The Coming

by David Osborne

  The two mounted bareback and loped across the grassy field, then splashed across the creek. They met the soldiers at the bottom of the slope. Only six bluecoats were mounted, plus two men who wore settler clothes.

  “Looking Glass is my chief,” Bird Alighting told them. “He wants no war. We want no trouble with you!”

  A short, thick settler with dark black hair and beard nudged his horse forward and jabbed his rifle into Bird Alighting’s stomach. “It’s a trap, Captain. This Injun’s Looking Glass!”

  A bluecoat shook his head. “No, this one’s too young for Looking Glass.”

  The angry one turned to Smoke. “Him?”

  “I am Daytime Smoke, son of William Clark.”

  The man glared at him.

  “Lewis and Clark,” Smoke said. “My father.”

  The bluecoat chief looked at him skeptically. “William Clark?”

  “Yes. My father.” He gestured back toward the village. “We want peace. We told others not to fight. We stay here, told them go away.”

  “We’ve had reports that some of your men have joined Joseph,” the bluecoat said. “And somebody burned two homes over on the Clearwater, two miles from here. General Howard wants us to take you to Mount Idaho, to make sure you don’t join Joseph.”

  “We have stayed out of fighting!” Smoke insisted.

  “They’re lyin’, Captain,” the bearded one said. “If you seen what these savages done on the Salmon, and out on the Camas Prairie, you wouldn’t have no qualms. I seen with my own eyes some of the men they murdered.”

  “You best remember you’re not in command here,” the bluecoat said, glaring at him. “You and your men will do exactly as I say.” He turned to Smoke: “I want to speak to Looking Glass.”

  Smoke nodded, and the bluecoat told the others to stay where they were. Then he motioned for one other bluecoat to join him and spurred his horse into the water. Bird Alighting and Smoke followed him.

  When they reached the white flag, Bird Alighting said, “Wait here! I will bring Looking Glass.”

  The soldiers nodded. Smoke waited with them as Bird Alighting rode toward Looking Glass’s lodge.

  A moment later a shot rang out from behind the creek, and Smoke jerked around, stared at the Soyappos. The black beard was aiming his rifle at the horse herd. Smoke looked in that direction: a Nimíipuu was down, beside Looking Glass’s saddled horse, blood dripping from his thigh.

  Smoke shouted at the two soldiers, “What is he doing?”

  More shots broke out, and the Soyappos whirled their horses and dashed back toward the creek. Smoke could not believe what was happening. He kicked his horse and galloped for his own lodge. As he leapt off, Calf Shirt ran by with a rifle. “Take my horse!” Smoke shouted, then ducked through the flap as bullets tore through the buffalo hides. He picked up his gun and ammunition belt.

  When he emerged the bullets had stopped, and he looked toward the creek as he strapped on his ammunition belt, opened the breach-loader, and rammed in a cartridge. The Soyappos were charging through the water, most of them on foot. Calf Shirt fired at them from Smoke’s horse. Smoke aimed and shot, but no one went down. Calf Shirt whirled his horse and galloped toward Smoke: “Climb up behind me!”

  As Smoke grabbed his extended arm and pulled himself up, he heard the thwock of a bullet. Calf Shirt slumped forward and dropped his gun. Smoke held him up with one arm as bullets whizzed by, seized the reins with the other, and kicked the horse. They galloped toward the river and then turned east, along the banks. In front of them a woman with a baby in a cradleboard tied to her front plunged her small black horse into the water and began to cross. But the river was still high and swift, and the horse struggled. Smoke saw the horse’s head go under, then the woman. They never surfaced.

  Smoke rode hard, but the soldiers barely pursued. He finally reined in, dismounted, and caught Calf Shirt as he fell. Blood dripped from a wound in his side; his right legging was red.

  Smoke dragged him against a tree and crouched in front of him. He examined the wound, pulled off his own cotton tunic, and wrapped it around him to stop the bleeding. But Calf Shirt’s eyes had lost their light. “My gun, where is my gun?” he asked, feeling for it. Smoke placed his own gun in his hands. “I am tired,” Calf Shirt said. “Now I sleep.” He closed his eyes, and the color drained from his face.

  Smoke sat down on the hard ground, put his head between his knees, felt hot tears of anger. Had the Soyappos lost their minds? Did they want to kill every Nimíipuu? Suddenly he thought of Widow Bird, Little Fire, and his granddaughters, and he gasped for air. He forced himself up, walked to the horse, and pulled himself up. He trotted further along the trail, searching for the women. People were sitting and lying among the trees, and each time he approached a group his heart beat faster, only to be disappointed. Finally there were no more people.

