Whitman tied Spalding’s horse behind his own and led both of them on foot, down the trail and into the village of Chief Stickus, their most faithful Christian friend among the Cayuse. Stickus had helped Whitman guide the first big wagon train over the Blue Mountains, four years ago. When the old chief saw the two of them, soaked and muddy, he ordered his sons to attend to their horses and ushered them inside. Whitman had to carry Spalding into the longhouse.
Stickus asked his wives to prepare food and beds by the fire for the two travelers. “My friend, terrible things I have heard,” he said. “I feared for your safety.”
“We are fine,” Whitman said. “Reverend Spalding’s horse just fell in the canyon.”
“No, Doctor. Tilokaikt and his men are plotting your death.”
Daytime Smoke carried Darting Swallow to the sweat lodge, held her in his lap as the steam pulled the sweat out of them, then carried her to the river and took her into the cold waters. Her small body was lighter than he could ever remember, lighter than when he had first fallen in love with her. Later in the day he carried Takes Plenty and repeated the ritual. This was much harder; Takes Plenty had seen 17 springs, and Smoke had lost much of his strength.
When he tried to take Little Fire she moaned and pushed him away. He tried again, but she struggled against him. “No,” she murmured. “I will die.” Her voice, weak and far away, seemed so certain, he could not bring himself to lift her against her will.
He dug a large grave, then used horses to drag the dead, wrapped in robes, up the hill. The bodies had swollen and begun to decompose. At night he dreamed of severed heads and legs covered with flies.
The third morning Takes Plenty’s body was cold. Smoke sat back on his haunches and covered his face, moaning. Tears filled his eyes; anger filled his heart. He reached for the knife he had left by the fire and slashed the insides of his arms and legs. Blood flowed, dark red, and pooled at his feet. He rocked forward, onto his knees, bent over, keening for his son.
Why had he ignored Fitzpatrick’s warning? And many Nimíipuu had warned him against breaking the breast of Mother Earth. Perhaps that was why last winter had been so brutally cold and why disease had come—the spirit world was angry with the Cayuse and Nimíipuu for abandoning their ways, listening to the Soyappos, injuring Mother Earth.
THIRTY-TWO
December 1847
Spalding rode north on the big roan through rolling grasslands, two blankets wrapped over his coat to keep himself warm. Though his leg pained him, he refused to remain at Stickus’s village another day while Eliza and the Whitmans were in danger. Dr. Whitman had departed three days before, but Spalding had been unable to ride.
As he topped a rise, he saw three horsemen stopped on the trail, two of them Indians, the third a bearded man with a long black cloak and a beret pulled low for warmth. Spalding spurred his horse and loped toward them. He recognized Father Brouillet, the French priest who had declared his intention to open a Papist mission on the Umatilla. “Have you been to Dr. Whitman’s?”
“Yes.”
“What news?”
“Sad news.”
Spalding’s heart sank. “We have lost another?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Why was Brouillet giving him these two-word answers? “My daughter is at the mission. Is she alive?”
“Yes. The children all live.”
“The children?”
Brouillet turned to one of the Indians and spoke in French. Both Indians were young, and their black eyes held no pity. The first turned and spoke to the other. They shared the Nez Perce tongue, but Spalding had trouble with the Cayuse dialect when they spoke rapidly.
The second Indian was silent for a long moment, glaring at Spalding. Finally he gave an answer, whirled, and galloped back toward the mission.
Brouillet turned his horse back toward Spalding. “You are in great danger! They have killed Dr. Whitman and his wife. And they search for you!”
Spalding gasped. “They have killed the Whitmans?”
“And eight more. I have been burying the bodies.”
Spalding’s mouth went dry. “Why has that Indian started back?”
“That is the son of Tilokaikt. I begged him to spare your life, as a personal favor to me. I told him you did not cause this terrible disease. But he said he could not make such a decision alone. He has returned to tell the rest you are here.”
Spalding’s mind ran in circles, groping desperately for some course of action.
“Be quick, Reverend!” Brouillet reached into his saddlebag, handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. “Take this food! Go! The mission is only three miles away!”
