The Coming

by David Osborne

  Lawyer reached across, put a hand on Spalding’s arm, still reeling at the thought he was so near the end. “You have my word.”

  Spalding sank back into his chair and sighed. His mood had shifted abruptly. “Perhaps we will be together again,” he said, “in heaven.”

  Lawyer gazed at him, surprised anew. He had never thought of going to the Soyappo heaven; he belonged in Nimíipuu heaven. And truthfully, he wasn’t sure Spalding would make it to heaven at all.

  An owl flew into Spalding’s cottonwood—a moaning owl. Lawyer shuddered; moaning owls foretold death. It meant Spalding was right, this would be their last time together. He opened his mouth to tell Spalding about it, then stopped; Spalding would never believe it. He would only lecture Lawyer for holding on to his heathen superstitions. It had been that way for 38 snows, and it was not going to change now.

  FIFTY-THREE

  June 1876

  Soyappos called him Young Joseph, after the name Spalding had given his father, but his real name was Thunder Rising to Loftier Mountain Heights. “Always remember that I never sold this country,” his father had said as he lay dying. “You must stop your ears whenever you are asked to sign a treaty selling your home. A few years more, and white men will be all around you. They have their eyes on this land. My son, never forget my dying words. This country will hold your father’s body. Never sell the bones of your father and mother.”

  In the five snows since these words were spoken, a sun had rarely set that did not bring some kind of trouble with the Soyappos who continued to settle in the Valley of Winding Waters. There was plenty of land, but conflicts erupted. Soyappo horses left their herds to run with Nimíipuu horses, and Soyappos claimed they had been stolen. Nimíipuu cattle knocked down Soyappo fences and trampled their gardens. Soyappos sold firewater to Nimíipuu men. For a time, the Soyappo government in Washington had recognized his people’s ownership of half the valley. But after pressure from Soyappo leaders in Oregon, the president had reversed his order. Thunder Rising had protested, met with the Soyappo settlers, pleaded with them to leave his people’s land—and nothing had changed.

  And now here was his nephew White Thunder, along with Feather Necklace and Two Bows, riding into the qawas-digging camp at Thorn Brush Mountain with the body of young Wind Blowing.

  Two Soyappos, Wells McNall and Alexander Findley, had accused the four Nimíipuu of stealing five horses, White Thunder explained. The white men had tried to force the Nimíipuu to go with them, and when Wind Blowing resisted Wells McNall had pulled out his rifle. “It was McNall who started trouble,” White Thunder said. “Wind Blowing tried to take his gun away, and they fought. Wind Blowing was winning, so McNall told Findley to shoot him.”

  “McNall and his brothers are no good,” said Two Bows. “We should burn them out.”

  Thunder Rising gazed at them, his heart heavy: “We cannot do that.”

  “Uncle, from up close he shot him,” White Thunder implored. “In front of three witnesses.”

  Three days later, Findley’s missing horses appeared back at his ranch. Thunder Rising visited the Place of Butterflies twice, to meet with the agent, John Montieth, and with soldiers sent by the Soyappo war chief, General Howard. All assured him that the Soyappos would be tried in their courts. Yet McNall and Findley still walked free. Finally, more than two moons after the murder, Thunder Rising decided it was time to settle the matter.

  He brought his brother, Little Frog, and White Thunder with him. They found Findley cutting firewood in a stand of cottonwood along the Wallowa River. “It has been more than sixty suns since you killed our brother Wind Blowing,” Thunder Rising told him. “Why are you still free?”

  Findley looked too frightened to speak.

  “We will no longer wait for white justice,” Thunder Rising said. “You, McNall, and all white men meet us tomorrow morning, at junction of waters. We will talk.”

  The next morning they waited under an empty sky. The sun had reached its full zenith before 15 mounted men appeared from the south, riding abreast, as if for war. Thunder Rising examined them, one by one. Findley and McNall were not among them.

  The chief rose to his feet and walked forward. He was angry, but he knew he must keep his emotions in check. The Soyappos all carried many-shots rifles. His brother and his warriors, painted and armed, stood ready behind him. Two hawks circled lazily far above.

