The Coming

by David Osborne

  “Have you recommended this to the War Department?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  Margaret bit her lower lip, a habit he loved. “Surely there’s some way to change General Clarke’s orders,” she said. “Can you go over his head?”

  “You know the answer to that, Margaret.”

  It was such an irony. Order and hierarchy had been what drew him to the military, what he loved, and now he would be sacrificed to them. He had found refuge, as a frightened 14-year-old entering West Point, in the clarity of the rules, the black-and-white nature of the military universe. If you followed orders, you were safe. He had thrived under the rules and the predictability. And now he would be ground under by them—unless he in turn ground the Indians under.

  “Then you must resign,” she said.

  “You understand what that would mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “We would lose all this. John would lose any chance of getting into West Point. I would lose any opportunity to find a job for Tom out here.”

  He could hear her sharp intake of breath. This was her solution to the problem of Tom: bring him close, get him a job, give him a chance at stability. Wright blamed himself for Tom’s problems, and he was eager to do what she asked. As a father, he had been too heavy handed in disciplining his first child, and Tom had rebelled. It had taken Wright a long time to learn that military discipline was not the appropriate instrument with which to create a loving family.

  “We have no savings to speak of,” he said. The military did not pay enough for anyone to save much and provided no pensions, so most officers served for life. “We would soon be destitute.”

  She set down her lemonade and came to him, held him close. Neither spoke; they just stood, sharing the silence, their physical closeness, the knowledge of what he must do. Neither could bear to give it voice.

  FORTY-FOUR

  August 1858

  Lawyer stood up under the cloth bower Wright’s men had erected to protect them from the midsummer sun. “We will talk more tomorrow,” he said.

  Wright clenched his teeth in frustration. He was getting nowhere. He had proposed a treaty of perpetual peace between the United States and the Nez Perce. If either nation went to war, the other would come to its aid. It would require that Lawyer send warriors north with him, to face down the tribes that had routed Colonel Steptoe. If he could get a thousand Nez Perce warriors to ride with him, the other tribes would have no choice but to come to terms. It was his best hope of avoiding a fight.

  Wright stood as well. “This is no boy’s play—we enter into this truly and solemnly. We will together defend and protect this country that is not yet in a state of war. The law by which we are governed is unchangeable.”

  The redhead—William Clark’s son—stepped forward: “If law is unchangeable, why you want to change it?”

  Wright glared at him. “I want to add a treaty, not change the law. Our people have been friends for many years, since your father visited. I want to ensure that friendship continues during these difficult times.”

  “I do not understand,” Clark said, “why bluecoats left fort, traveled north with wagon guns. You tell us they stay near fort, protect us, protect Cayuse, Wallawallas. But they invade Palouse and Spokan lands.”

  “The Palouse were stealing their horses and cattle.”

  “But white men steal from us! I lose all horses, all cattle, when they attack daughter’s camp in valley you call Grande Ronde.”

  “And in return, you attacked Governor Stevens and his men, in the Walla Walla Valley.”

  “We protected him!” Lawyer protested. “I sent Spotted Eagle and fifty men to defend him! They fought those who attacked him. And if not for Timothy, Steptoe and all his men would be dead.”

  Wright dropped his eyes, took a deep breath. “We are grateful for your help,” he finally said. “You have always been our closest friends in this region. That is why we want this treaty, why we want you by our side if war comes, why we want to defend you if you are attacked.”

  “But my people and Palouse are almost one people,” Clark said. “We marry often. We cannot fight our brothers.”

  “Since the time of your father, have not our people been brothers also? Have we not intermarried? Do you not share our blood?”

  “I do,” Smoke said. “But your people murder Yellow Bird and his men—and skin them! Your people attack my daughter’s village and murder women and children and old men. We are no longer brothers.”

  Wright fought to hide his irritation. “We have spoken of this before. These were bad men. But I am here wearing the uniform of my Great White Chief, just as your father was. Our chief wants no such fighting. He wants bad men kept away from your people.”