“I must rescue my daughter!”
Brouillet grabbed his reins. “The children are safe! Monsieur, they will kill you! I promise you. They have sent war parties to kill all Americans. Ride to the Dalles. It is your only chance.”
Spalding reached behind him, shoved the package into a saddlebag. Then he untied the lead that held his packhorses and handed it to Brouillet.
“No,” the priest said. “The Cayuse would kill me if they thought I had helped you escape.”
And they would know, Spalding thought, because the other Cayuse would tell them. Perhaps Spalding could give him a reason to hold his tongue. He offered the lead to the Indian, who rode forward to accept it. “They are yours,” he said in Nez Perce, “if you keep your mouth shut.” Then he thanked Brouillet.
“Go with God! Hurry! I will pray for you.”
Daytime Smoke stared up into the black night, not sure where he was. He listened for Darting Swallow’s labored breathing, suddenly realized the lodge was silent. He felt an immense relief: the Old Man had done his work. But when he reached over and touched her forehead, it was cold, waxy. His hand went to her neck, found no pulse.
He sat up, barely able to breathe. He looked over, saw her lifeless gray form, covered with brown scabs. He felt her neck again. He rose to his feet, staggered out through the flap into the night, fell to his knees. A wail rose from his heart and pierced the night. He pounded the earth, tore up the grass. How could she die and he survive, when all the mistakes where his?
If he could not be with Darting Swallow, he did not want to live.
He rose to his feet and made his way back inside the tipi. In the faint light from the coals he found his knife. Keening, rocking against the pain, he pulled the wrappings off his wounds, slashed at them again, watched the blood pour out. They would all travel to the Land Above together. Swan Lighting would be waiting for them, Takes Plenty with her. He lay down and waited for death.
“Tota. Tota. Water.”
Smoke opened his eyes. He could see the sky above through the smoke hole. It was light for a time, then dark the next time he awoke. The air was cold. His daughter moaned and thrashed under her robe. She rolled over onto her side. There was a rattle in her lungs, like ice breaking. Her skin was pale, drained of any color.
Let her die, he thought. Give her peace. Give us all peace.
“Tota. Water.”
He sat up in a daze, crawled to the water pot, pulled the cloth out, and moved to her side. His wounds ripped and oozed blood, but the pain came from far away. He held the cloth to her mouth, heard her suck. He gave her more, and more. When at last she lay back, exhausted, he dropped the cloth in the pot and tried to stand, to move back to his sleeping robe. His head grew light and spun around, and darkness reached up to pull him down.
The fog had lifted when Spalding awoke, but clouds still hovered close overhead. Darkness came soon, and he mounted the horse and continued east through the black night, no stars visible. Last night when he reached the Touchet River he had turned toward Lapwai. The Hudson’s Bay fort was only 10 miles to the west, but Eliza and the children were in danger.
When the trail finally branched off the Touchet and headed east through gently rising grasslands, he followed it. About midnight he stopped for a short rest and slept; he wasn’t sure how long. Soon a
fter remounting he heard the tramp of horses ahead and the crack of a whip. He wheeled the roan off the trail, to the right, down a slope into long grass, and lay flat on her neck, hoping he would not be seen. But the horse wheeled back toward the road. He reined in and seized her nose to quiet her, then gently nudged her further from the road with his heels. He dismounted and forced her to the ground as the ponies trotted by, his heart pounding, his hand clamped over the poor roan’s mouth. She craned her neck, eyes white and rolling, trying to see the other horses. But she stayed down.
He lay on the horse for a long time after they had gone, smelling her sweat, stroking her damp neck, listening as her breathing slowed. Were the riders returning from his mission? Images of his family rolled through his mind, mixed with images of the savages who wished them dead. It was all he could do to force himself to wait, in case there were stragglers. Finally, when his heart had settled into a more normal rhythm, he let the horse up and remounted.
