He lowered the glass again, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was hotter’n a slave kitchen in hell down here in the valley, and he had too many clothes on. He wore buckskins with gold trim and long fringes on the pants and jacket. A dark belt held his prize tomahawk, lifted off a dead Puyallup.
It was a damn relief to finally find some savages. His men were restless. They’d been looking for months, and all they’d found in the Walla Walla Valley was the occasional horse herd, one or two braves guarding them. They’d shot their share of those, just for sport. Some of the men wanted to traipse all over hell and gone lookin’ for Kamiakin and his warriors, but there was no way to tell where that devil might be. The point was, these men had come to fight Injuns, and if they didn’t find some pretty soon Shaw was afraid they’d pick up and head home.
“Riders, Colonel,” DeLacy said, pointing.
Shaw followed his arm, then brought the glass up again. There were five of them—warriors—riding through the herd, straight toward him. He moved the glass back to the village, saw women taking down lodges. They thought they could cut and run, did they?
“John!” he called. “Come on over here!” Cutmouth John was a hard drinking Nez Perce who’d lived for a time with the Whitmans and learned some English. His dark face was distorted by a grisly scar from a Blackfoot musket ball he’d taken in the corner of his mouth. One of the Nez Perce who’d escorted Stevens to safety last December, he’d volunteered to guide Shaw over the Blue Mountains and act as interpreter.
Shaw pointed at the riders: “Go down and see if you can arrange a parley with those braves.”
John nodded, kicked his horse, and loped down the gentle hill.
Daytime Smoke squinted into the sun, shaded his eyes with his hand. He recognized the horseman who approached them across the prairie. It was John, who as a boy had traveled with Dr. Whitman to his home far toward the rising sun. He still held a grudge against the Cayuse for killing the Whitmans, and now he’d led these Soyappos right to their village.
Smoke reined in as he drew close, signed a greeting. There was no leader who could speak for the Cayuse, Wallawallas, and Palouse who had gathered here for safety. Most of the warriors, including Calf Shirt, were off with the chiefs, north of the River of Hemp. So Smoke gestured toward the whites, who had lined their horses up abreast on the ridge: “What do they want?”
“They want to talk with you.”
“About what?”
John shrugged.
“These are women and children and elders,” Smoke said. “Few warriors here.”
“I can see that.”
“Why are you here?” Ten Owls demanded. “Why do you lead Soyappos to our camp?”
“They needed someone who could speak our tongue,” John said.
“We should kill him,” White Cloud said.
“Or cut off his balls,” Fish Hawk added.
John looked from one to the other, apprehensive. Fish Hawk pulled out a knife, and John whirled his horse and dashed back toward the Soyappos, while Ten Owls and White Cloud laughed.
But fear weighed on Smoke’s chest. He watched as John approached a pale-skinned Soyappo with red hair and a long red beard. The man listened, then raised his sword and shouted something, and the line of riders surged forward. Smoke whirled his pony and sprinted back toward camp. He could see women rounding up their children, people scattering through the trees.
The first shots came as he ducked through the flap of his lodge. Little Fire was strapping Echoes on Mountain into her cradleboard, terror in her eyes.
Smoke grabbed her saddle and bridle and motioned to her: “Pack food and come! Hurry!”
His best buffalo runner, a buckskin mare, was tied outside the lodge. He threw the saddle on her back and cinched it, then slipped the bridle over her head. He helped Little Fire up into the saddle, handed the cradleboard up to her, and she hooked it on her saddle.
The pounding of hooves shook the ground now. His mare pranced nervously as he threw the bags Little Fire had packed over her rump, tied them to each other and to the back of the saddle. “Cross river and ride into mountains!” he shouted. “To Place of Many Springs!”
“Come with us!” she pleaded.
“I will join you there!” He swatted the horse’s rear end. “Go!”
He ducked back into the lodge and seized his war club and knife, slid them under the band of his breechcloth. Then he found his powder horn and bag of balls and slung them around his neck. He lifted his bow and quiver from where they hung, slung them over his shoulder, and dashed out of the lodge.