  “Then make war on bad men!”

  Lawyer put a hand on his friend’s arm, as if to calm him. “What will you do,” he asked Wright, “when you ride north?”

  Wright turned to him with relief. “We will ask them to give up any property they stole from our people, admit their crimes, and turn over those who attacked Colonel Steptoe. In addition, they must recognize our soldiers’ rights to move through their country, and our right to construct a road through their country, without being molested.”

  “Build a road!” Clark exclaimed. “You have no right to build a road through their country!”

  Wright glared at him.

  “You ask our friends to punish warriors,” the redhead continued, “when your soldiers are never punished!”

  Lawyer pulled his friend away. “We cannot give you an answer yet,” he said. “As you can see, I have much to discuss with my people.”

  “You cannot sign this!” Daytime Smoke insisted, as they walked away. “Palouse are like family. Pointed Hearts and Steelheads are friends.”

  “Bluecoats would help us if we go to war against any of our enemies,” Lawyer replied.

  Smoke scoffed. “We have made peace with Snakes and Blackfeet and Big Bellies. If we have to fight, it will be against Soyappos. When that day comes, we will need friends by our side.”

  “We must never fight Soyappos. They have too many men, too many guns, too much ammunition.” Lawyer looked into his eyes. “Think carefully, my friend. Think about what will happen if we do not sign. Eagle from Light and Speaking Owl will take their warriors to fight against Colonel Wright. Then bluecoats will consider us enemies, attack us. Our entire nation will suffer. I do not want to help them, but if we do not, we face grave danger. We could lose all our lands.”

  Smoke gazed at him, considering his words.

  Lawyer stopped walking, reached out to touch Smoke’s elbow. “You must always look further ahead than others. Ask yourself: What happens next? And after that?”

  Shooting erupted off to their left, and both men flinched. A few of the bluecoats were firing their rifles at targets: white signs, sticking out of knee-high grass, cut in the shape of a man. But the targets were much too far away—the distance of three arrow flights. Surely a rifle could not shoot that far.

  Smoke looked ahead, saw that Timothy and Flint Necklace and the other chiefs had also stopped walking. All were gazing across the bleached summer grasses at the white targets.

  “Come,” Lawyer said. “We will see.”

  The bluecoats stopped firing when they approached. “Good day,” Lawyer said in English. “May I ask how you hit targets so far away?”

  A bluecoat grinned: “New guns. Sharps’ rifles.” He handed one to Lawyer. “These here short ones they call carbines.”

  It was much shorter than a musket, with a shiny reddish wooden stock and a black steel barrel. The other headmen gathered around to examine it.

  “I’ll show you,” the bluecoat said. He was young, with yellow hair and beard. He took back the rifle, aimed, and fired at the target. Then he pulled back a metal piece at the breech, shoved in a cylindrical ball, and snapped the metal piece back into place. He cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired again.

  Flint Necklace reac
hed for the rifle, and the bluecoat handed him a ball. The old chief used his right thumb to pull back the metal piece, as he had seen the bluecoat do. He pushed the ball into place, then pushed the metal piece back into place. He lifted the rifle, aimed at a target, and fired.

  “Dead center,” said the bluecoat.

  Flint Necklace nodded: “Good gun.”

  Smoke stepped forward, reached for the rifle. The bluecoat handed him a ball, which he quickly loaded. The short rifle was much lighter than his own. He raised it to his shoulder, sighted along its barrel, and fired. Again the target moved.

  “Fast,” he said. “And we could shoot from horseback, like a bow.”

  “How fast?” Lawyer asked the bluecoat.

  “Four or five in the time you could shoot one with a muzzle-loader.”

  Lawyer’s eyebrows rose. He repeated the statement to the others in Nimíipuutímt as Smoke handed him the gun. “We get these if we go with Colonel Wright?” Lawyer asked.

  The bluecoat shrugged. “I reckon so. They’ve issued ’em to all us dragoons.”