He stopped in a grove of cottonwoods at the bottom of a canyon, just before the trail began its climb up onto the prairie. He had camped here before; it was 60 miles from Alpowa, Timothy’s home. He was not making good time; it was impossible to travel with much speed in the dark. Again he ate a meal, such as it was, and lay down to sleep, his knee throbbing. The blankets had dried a bit during the night, but the morning dew dampened them. It didn’t matter; he had his long woolen coat on underneath, and he was too tired to be bothered by dampness. He slept long and hard.
When he awoke, in a fine drizzle, the roan was nowhere in sight. He stood up, stared around him, turning in every direction. Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus, he had forgotten to hobble her! After a few bewildered moments it occurred to him to look for tracks, but he could find none in the thick grass. Aimlessly, he started to walk back toward the trail, then stopped. Panic seized him. His food was almost gone. He had no water, and his knee would barely support him. How could the Lord forsake him like this?
His panic propelled him forward, his heart beating wildly. By the time he had climbed the mile out of the canyon he knew his boots would have to go. A gift from some missionary barrel, they were too tight, and blisters were already rising on both feet. He took off the buckskin leggings he wore over his trousers and cut them in two pieces, wrapping each piece around a foot and tying them off with rawhide strings from his saddlebags.
The blankets and saddlebag weighed him down. He pulled the food out of the saddlebag and finished what little was left, then stood and tossed the bag as far as he could from the road. His feet grew colder with every minute he walked, and his knee throbbed. He broke a branch off a small cottonwood and trimmed it with his knife for a walking stick.
All night he limped along. When he reached the Tucannon he moved upstream before crossing it, for fear of being waylaid at the ford by waiting Cayuse. His blankets dragged in the water; now it felt as if he were carrying lead. When he could bear their weight no longer he heaved them into a defile. He would die without food out here anyway, blankets or no blankets. Freezing to death in his sleep would be far preferable to starving, or having his throat slit by filthy savages.
By daybreak, when he crawled into a thicket of red willow to hide himself, his feet were frozen and bleeding. He unwrapped them and held them in his hands, tried to rub some warmth back into them. He lay on his side, curled in a ball, his stomach twisted into empty knots. He prayed, but it was no use. Despair hung over him like the hand of Satan.
THIRTY-THREE
December 1847
Eliza sat in the parlor, knitting. Mary Johnson, the emigrant girl she had hired to help her with the daily chores of running a household and raising children, sat beside her, and her brother Horace, who had come out last year, sat across from them. Pine hissed in the fireplace, and oil lamps threw shadows about the room.
There was a loud knock and the door flew open. A man burst in, staggered, then leaned on a chair for support. Eliza and Mary rose in alarm, while Horace crossed to defend them.
“Has Mr. Spalding come yet?” the stranger gasped.
“No,” Eliza said, “but we expect him every day.”
“I’m afraid I bring heavy tidings. They are all murdered at the doctor’s.”
Eliza’s knitting dropped to the floor. Finally she managed: “Go on, sir, let me hear the worst.”
“The Whitmans are murdered. Your husband without a doubt. I fear all the women and children may have been butchered.”
Eliza gasped, then sat down again. Mary began to weep. “I have a daughter there,” Eliza managed.
“I can’t say for sure, ma’am. I was shot early, but I managed to escape.” He was an emigrant, he said, William Canfield. “They’ll be here soon. We must go east, cross the mountains.”
“The Nez Perce will protect us,” Eliza said. She turned to Horace: “Find Timothy and Jacob.”
Spalding lay in a shallow cave, his body shaking uncontrollably. He did not dare light a fire; he had nothing to light it with, in any case. All day he lay there, teeth chattering, unable to find any warmth, as hunger gnawed at him. He felt so weak he was not sure he could travel the last 20 miles, but he could not sleep for the cold. By late afternoon, when the skies darkened, it was raining hard.
He forced himself through the rain, using two walking sticks now. He was almost to Alpowa; if he could find Timothy, surely his friend would feed him and give him a warm bed. Perhaps he would have news of Eliza and the children—and the extent of the conflict. He would wait until the village was asleep, then creep into his lodge and waken him.