The Soyappos had reached the camp now, whooping and firing. He saw a woman go down as she ran, her children screaming. He untied his pony, his firerock gun in the scabbard, and swung into the saddle. He sang his power song as he dashed south, toward Widow Bird’s lodge, through swirling dust and gunfire. Two Soyappos rode after her parents, who hobbled away from their tipi as fast as they could move. Smoke watched in horror as the Soyappos rode them down and shot them in the back. He let out a scream of rage, and the devils turned. He galloped toward them, watched as they raised their pistols and fired at him. He pulled his gun out of the scabbard and shot the first one. He jammed it back in the scabbard, lifted his bow off his shoulder, notched an arrow, and fired as he raced past the second. He heard a thud as the arrow found its mark.
Widow Bird called to him. She ran toward him, a Soyappo galloping after her with his pistol drawn. She weaved, to avoid his shots, and Smoke notched another arrow. He fired, hit the horse, and the Soyappo went down.
Smoke raced forward as the man rose to his feet. Smoke clubbed him, knocked him to his knees. Then he jumped off his horse, pulled out his knife and stabbed the Soyappo in the heart. Still enraged, he picked up his club and bashed in the man’s skull.
Smoke took off the Soyappo’s ammunition belt, fastened it around his own waist and jammed the man’s pistol into it, then mounted up and rode after Widow Bird, who had fled toward the river. Screams and gunshots filled the air. He heard hoofbeats, turned, and saw a Soyappo closing on him, on a big bay horse. He reined in, raised the pistol, and shot, and the man tumbled backward. He nudged his pony forward, grabbed the bay’s reins, and rode after Widow Bird. As he neared her he called out and she turned, slowed. He came up alongside, reined in, and she pulled herself up on the bay. It fought her, dancing sideways, trying to see her, its nostrils flaring. It reared up, but she clung on, leaned forward, and gripped the saddle horn. She let the reins loose, gave the horse its head, and when it hit the ground it bolted. She let it run, then guided it toward the river.
He galloped after her and splashed across. He could hear bullets scream overhead as they fled for the rocks at the bottom of a hill. He leapt off behind a boulder, told Widow Bird to ride for Warm Springs and meet up with Little Fire.
“You come with me!”
Soyappos were splashing across the river now. He turned, reloaded his firerock gun, and aimed. When he hit one in the face, the others reined in and fled.
“Go!” he told Widow Bird again.
“Not without you!”
“I must stay and fight!”
“There are too many. You will die!”
He looked across the river and realized she was right. They would charge the river again, and he would not be able to stop them all. Besides, what if they pursued Widow Bird? Abruptly he mounted his pony, jammed his gun into the scabbard, and kicked the horse. Together they raced up the hill, found a trail and followed it south.
Widow Bird lay by the fire, on her horse blanket. She was exhausted; they had ridden all afternoon yesterday, met Little Fire and Echoes at Many Springs, then ridden all day today, down into a deep canyon. They were camped by the river; she could hear its soft murmur, smell the pines that grew here and there in the ravines. Daytime Smoke had built a fish trap and caught a trout, yanked it out when it bit on the leather string he dangled before it, and they had shared it for supper.
Little Fire an
d Echoes were already asleep; Smoke was off gathering more wood for the fire. They had nothing else to protect them from the nighttime chill.
The ridges here ran north to south, but they were traveling east toward the Valley of Winding Waters, where Shooting Arrow’s people lived. There were no east-west trails; they would have to climb up each ridge, then down into the canyon on the other side—she had no idea how many times. There was plenty of grass for the horses, at least, and Smoke said he could kill white buffalo. But they had seen only one all day, and it was too far away.
Tears filled Widow Bird’s eyes. She had lost everything—her parents, her people, her home, her clothing, her herbs, even the ball of buckskin cord on which she used knots and beads to record events in her life. Her life as she knew it was gone, just like the cord. She had cut off her braids, but Smoke had pleaded with her not to cut her arms. She would need all her energy to make this crossing, he said.