  He turned back in panic. He was halfway back to the village when he found them, seated under a long-leafed pine. As he slid off his horse Yellow Hair ran to him and threw her arms around him, weeping. Little Fire stared at him, a question in her eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Calf Shirt is dead.”

  She fell to her knees, and her daughter Echoes on Mountain held her.

  “Why can’t they leave us alone?” Widow Bird wailed. “Are they all monsters?”

  When they reached the village black smoke drifted up from two tipis that had been burned. Others looked blackened in places, as if they had been set afire but had been too wet to burn. Brass kettles, blankets, hide bags, and clothes were strewn all over the ground. To the southeast, the gardens had been trampled by horses, the rail fences pulled down. The herds were gone, both horses and cattle.

  Yellow Hair wandered through the wreckage in shock, searching for her dog. Little Fire and Echoes on Mountain knelt, wailing and slicing their arms. Looking Glass sat astride his big white gelding, slowly circling. The sight of him enraged Smoke. “Why did you not go talk to them?” he shouted.

  He could see guilt in the chief’s eyes. “They wanted to kill me.”

  “They wanted to talk to you!”

  Looking Glass gazed at the smoking lodges. “When your father brought Soyappos to our lands, my grandfather befriended them, helped them,” he said. “My father and his warriors saved Governor Stevens. This village is on our reserve. Why do they make war on us?”

  “You could have stopped it!”

  The chief turned his horse away, raised his voice: “My people, we have tried peace, and Soyappos have chosen war! Let us find our brothers and give them what they ask for!”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  July 1877

  Red Bear sat with White Thunder, in Thunder Rising’s camp, watching Red Heart’s people mount their horses. They had returned from Buffalo Country yesterday, and Red Heart had chosen to take them to the reserve rather than join the war.

  Red Bear wanted to fight. He was convinced, after two battles, that the bluecoats were no match for Nimíipuu warriors. They had wagon guns, yes, but they were slow, and they couldn’t shoot. After the Nimíipuu routed them at White Bird Canyon, White Bird had led the People across the Salmon River and through the mountains. The Soyappos had taken three days just to cross the river. Then, when the Nimíipuu used bullboats to cross back, further north, the bluecoats had been stuck—wagon guns were too heavy for bullboats. Red Bear and the other young warriors had laughed at them, taunted them from the far side of the river.

  Seven suns later, at Red Owl’s village, the bluecoats had surprised them. They held the high ground, yet still the warriors had fought them to a standstill. Red Bear had performed well this time, killing five Soyappos with his new many-shots rifle. On the second day he and White Thunder had held the bluecoats off at the top of the ridge while the People fled down below. He would be dead if the bluecoats were not so slow—while he and White Thunder raced down the steep bluffs, they had walked their horses like old women.

  They had left their lodge poles behind when they fled, so th
ey were camped in the open air. After their retreat, they had crossed the Clear Water and made the long climb up to the Oyaip Prairie, where they had found Soyappo cattle and slaughtered them for food.

  “We should go with Red Heart,” said Springtime, who was nursing her baby.

  “We will see what No Heart finds,” Thunder Rising answered. He had sent No Heart to negotiate with General Howard, offered to lay down his band’s arms and live peacefully on the reserve. Looking Glass wanted to cross the Road to the Buffalo, leave the fighting behind, but Thunder Rising wanted to stay.

  “What kind of life will our child have without a homeland?” Springtime asked. “Moving all the time. Where will we stop? Where will we live?”

  “Looking Glass wants to live with Crows,” Red Bear said.

  “Looking Glass might as well be Crow!”

  “If we surrender without a promise of safety, Thunder Rising will be hung,” said Bear Woman. “You know that.”

  Springtime glared at her. “I know nothing of that! You listen to too many stories told by old people.”

  “And you are too young and blinded by your selfishness!”

  The two wives glared at one another until Bear Woman stalked away, toward the camas fields. In the distance, a sea of blue camas flowers shimmered like a small lake.

  The sun was nearly down when No Heart finally appeared. General Howard would agree to no conditions, he told Thunder Rising. He would appoint nine men to judge who should be punished, but he could guarantee nothing.

  “Another commission?” Thunder Rising asked. “Does he think I am stupid?”

  “We should fight,” Red Bear said. “We can drive these bluecoats downriver, off all our lands. They cannot even shoot straight.”

  “You know nothing about bluecoats,” his father scolded. “You have no idea what they can do, when they get angry.”

  “I fought them twice,” Red Bear snapped. “I saw what they can do.”