  After Lawyer hit the target, Timothy took the gun, examined the cylindrical ball the bluecoat handed him. “How it works?”

  The young soldier took it back and bit it with his teeth, then broke it open. The ball was shaped like a cone in front, with three grooves along its sides. “The powder’s right here in the cartridge,” he said. “And these grooves make the ball spin, so it flies true.”

  Timothy took the cartridge back, loaded it, aimed, and fired. He stared at the target, which now had a big hole in the head. “No one could defeat soldiers with these weapons.”

  Flint Necklace nodded grimly. “We would be slaughtered like buffalo.”

  Flint Necklace, Daytime Smoke, and their band had just arrived that morning, from Buffalo Country, and Smoke had not yet even unpacked. When they returned to the Nimíipuu camp, Thunder Rising to Loftier Mountain Heights approached him. He had filled out since Smoke last saw him, become a man. “I am happy to see you,” he said. “Your family sends greetings.”

  Smoke had been away for almost a full snow. After that first winter, he had been unable to live in the same longhouse with Widow Bird any longer. She wanted him close, but not too close: one day, her signals were warm; another, they told him to keep his distance. He knew she was not ready—she was still healing, trying to recover from her overwhelming loss. But after a time, it didn’t matter. He could not do it anymore.

  “If you did not appear at this council,” Thunder Rising continued, “Calf Shirt told me he was going to take Buffalo Road and find you.”

  Smoke gazed at him in surprise; it would be very difficult to find someone in a place as large as Buffalo Country. “They are well?”

  “Yes, but your daughter wants you to return.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “It has something to do with Widow Bird.”

  Smoke’s heart shuddered. “Has she remarried?”

  “No. Bear Heart offered to take her in as his third wife, but she declined.”

  Smoke’s eyebrows rose, and Thunder Rising’s smile widened. “I think it is good news for you.”

  Smoke was tired, hungry, saddle sore, but he did not even unpack. He shared a meal with Thunder Rising and his family, then departed. It was a long journey to the Valley of Winding Waters, three days at best. But if he put in a few hours before dark, he could do it in two more long days.

  As he rode, elation alternated with fear in his heart. Was she waiting for him, finally ready to wed? There had been times when he was sure they would marry—after they lay together, for instance—and then she suddenly pulled away. He did not want to endure such pain again. But he had to know.

  The sun had almost set on the third day when he reached the village. Little Fire ran to him and embraced him, tears in her eyes. His eyes searched for Widow Bird but did not find her. He greeted Calf Shirt, shook his hand, then picked up Echoes and beamed at her. She beamed back; she had seen three springs now, and she was walking and talking.

  Little Fire could see his eyes searching. “Widow Bird is not here,” she said. “She is off gathering herbs, at the lake. But she will be happy you have returned.”

  Smoke nodded. “I will find her tomorrow.”

  He bathed, ate a dinner of salmon, told Little Fire and Calf Shirt about the treaty council and the Soyappos’ new guns. It was all he could do not to ride off through the night, but he was far too tired.

  He departed at sunrise, on a fresh horse Calf Shirt lent him. The ride south, through the valley, was as beautiful as he remembered, but he was too anxious to enjoy it. Back and forth he went, his heart racing with excitement, then stopping with fear.

  At last he spotted a small lodge, in a field of long, golden grass, near the northern end of the lake. She stood up out of the grass as he approached, sun glinting off the blue water behind her, and he held his breath.

  She walked toward him as he dismounted, then embraced him. He held her close, felt her soft body, smelled her hair. She tilted her head up and kissed him.

  “I have missed you so much,” she said.

  “And I have missed you more.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry I was not able to give you an answer before. It was not because I wanted to torture you.”

  “I know.”

  “You were wise. Once you were gone—when I no longer felt any pressure—I knew I wanted you. Once I could no longer have you, it was clear.”

  He kissed her again, held her close.

  “So many times, I convinced myself you would marry in Buffalo Country,” she whispered.