Guilt haunted her. She should have sensed the danger. She would have, she was sure, if she had visited the Old Man. Her wyakin, the sweat lodge, would have told her. But she had grown lazy, had not used it for five days before the attack. Nor had she returned to give her parents a proper burial. She had tried, but Smoke would not permit it, told her he would come after her and tie her to his horse if she tried. She knew he meant well, but it had angered her. How could she let her parents’ bones lie there by the river, to be devoured by wolves and coyotes?
She heard Smoke return and add wood to the fire. Then he spread his horse blanket next to hers and lay down behind her. He had fled in his breechcloth, with no other clothing, so they huddled together at night for warmth. This just made her feel guilty again: she knew he was in love with her, but she had held him off because he refused to settle with her people. She realized with a jolt that all that had changed—her homeland was no longer safe. She had no choice but to live with the Nimíipuu.
Perhaps that was her son’s message. He had come to her in a dream last night, at 21 springs, the height of his flowering. In the dream he had ridden with her, over these mountains, toward the rising sun. As in life, he had been full of confidence, convinced he could do anything. Her sense of loss was almost more than she could bear. She curled up tighter and wept.
Smoke dismounted, led his pony on foot. He was following a game trail that wound up the side of a steep, forested ridge, heading more south than east. He was hungry and weak, and Little Fire and Widow Bird, who were waiting below, at their camp in the canyon, were even weaker. The streams in each canyon had been meager, with no fish, and he had managed to shoot only a few grouse and squirrels. There were no roots to dig this high up in the mountains, so they had stripped the bark off pine trees to eat the inner layer. If he could not kill a white buffalo, they might starve.
He had spotted one an hour ago, using his glass. But as he climbed, it had climbed as well. It disappeared from view for long periods, and as the climb grew steeper, he had to tie his pony and leave it behind. He slung his gun and pouch and powder horn over his shoulders and pulled himself up from one rock to the next, breathing hard. As he topped a large, round boulder, he spotted it again. It was still far above him, too far to shoot, and it was watching him. He waited, so as not to alarm it. After his breathing had returned to normal, he resumed his slow climb, careful not to make sudden movements.
Finally, the white buffalo appeared within range. Smoke waited only until his breathing slowed enough to get a steady shot, then raised the gun, sighted, and pulled the trigger. He sank to his knees in gratitude when the white buffalo crumpled.
Now he had to retrieve it, then carry it down. He was not sure he had the strength, and it was late in the day; the sun would set by the time he reached the dead animal. There was no trail here; he was climbing between and over huge rocks.
His legs were shaking and the sun was disappearing when a young man suddenly appeared above him, the white buffalo slung over his shoulders. “Lose something?” he called.
Smoke could not believe his luck; the man wore his hair in Nimíipuu style! He nodded, then sank down onto the rocks to wait. It took a few minutes for the man to descend. “I am Thunder Rising to Loftier Mountain Heights, son of Shooting Arrow,” he said in greeting. “And you are Daytime Smoke.”
Smoke gaped at him: “How did you know?”
“I know of only one Nimíipuu with red hair.”
“Of course. I know your father well. And I knew you when you were an infant.” The boy must have seen about 16 springs, Smoke calculated.
“I remember stories about you. What are you doing here?”
Smoke explained, and the boy’s face fell. “I will carry your game for you,” he said. “You look exhausted.”
“Worse,” Smoke said. “Thank you. And how did you come to be here at just this moment, to rescue me?”
The boy laughed. “An eagle’s nest lies up above. I want to capture the chicks, bring them home and raise them, for their feathers. But when I heard your gun, I went to investigate.”
“Spirit must have sent you.”
Thunder Rising spent the night in their camp. In the morning, he led them northwest, up a ridge, following a game trail. It was late in the day when they finally reached the crest and the view opened up, and there before them lay the Valley of the Winding Waters. Smoke fell to his knees, overcome with relief.
