!”

  The headmen stared at one another in disbelief. There was little left to debate now. Nothing else to do … but prepare for war.