He gazed at her. She had thickened as she aged, but her hair was still black, and he still found her beautiful. They had been happy together, in Buffalo Country. She missed her people, but they were both relieved to be far away from Soyappos.
“You are not a tewat to know about such things,” she said.
“I know.” He had learned long ago to respect the messages she received from the world of spirit. “You think there will be fighting?”
“Something bad is coming.”
He reached out, put a hand on her arm. “We will stay here with him, make sure he does nothing foolish.”
The warriors had finished their mock battle; now, as dusk fell, they were circling the lodges, showing off their prowess, boasting of their deeds. Red Bear rode in front of his new friends, Shore Crossing and Red Moccasin Tops, who had been given the place of honor at the end. Sharing a black stallion that bristled with energy, the near-brothers both wore red woolen capotes.
A hawk flew overhead, its shadow crossing the grass. The stallion startled, stepping sideways. Shore Crossing pulled him back, but not before he had trampled a canvas full of drying roots. An old man sprang to his feet. “See what you do! Playing brave, you ride over my woman’s hard worked food!”
“We are not playing brave!” Shore Crossing retorted.
“If you are so courageous, why did you not kill that Soyappo who murdered your father?”
Heat rose in Shore Crossing’s face: “You will regret your words!”
He kicked the stallion and the near-brothers rode away. When they reached Shore Crossing’s tipi, Red Bear could see that his friend was still upset. Shore Crossing was everything Red Bear aspired to be—a leader among the young warriors. He was the strongest and the swiftest of all of them; he could rope a wild horse and stand his ground as it bucked and pulled in vain, trying to move him.
“Forget that old man,” Red Bear said, as they dismounted. “He talks nonsense.”
His friend’s eyes were moist. “People believe I am a coward because I never avenged my father’s death. But it was only because he begged me not to.”
“Everyone knows that,” said Red Moccasin Tops.
They sat, cross-legged, in front of the fire, while Shore Crossing’s mother brought them roasted beef and qawas porridge. “It has been three snows,” Shore Crossing said. “Every time I pass his house hatred still twists my heart. I swim my horse across so I will not give in to temptation and kill him.”
“Why did he shoot your father?”
Shore Crossing just shook his head and stared into the fire, so Red Moccasin Tops answered for him: “He came to Eagle Robe and said he would like to settle and farm nearby, said he would be a good neighbor. So Eagle Robe showed him a plot no one claimed.”
“Why?” Red Bear asked, incredulous.
“He said he liked this skinny Soyappo, Larry Ott. He was not like miners; he had asked permission. But one snow later, Ott built a fence through an area Eagle Robe used to grow corn. When Eagle Robe asked him to take it down, they argued, and Ott shot him. Before he closed his eyes, he told Shore Crossing, ‘Hold your temper. Let this white man live out his days. If we kill Soyappos, they will retaliate, and too many will lose their lives.’”
“I should kill him,” Shore Crossing said.
“Yes!” Red Moccasin Tops cried. “Cut-Off Arm showed us his rifle! It is time to fight back!”
“We will talk tomorrow,” Shore Crossing said with a scowl. He ducked into his mother’s tipi, returned his eating bowls, and reappeared with a buffalo robe. Then he walked out onto the prairie, to sleep alone beneath the stars.
Daytime Smoke rode beside Thunder Rising as they climbed up from the Salmon, leading a dozen packhorses laden with meat. The chief was in a hurry to get back to camp; his younger wife, Springtime, had not brought forth her child when he left. Smoke had volunteered to help him butcher steers, where he had left them across the Salmon, so he could return faster.
They were climbing up out of Rocky Canyon when they saw a rider racing toward them. Smoke’s heart fell; there must be bad news about Springtime. Two Moons, a short, muscular warrior, reined in hard. “White Bird’s young warriors have killed Soyappos!” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “Others join them, to kill more!”
Smoke glanced at Thunder Rising, then kicked his horse and followed the chief toward camp.
Women were striking tipis and packing up their horses and pony drags. Thunder Rising found White Bird on a white gelding, directing his people to head for Red Owl’s village, on the Tukupa River. “Why are you fleeing?” he shouted.