  James Davis, the one Soyappo who spoke Nimíipuutímt, dismounted first. “We have come to talk,” he said.

  “You are safe here,” Thunder Rising said.

  “We will keep our rifles, just in case.”

  Thunder Rising stared at him. He had eaten dinner at Davis’s home, played with his children. “You did not bring Findley and McNall.”

  “We did not think that wise.”

  Thunder Rising turned his back and walked to the robes his people had laid out for everyone to sit on, in a circle. He could hear the white men talking behind him; finally they dismounted and started after him.

  He did not pass the pipe. This was not a meeting to make peace; every man had a gun beside him. “For more than two moons we have waited for your people to put Wind Blowing’s murderers on trial,” he told the Soyappos. “Yet every day, we see them free, cutting down our trees, grazing their animals on our grass. Our patience is gone.”

  He waited while Davis translated, then continued: “We never sold our lands. Without our permission you have settled here. You refuse to leave when we ask. Now one of your men has killed one of ours. If one of us had killed a white man, you would demand that he be tried and punished under your laws. Now, under our laws, Findley and McNall must be tried and punished.”

  He could see the men exchange glances as Davis translated this. He added: “Tomorrow is Sabbath Day. By next Sabbath all of you will leave this valley.”

  This spurred an outburst of anger. Thunder Rising sat silently as the Soyappos roared and gestured at him. He could hear their curse words, but he could also hear the anger from his brother’s warriors. All it would take was one man picking up a gun and they would be at war.

  The talk lasted until the sun was low in the sky. The Soyappos refused to give the murderers up and, as always, refused to leave the valley. They insisted their government had bought the land, surveyed it, given them deeds to their farms. The only thing they would agree to was another meeting, tomorrow, at the McNall home, with the murderers present.

  The McNalls lived in a log lodge with no windows, only chink holes. When Thunder Rising rode up with 60 warriors, rifles poked out the holes. Ephraim McNall stood outside, alone. He was a towering man with a great brown beard, and he spoke enough Chinook to communicate. Thunder Rising said he wanted to speak to Findley and Wells McNall, but Ephraim refused. They argued, but Thunder Rising got nowhere. He motioned to his brother, and Little Frog brought Wind Blowing’s young daughter forward. “She would like to see Findley,” Thunder Rising said. “He shot her father.”

  Ephraim stared at him, but Thunder Rising could see that he was considering it. Thunder Rising motioned to Little Frog and the others to back away from the lodge.

  Finally Ephraim opened the door. Five men in the room trained their rifles on the girl, and Findley stepped forward.

  She examined him, her gaze fixed on his eyes. After several minutes, she turned and walked away. Thunder Rising nudged his horse closer, spoke to Findley through the open door: “Come, end trouble. We give fair trial.”

  Findley’s eyes blurred with tears. He started toward the door, but Davis and Oren McNall seized his arms. “Don’t be an idiot!” Oren said. “You’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

  “You and Wells McNall come to us by next Sabbath,” Thunder Rising said. “If not, we burn every house in this valley.”

  Seven days later, Thunder Rising stared down from a bluff at three men who rode south, toward the lake, under a white flag. He put his looking glass to his left eye and focused in on the riders. They were his friends Thomas Veasey a
nd James Davis, with a bluecoat. He hoped they had come to offer him the two murderers. If not, he could not hold his warriors back any longer. When they set fire to the first Soyappo lodge war would be inevitable, a war he knew would bring great suffering to his people. He was confident Little Frog’s warriors could handle the settlers, but bluecoats were another matter.

  He turned to his brother, who sat his black horse beside him, two white weasel tails dangling from his hair on the left side: “Bring them up here. We will see what they have to offer.”

  The soldier was Lieutenant Forse, from Fort Walla Walla. He said he had 48 bluecoats at Veasey’s ranch, and many other Soyappos had come from the Grande Ronde Valley to help their friends here in the Wallowa. But he was not making a threat; there was a sadness in his eyes when he said it. Thunder Rising could see that he too wanted to avoid war.