  “That was impossible—you were here.” He pulled back, looked into her eyes. “Will you marry me?”

  She pulled him close again. “Of course.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  September 1858

  Colonel Wright looked up into the night sky, watched Donati’s comet as it marched across the heavens. He wondered what the Indians made of this omen. Did they understand that the comet foretold the end of life as they knew it? Did he? This campaign would surely change his life, for better or for worse. And it would certainly change theirs.

  For days, the Indians had been burning the grass in front of him, to deny his horses sustenance. But he had marched on, through the dry, hot, dusty plains—and he would continue marching, even if he had to dismount his men and consume his horses. He had been disappointed by the lukewarm Nez Perce support: only 21 chiefs had signed the new treaty, less than half of those who signed in 1855. And Lawyer had given him only 30 warriors. His hopes of taking 1,000 with him had proven a pipe dream; he would have to do this the hard way. He had no stomach for it, but the only alternative was to resign, and he and Margaret had talked long and hard about that option and always reached the same conclusion. So now he would do what he had to do. He would hit them with overwhelming force, defeat them so convincingly they would never dare fight again. He felt sorry for the poor bastards, but if he crushed them now, once and for all, they would be better off. The worst thing that could happen to these tribes was a protracted war.

  The next morning the hostiles finally made their stand, on high ground. Wright ordered two companies of mounted dragoons, four companies of artillery, and two companies of infantry—more than 300 men in total—to drive the Indians from the hill. The dragoons took the left flank, the Nez Perce, under Lieutenant Mullan, the right. It took only a few rounds with the Sharps carbines to drive the hostiles off the heights.

  A messenger galloped down to Wright with word from Major Grier. “There are five hundred Indians at the foot of the hill, ready to fight!” he shouted.

  Wright ordered the infantry and artillery up the hill, then spurred his horse and dashed up ahead of them. When he reached the top, a wide panorama unfolded. Down below, sparkling in the early morning sunshine, lay four lakes, a large one on the left, three small ones to its right, surrounded by rocky hills covered with sun-blazed grass and pine forest. Beyond them
lay rolling hills, in the distance high mountains. Indians were everywhere: in the pines, on the hills and ravines, and on an open plain between the lakes.

  Those driven off the hill were at the bottom now, dismounted, using the swales and hollows as cover, waiting to repulse any charge. When the artillery arrived, Wright sent them to the right, to target the Indians in the woods. He ordered the infantry straight ahead, down the hill. He watched as they knelt and fired, then ran ahead, reloaded, and knelt to fire again. Indians raced out on their horses until they were in range, fired their long muskets, then wheeled and dashed back to cover. Wright watched two of them fall, then a third, then a fourth. They were learning, now. Soon they began to retreat, trying to get out of range of the deadly rifles.

  Wright had just ordered the dragoons to mount up when a loud explosion shook the woods. Howitzer shells shattered trees, black smoke drifting away on the wind, and Indian riders swarmed out onto the broad, grassy plain between the lakes.

  The foot soldiers had pushed the Indians who faced them all the way onto the plain as well, so most of the hostiles were now out in the open. “Charge!” Wright shouted. War cries pierced the air as two hundred riders raced down the hill, burst past the foot soldiers, and swept onto the plain, firing as they went. The Indians who stayed to fight went down before the onslaught of lead, but most turned and ran.

  Wright held his glass up, saw the Nez Perce with the red blanket, Cutmouth John, leap off his horse and run to a fallen Spokan, lift his head and cut his throat. The warrior made a cut across his forehead, back along each side of his head, and ripped up his scalp. One more cut, across the back, and he held it aloft with a shrill war cry.

  Wright shuddered.

  After Daytime Smoke and Widow Bird married, Little Fire and Calf Shirt agreed to accompany them back to Buffalo Country. They wanted to cross the mountains before the snows came, so they wasted no time in departing for Flint Necklace’s village. But when they reached it, the chief had decided to wait until spring to depart.