White Bird’s eyes were troubled. “Two young warriors have punished Soyappos who murdered my people.”
“We should stay here, turn over these killers!” Thunder Rising said.
White Bird’s horse took a step, and the old chief tightened the reins. “It is too late. They are thirsty for revenge.” He pointed at a group of men, stripped and painted for battle, painting their ponies. “My people have suffered much. Their hearts are on fire. I cannot stop them.”
“But you must!”
“I have tried.” His gaze was calm, resigned. “War fever is in their blood.”
Smoke and Thunder Rising rode toward the group of warriors, and with a shock Smoke realized Red Bear was among them. Thunder Rising grasped the reins of Yellow Bull, who had painted yellow slash marks across his cheeks and forehead and down his horse’s neck: “Stop!” he shouted. “We cannot survive a war with bluecoats!”
“War has already begun,” Yellow Bull retorted. “Cut-Off Arm showed us his rifle, and my son and his friends have shown it back.”
“We should turn them over, so our people are not punished for their foolish acts!”
Yellow Bull’s lips turned down in an angry scowl. “Soyappos never punish their own for murdering our people, so my son has done it for them. If you want to stop us, pick up your gun!”
Smoke dismounted, reached out to Red Bear: “You must not do this!”
His son glared at him. “Go home. Take refuge with Looking Glass. I will do as I please.”
“Remember your mother’s vision! You will bring ruin on your people!”
“War has already begun.”
Smoke stared open-mouthed. He knew he could no longer command his son; he had to reason with him. “Go and stop these murders,” he pleaded. “Convince them to turn themselves in. It is the only way to save your people.”
“I would rather die fighting than live in captivity.”
Red Bear swung up onto his pony. There were at least 15 of them, most from White Bird’s band. They whooped and shouted at Thunder Rising, their words filled with derision, as if he were a traitor. Yellow Bull turned his horse, gave a signal, and they galloped off toward the Salmon, their war cries echoing across the prairie.
FIFTY-SIX
June 1877
Thunder Rising jolted awake as a horse raced into camp. They were camped in the trees at the bottom of White Bird Canyon, in the flats before the creek spilled into the Salmon. His two wives lay near him, along with his daughter Sound of Running Feet and the new baby. Thunder Rising rose quickly, pulled on his moccasins, and ducked out of the tipi. The sky was light in the east, the morning air chilly. The rider circled between the chiefs’ tipis, in the middle of camp. “Soldiers coming this way!” he shouted. “Bluecoats!”
“Bring in the horses!” shouted Sound of Timber Striking. “Prepare for battle!”
“Our warriors are in no condition to fight!” Thunder Rising said. Half of them had been drunk last night, on whiskey they had taken from a teamster’s wagon. “Let us send out a white flag, propose a council.”
Sound of Timber Striking glared at him. “And what do we say in this council?”
“We offer to give up those who murdered Soyappos, if bluecoats do not attack.”
Sound of Timber Striking looked away, up the long hill above White Bird Canyon. Thunder Rising could see the anger in his face. But neither of them cou
ld issue an order. They—along with White Bird—were equals among the People. “You send out your white flag,” White Bird said. “We will prepare our warriors, in case bluecoats choose not to talk.”
Sunlight was just touching the high ridge to the west when two more scouts rode into camp to announce that soldiers were near. Thunder Rising sent Vicious Weasel out with a white flag. He and five others rode straight up the incline, through the long, green grass, toward two knolls between which the trail descended. Sound of Striking Timber sent Little Frog with 50 warriors, painted and stripped to their breechcloths, up to the west side of the higher knoll, to flank the soldiers if they attacked. Two Moons, White Thunder, Fire Body, and Red Bear rode out to the right, through the trees that bordered the creek, to flank the trail from that side. The chiefs and the rest of the warriors stayed in the brush and trees close to camp. The women and boys had brought the herd in close to camp, in case fighting erupted.