At the river he found a dugout and paddles. He turned the canoe to empty it of rainwater, then pushed off into the river and settled in to paddle across. The Snake was almost a quarter mile wide here, and the night was so black he could barely see the far side. The river was low, the current high, and it was all he could do to keep from being swept downstream.
When he reached the village he was glad for the rain, which kept the dogs inside. The only light glowed through from fires in the two longhouses. He could hear Christian singing from one of them, a hymn. He hobbled close and listened, the scent of tule reeds overpowered by the stink of his own wet wool. After the hymn a voice spoke to the people in prayer, but it was not Timothy’s. The speaker prayed for Dr. and Mrs. Whitman, who had been killed, but he mentioned no other deaths. Spalding reached up and parted the tule reeds to peer in. He could see the fire in the center, people seated cross-legged along either side. He looked from face to face, but he could not find Timothy. A dog rose, moved toward him, began to snarl. He let go of the tule reeds, shrank back from the longhouse. Should he show himself, throw himself on the mercy of these people, even though Timothy might not be among them? He crouched there for an instant, frozen. But his fear got the better of him, and he hobbled away, moved east. He was less than a day’s walk from home, he told himself; he could not take the risk that there were Indians here who wanted him dead.
The rocky trail climbed up the ridge, and the basalt cut the leather wraps on his feet until they were in tatters. His knee throbbed; his feet bled; he was faint with hunger. But he forced himself to push on. The rain finally ended as he reached the confluence of the Snake and Clearwater. Well past the Snake he found another canoe, though it had no paddles. He found a fallen branch and poled himself across.
The sky cleared as it lightened, and when the sun rose over the eastern mountains Spalding sank to his knees and gave thanks to the Lord. He was less than five miles from home. But he was so weak he feared if he hid another day it might be his last. So he stumbled on, climbing the hills to avoid detection before turning east. As he hobbled, the warming sun slowly dried his clothes. It could do nothing for his swollen, bloody feet.
Mr. Craig was waiting with the mission wagon, to take them to his house for safety, when Eliza emerged from the house carrying Amelia Lorene in one arm and a parfleche stuffed with clothes in the other. Henry and Martha Jane followed close in her wake, also lugging as many clothes as the
y could carry, then Horace, Miss Johnson, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Canfield.
“What happened to your oxen?” Canfield asked.
Eliza gazed at the pair, hitched there to the wagon, no ears or tails. “It was done to provoke us.”
Jacob, Luke, and the other friendly Nez Perce had set up three tipis around the house, and several dozen Nez Perce had spent the night guarding them. Mr. Canfield had insisted that they depart yesterday, but she had refused to travel on the Sabbath. He was all nerves, and the earless, tailless oxen did not help.
As she helped Martha Jane into the wagon, then handed her baby sister up to her, Canfield’s fears were realized. Eliza heard pounding hooves, and a half dozen painted Indians raced toward the mission house, whooping and howling. The men who had camped around the house welcomed them with pointed guns.
“I am Iron Bull!” their leader shouted, prancing forward, his rifle held high overhead in one hand. “I am Nimíipuu. I saw Cayuse kill their Sent Ones, and I have come to kill these Sent Ones!”
“Didn’t I tell you!” Canfield shouted, crouching behind the wagon.
“God will protect us,” Eliza said.
“Looks more like Indians than God,” Craig chuckled. His rifle lay across his lap.
Jacob walked forward, his rifle pointed at Iron Bull’s chest. “You will kill no one, unless you want your own blood to water this place.”
Eliza watched as the painted warrior assessed the dozen rifles pointed at him and his men. His mount pranced sideways. “Near-women! You protect those who come to steal our lands and poison our children?”
Eliza walked toward him, her plain face determined. “No one has poisoned your children,” she said in Nez Perce.
He glared at her, walked his horse toward her, menacing her, but she held her ground.
“We came here because your people invited us,” she continued. “Many of your people begged us to settle on their lands. We have taken nothing from you, but taught your people, brought them cattle and showed them how to cultivate their own food. We have nursed them when they were sick—”
The Coming Page 23