  “I have come to make you a promise,” the bluecoat said. “I will ensure that the two men are tried in our court, in the Grande Ronde Valley.”

  “That is all I want,” Thunder Rising replied. “A fair trial. Two moons ago Major Wood promised me this, but still they walk free.”

  “I will bring them in before the next Sabbath.”

  Thunder Rising peered into the lieutenant’s eyes. Was this another lie, or could he trust this Soyappo? He glanced at Little Frog’s warriors, who sat their horses ready for war, and realized he had no choice. War could mean the end of his people. “I will hold off my men.”

  “I am told you threatened people at Reese Wright’s cabin yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A man there said he would kill all Indians in our valley. He said he would personally kill me, take my scalp and hang it on his wall.”

  The lieutenant gazed at him for a long moment. “If I promise to bring Findley and McNall to trial, will you promise to keep your people here, at this end of the valley, away from whites?”

  “At times we must ride to Grande Ronde Valley for supplies.”

  The lieutenant thought about this. “Send two men only, when you do so.”

  Thunder Rising nodded.

  The lieutenant held out his hand, and Thunder Rising took it. “I have been told you are an honorable man,” the lieutenant said. “I see that it is true.”

  Thunder Rising turned to Little Frog, told him to have his men fire off a volley. He turned back to the lieutenant: “To show our good faith, my men will throw their bullets away.”

  Little Frog rose and walked to the line of warriors on horseback. He spread the word, and at his signal, they aimed toward the lake and fired. Smoke drifted overhead, with it the smell of gunpowder.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  May 1877

  General Oliver Otis Howard sat on his wooden chair and listened to John Montieth, the Indian agent, tell the assembled Nez Perces yet again that they must move to the reserve. Montieth’s long goatee and handlebar mustache elongated his pale, thin face, making it appear as if it had been stretched.

  Hundreds of Indians sat cross-legged before them, at Fort Lapwai—not really a fort at all, more a hollow rectangle of whitewashed buildings around a large parade ground. Howard had ordered that a huge canvas hospital tent be erected, its sides tied up, to provide shade, but most of the Indians sat in the direct sun. The Nez Perce men sat up front, their faces painted red, all the way to the parts in their hair.

  Howard found this entire business distasteful. He knew the Indians were right; they had never sold their lands. Even Montieth admitted that all but two of the chiefs who lived off the reservation had refused to sign in 1863. His report had convinced the president to grant most of the Wallowa Valley to Joseph back in 1873, before pressure from Oregon’s politicians persuaded Grant to reverse his order. Howard had sent Major Wood, a lawyer, to investigate, and Wood’s report had confirmed it: “The non-treaty Nez Perces cannot in law be regarded as bound by the treaty of 1863; and in so far as it attempts to deprive them of a right to occupancy of any land its provisions are null and void.”

  Howard had recommended to President Grant that he give the Wallowa back to its rightful owners, but Oregon’s governor and congressmen had thrown their considerable weight against the idea. Then, last summer, the Sioux and Cheyenne had massacred Custer, and everything had changed. The politicians and newspapers began a constant drumbeat to move all tribes to reservations. Instead, Howard convinced the Interior Secretary to appoint a five-member commission to settle the question of who owned the Wallowa Valley. Under Howard’s leadership, they tried to buy the land, but Joseph refused to sell. There was no way they could move 100 white families out of the Wallowa, not after Custer’s slaughter. Finally Howard threw up his hands, and the commission recommended that all non-treaty bands be moved, by force if necessary.

  The general had prayed long and hard over his rightful duty. He was a devout Christian, not always an easy thing in the military. He had been contemplating the ministry when the Civil War broke out. He often wondered, at moments such as this, whether he had made the right choice. But his wartime service had earned him an appointment as commissioner of the Freedman’s Bureau, where he had spent seven years fulfilling the purpose for which he believed God had put him on Earth: to lead the slaves out of bondage and into the promised land. More recently, God had sent him unarmed, escorted only by a guide, into a remote, hostile camp to negotiate peace with Cochise and his Chiricahua Apaches. After 11 days, they had agreed to terms, and the peace had held. He could do the same here, he was sure, and it was his duty to try. If he refused, General Sherman would send an Indian-hater in his place.