Thunder Rising sat his horse at the bottom of the incline and watched the six men through his glass. As Vicious Weasel and his men neared the bottom of the two knolls, where the land began to steepen, a rider appeared up on the ridge, just to the right of the higher knoll. Thunder Rising focused the glass on him. He was not a bluecoat; he wore a broad-brimmed white hat and Soyappo clothes, and he rode a white horse. A bushy, dark mustache covered his mouth. It was Ad Chapman, a good friend of Yellow Wolf, who had shared his home with the Soyappo before Chapman built his own.
A group of bluecoats crested the ridge behind him, riding side by side. Thunder Rising’s heart stopped as Chapman raised his rifle and fired. What was he doing? Vicious Weasel and the other Nimíipuu wheeled their horses and raced back down toward the camp. Sound of Striking Timber led a dozen warriors out of the trees behind Thunder Rising and galloped straight up the rise, toward the soldiers.
Chapman spotted Two Moons and his men in a draw to his left, below the lower knoll. He swerved in that direction and shot again, and the bluecoats behind him let loose. Thunder Rising wanted to shout out, to stop them, but it was too late.
* * *
Red Bear hugged the ground as the bullets whizzed overhead. He had only a bow and arrows, and the bluecoats were still out of range. His tongue felt thick, his stomach queasy from whiskey. He was sure he was about to die.
“One has a music horn!” Fire Body yelled. The bluecoat was blowing a series of notes. “Watch now! I will make a good shot!” The old warrior squeezed the trigger, and the bluecoat fell from his horse.
The Soyappo with the white hat whirled and retreated back behind the ridge, and the bluecoats followed him. The sun had reached the upper knoll now, bringing it out of shadow. “Let us get our horses, ride up to surround them!” Two Moons shouted.
Red Bear’s heart pounded as he raced after the others, toward the trees along the creek. He had never been in battle before, and his fear—combined with the whiskey in his guts—weakened him. He leaned over as they reached the horses and puked.
They hit the Soyappos on the lower knoll like a pack of dogs hitting a flock of turkeys. The bluecoats and the white hat were milling their ponies, unaware, when Two Moons topped the knoll. Red Bear found himself riding at a bluecoat whose horse had reared up in panic. He drew his bow and drove an arrow through the man’s chest, at close range. The sound of it sickened him, and as the man hit the ground he puked again.
The Soyappos fled, whipping their horses for all they were worth. Two Moons told his warriors to dismount and shoot at the bluecoats further up the ridge. Most of the bluecoats had dismounted and spread out in a line along the ridge, between the two knolls. Up above, Red Bear saw his friends with their red capotes charge over the rocky knoll into a group of mounted soldiers, their war cries audible. When the bluecoats whirled to face them, their saddles slipped and several fell. Others retreated down the ridge.
Red Bear shot his arrows, but the enemy was too far away. The others’ guns brought down several of the soldiers, and they too began to run. Two Moons jumped on his horse to pursue them. Still reeling, Red Bear remounted and followed.
His horse was tiring from the climb as they approached a cluster of huge rocks. He heard a shout: “Red Bear! Behind that rock!”
A bluecoat was loading a cartridge into his gun. Red Bear’s heart leapt into his throat. He jumped off his horse, but when his feet hit the grass they slipped, and he slid down on his back in front of the man. His fear paralyzed him as the soldier fired, on one knee. He was sure he would die, but the bullet bit the earth just over his left shoulder. A shot rang out from above, and the soldier fell. Red Bear looked up, saw Two Moons, and collapsed back onto the ground. Relief washed through him, then shame. He had ridden right into the enemy, blind, then fallen flat in front of him. Only Two Moons’s quick wits had saved him.
Two Moons’s wife arrived, followed by other Nimíipuu women, all with fresh mounts. Still shaken, Red Bear picked up the bluecoat’s rifle and ammunition belt, moved his saddle to a new horse, and followed the others up the mountain. They had not gone far when they saw seven or eight bluecoats dismount in a ravine whose exit was so steep their horses could not climb out. The first warriors circled above them. Four Blankets, well ahead of Red Bear, approached too close to the ravine, and a soldier shot him. He fell from his horse, but managed to crawl away, downhill. Red Bear dismounted and hid behind a rock. He took aim with his new rifle, waited for a bluecoat’s head to appear, his hands trembling. But the others had reached the far side of the ravine and taken up positions above and behind the soldiers. The bluecoats had no chance.