Shooting Arrow’s camp lay at the junction of two small rivers. The chief was older now, his face lined, his long, gray hair loose on his shoulders. When Smoke told him about the massacre, he looked away for a long time, his face frozen in bitterness. “They are savages,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to fight.”
He fed them, clothed them, gave them a tipi and robes. Then he sent Thunder Rising to the upriver villages to invite their leaders to a war council at the Place of Butterflies. To the downriver villages he sent his younger son, Little Frog.
Smoke, Widow Bird, and Little Fire slowly regained their strength. Smoke sat with Shooting Arrow in the evenings, reminisced about the time Smoke and Spalding had come here to save him. Widow Bird and Little Fire had never visited the Valley of Winding Waters, so Smoke took them to see the lake at the southern end of the valley. The mountains stood like sentinels above the blue water, their granite peaks rising majestically atop slopes of dark fir and spruce. They camped at the northern edge of the lake, under a moonless sky.
Smoke woke in the night and discovered that Widow Bird was gone. He sat up, looked around. He could tell, from where the stars were positioned around Elder Brother, that it was not yet close to dawn. He listened, heard wind in the trees, the hoot of an owl, but nothing else. Careful not to wake Little Fire or Echoes, he rose and walked through the darkness toward the lake, where he heard quiet weeping. He moved in the direction of the sound, found Widow Bird seated on a patch of grass, at the water’s edge. He called out to her, then moved closer. Her sobs grew louder as he knelt beside her, took her in his arms. He held her close, and slowly her whimpering ceased. He could hear her breath, the water gently lapping, could smell the licorice root in her necklace. After a few moments, she lay back on the grass and gently pulled him down, and they lay face to face. He kissed her eyes, kissed the tears from her cheeks, then found her mouth. She kissed him back, pressed herself against him, and he stiffened with desire. Then she sat up, pulled her dress over her head, and lay it on the ground.
FORTY-ONE
October 1856
Governor Stevens stood before Colonel Wright in full dress uniform, gold buttons gleaming. Stevens and his volunteers had ridden in to Wright’s headquarters at the Dalles at noon, escorted by Lieutenant Colonel Steptoe and 300 of his soldiers. “General Wool may have won this battle,” Stevens said. “The volunteers are out of Indian country. But you tell the general, he’ll be hearing from me. The war is not over.”
“I shall deliver your message,” Wright answered. Steptoe stood by, with his dark walrus mustache and sad brown eyes, looking pale.
“And if you cannot
contain these savages, Colonel, I shall return with my militia.”
“Our orders are to keep volunteers off Indian land, Governor. No treaties have been signed.”
“But they shall be.”
“And until they are, our duty is to enforce the law.”
Stevens glared at him. “Are you insinuating I broke the law, Colonel?”
“You read it however you want, Governor. The Indians hold title to all land west of the Cascades. We’re not letting any settlers on their lands—no matter who’s leading them.”
Stevens’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at Wright for a full ten seconds. “General Wool is on the way out, Colonel, and if I have my way, you shall join him. Your next commander will not share Wool’s love of savages, I can assure you. You best think about your future.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Wright watched him go, then glanced at Steptoe. “Colonel, I believe this occasion calls for a drink.”
“Yes sir.”
Wright moved to his desk, found a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and they took seats out on the wooden porch. Wright poured their drinks and they clinked glasses, then downed the first swallow. “I’ve heard his version,” Wright said. “Now let’s hear the truth.”
“Well, sir, I don’t see how you could call it a success. They were in council for six days. Lawyer argued to keep the treaty, but he was the only one. Every other tribe disavowed it, said white men had already broken it, and they weren’t givin’ away any land.”
“Stevens couldn’t budge ’em?”
“Not this time. They were hot. He got scared at one point, told me to move a company of my men to his camp, for protection.” Steptoe took a sip, let a small, satisfied smile lift his bushy mustache.
“And?”
“I told him I didn’t have enough men to defend both camps. I let him move to my camp.” He chuckled. “Should’ve seen his face.”
The Coming Page 29