  When Montieth was finished, Howard rose and walked forward, offered his left hand to each of the chiefs, seated in the front row. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders and forehead were broad, his thick hair and full beard black as night, and he knew how to command men. He had lost his right arm at Fair Oaks but returned to lead troops at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, then led two army corps on Sherman’s march through Georgia. He still refused to pin up his empty sleeve, let it flutter loose in the breeze to remind everyone of the sacrifice he had made.

  He repeated Montieth’s message, careful this time not to refer to the Nez Perce as his Great Father’s children—a term at which Toohoolhoolzote, the Indian spokesman, had taken offense during their first session.

  When the general was finished and Perrin Whitman had translated his words, Toohoolhoolzote rose and began his usual harangue about the Earth being his mother. They had been through this for hours in their first session, a few days ago. Howard had tried to get Joseph to speak for the Indians today, but they had insisted on Toohoolhoolzote—a rough, imposing man with a face so scarred it looked like the bark of a tree. Joseph had none of the savage ferocity of this Toohoolhoolzote; he spoke with a quiet dignity, and his intelligence was clear from the measured, deliberate way he chose his words.

  After five minutes, Howard interrupted the chief: “We do not wish to interfere with your religion, but you must talk of practical things. Twenty times over you repeat that the Earth is your mother, that the Earth Chief made your land. Let us hear no more about this Earth Chief, but come to business at once.”

  Toohoolhoolzote scowled: “You white people measure Mother Earth, then divide her. A small part of her you tell us we can keep, while you take a larger part. Some of our chiefs gave up their land, but I never did. I did not sign your treaty; chiefs you see behind me did not sign your treaty. Mother Earth is a part of my body, and I never gave her up.”

  Howard could hear a chorus of support from the crowd, which was excited by their chief’s contempt. He had no intention of allowing Toohoolhoolzote to incite the crowd. “You know very well that the government has set apart a reserve for your people. I have instructions from Washington to move all you Indians, and according to my instruction I must make you move. If you will not move for my words, you shall go by the points of my soldiers’ bayonets.”

  Toohoolhoolzote
glared at him. “You are always talking about Washington. I would like to know who Washington is. Is he a chief or a common man, or a house, or a place? Leave Mr. Washington—if he is a man—alone. He does not know anything about our country. He was never here.” Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Howard felt his face burn. “And you are always talking about your soldiers. What do we care about your fighting qualities? You are chief, Howard, and I am elected to speak for my people. Let us settle this matter between you and me.”

  The old growler’s contempt infuriated Howard. He had gotten nowhere by being reasonable, and now his anger erupted: “There is only one way to settle this matter, and it is for you to shut up! I am telling you, you must go on the reservation!”

  “Who are you, that you should ask us to talk, then tell me to say no more? Are you Man Above? Did you make this world? Did you make our sun? Did you make rivers for us to drink? Did you make grass to grow? Did you make all these things, so you can talk to us as though we were boys?”

  Howard fixed him with an angry stare: “You do not seem to hear me. Your people must move!”

  “Go back to your own country!” Toohoolhoolzote roared. “Tell them you are chief there. I am chief here! I ask no man to come and tell me what I must do!” The crowd erupted.

  Howard gazed at the sea of red faces. He wondered how many had weapons under their striped blankets. It was only four years ago that the Modocs had risen up at a council like this and slaughtered General Canby and his men. “If you say no, soldiers will come to your home,” he told the barrel-chested old chief. “You will be tied up and your horses and cattle taken from you.”

  Toohoolhoolzote said something low and guttural, then turned his back.

  “What did he say?”

  “He demands to know what man pretends to divide the land and put him on it?” Whitman explained.