Red Bear followed Two Moons up the rest of the mountain. His horse grew winded again, and he slowed, but more women arrived with fresh mounts. Finally, after a long chase, they reached the summit. Up ahead Two Moons halted his men and told them they had done enough; their horses were played out. Red Bear was surprised to discover that the sun was already well up in the sky. He saw Two Moons fingering a medicine pouch around his neck and realized he had forgotten to call on his wyakin. He turned his horse away, ashamed. In his first battle, he had let his fear overwhelm him.
FIFTY-SEVEN
July 1877
Daytime Smoke lay on his low bed of dry grass, covered with elk hide. “Are you such an old man that you cannot get out of bed?” Widow Bird asked him.
He grimaced. “My back pains me this morning.”
She sank down on her knees next to him. “I will put heat on it.” She found the deerskin she used for such things and took it outside, to heat over the fire. His back had been giving him trouble for two snows now, and they had decided to settle here with Looking Glass in his village on the reserve, where they would not have to travel.
When she returned she told Smoke to take off his tunic. She pulled his leggings off and told him to roll to one side, away from her. She felt the deerskin to make sure it was not too hot, then lay it under his lower back and helped him roll on top of it. He groaned, then slowly relaxed as the heat penetrated.
“Feel better?”
He nodded.
“I have something to ask you,” she said. “I want you to find our son and bring him home.” After the killings, White Bird and the other chiefs had brought their people north, toward Red Owl’s winter village on the Tukupa. Looking Glass had ridden to meet them and told them to leave—said he wanted nothing to do with their fighting, and if they stayed nearby the Soyappos would think his people were guilty as well. The chiefs had turned south, toward White Bird’s village on the Salmon River. Red Bear had chosen to stay with them.
Smoke frowned: “Your son does what he pleases.”
“He is our only child.”
“I tried to stop him.”
“We have lost too many of our loved ones,” she said, and her eyes filled.
“I know.” He sat up and held her, pulled her close.
She put her arms around his naked back. “Perhaps if I do something nice for you, you will do this for me.”
“You have already do
ne something nice for me.”
She pulled back and looked him in the eyes: “I could do something much nicer.”
She reached down and fondled him, and he laughed: “You don’t play fair.”
“Soldiers coming!” a voice cried. “Bluecoats! On ridge!”
Smoke scrambled into his clothes and ducked out the flap.
Women and children were gathering their belongings and fleeing toward the river. Smoke hurried the other way, to the southern edge of the village, and stared across the meadow at the mountainside. Dozens of bluecoats were at the top of the steep slope, slowly making their way down, on foot.
He ran toward the women’s lodge, saw Widow Bird emerge with Little Fire and her daughters. “Why are they here?” Widow Bird cried, panic in her eyes. “We are on their reserve!”
“I’ll find out and try to stop them,” he said. “You go east! Run!” He pushed her away, after the others, who had already begun to run.
When he reached Looking Glass’s lodge, a knot of men surrounded the chief. “Three times I warned White Bird and Sound of Striking Timber to restrain their young warriors!” Looking Glass ranted. “I want no part of their war! Why are these soldiers here, at my camp, where Cut-Off Arm said my people could stay!” His eyes fell on the youngest man there. “You talk to them, Bird Alighting. You speak Soyappo. Tell them Looking Glass lives here in peace and gives no one trouble. Tell them to leave us alone!”
Smoke stared at Looking Glass in surprise. The chief was tall, rugged, always telling people what to do. Yet now he was afraid to meet bluecoats.
Smoke stepped forward: “I will go with Bird Alighting. They probably just want to talk. With my Soyappo skin, perhaps they will listen to me. I still speak a few of their words.”
While Bird Alighting ran to the herd for horses, Smoke ducked into his lodge and rummaged through a hide bag for a piece of white tradecloth. Then he planted his lance in the meadow between the village and the creek, the white cloth tied to the top. “This will tell them we are for peace,” he said, when Bird Alighting arrived with horses.
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