  Thunder Rising turned toward them: “I agree with Red Bear. If we cross Buffalo Road, we will still have to fight. Let us put our women and children behind us in these mountains and show these Soyappos what real warriors can do. I would rather die on our own lands than run I know not where.”

  “If we cross mountains, bluecoats will not follow us,” Daytime Smoke said. “They cannot drag their wagons through these mountains. This nuisance will be behind us. We have spent many snows with Crow people. Their hunting grounds are rich. A Nimíipuu heart is a Crow heart.”

  Red Bear was embarrassed—his father was old and frightened. His mother was worse, nearly hysterical, afraid she would lose another son to the Soyappos.

  “They have soldiers in Buffalo Country,” said Thunder Rising. “They talk through singing wires. If we cross mountains, those soldiers will attack us.”

  “But Soyappos in Buffalo Country are our friends,” Smoke said. “We leave horses with them when we come home to visit. We trade with them. They will not fight us.”

  Thunder Rising shook his head. “A long time ago, there were many Soyappo nations. But after their great war, they are one nation. No matter if we stay or flee, they will fight us. I prefer to fight here, to defend our lands. If we die, we die on our lands.”

  After dark, the headmen and elders met around a fire to choose a course of action. The night sky was clear and the night air cool, high above the river valleys. Red Bear sat and listened, frustrated by old men who did nothing but talk. Late in the evening, a rider galloped across the prairie: Coulee, a man who dressed as a woman. A member of Thunder Rising’s band, he had chosen to stay behind on the reserve. “Bluecoats have seized Red Heart and his people, taken their horses and held them captive!” he announced. “They will be sent to a Soyappo prison!”

  His words were met with gasps, then angry outbursts. “We must fight!” Little Frog shouted.

  “No!” Looking Glass replied. “Let us cross these mountains, put this war behind us!”

  White Bird stood up. “We have talked for half the night, and we cannot agree. Thunder Rising and his brother would have us stay and fight, but Looking Glass, Sound of Striking Timber, Red Owl, and I disagree. We will cross these mountains.” He turned to Thunder Rising: “If you and Little Frog want to stay here, that is your choice.” He looked at the others, his eyes slowly moving around the circle. “Because he knows Buffalo Country better than any of us, I believe Looking Glass should lead us.”

  They were cowards! They would lose their lands forever. Red Bear looked at Thunder Rising, silently begged him to say something, to argue. But the chief just sat there, staring at the fire.

  FIFTY-NINE

  August 1877

  Colonel John Gibbon was a handsome man, with chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and a graying mustache and Van Dyke beard. Slowed by a limp from an old Civil War wound—one of three that had earned him the sobriquet Old War Horse—he pulled himself up the wooden steps to the one-room store, built of fresh yellow pine. He and his men were in Stevensville, in the Bitterroot Valley, a long day’s march south of Missoula. Behind the counter two men stood in front of a line of rabbits, chickens, quail, and dried meats cut into long, thin shapes and bound with paper, all of which hung from wooden pegs. Gibbon opened a large tin and savored the rich smell of tobacco.

  “Best we’ve had in,” said one of the storekeepers, then stuck out his hand. “Amos Buck.” He pointed to the other: “My brother Henry.”

  Gibbon nodded at Henry, shook Amos’s hand. “Colonel Gibbon, Seventh Infantry.”

  “Welcome to Stevensville,” Amos said. “I’m afraid we’re a little low on stock. Nez Perce cleaned us out.”

  “When’d they come through?”

  “Let’s see.” Amos looked at his brother: “Nigh on a week ago.”

  “You hear about Fort Fizzle?” Henry asked, chuckling.

  It had been front-page news all over the territory: Captain Charlie Rawn, with only 30 soldiers and some volunteers, had tried to bottle the Nez Perce up along Lolo Creek. He’d built a makeshift fort blocking the narrow valley floor, refused to let them pass. The Indians had just crossed a ridge to the north and gone around him.

  “I suspect Captain Rawn was just tryin’ to slow ’em down, so we could catch up,” Gibbon said. “He knew Howard was still west of the mountains.”

  “Them Indians wasn’t in no great rush,” Amos said. “They waltzed in here like they had all day—and they had money, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  Gibbon raised an eyebrow: “I’m surprised you did business with ’em.”

  “Well now, Colonel, we didn’t have much choice. They come in here, polite as can be, dressed to the nines, and announced they had plenty of money and wanted to buy some supplies, but if we didn’t want their money they was gonna take what they needed anyway. What would you have done?”

  Pulled out my rifle, Gibbon thought. But he said nothing.

  Henry came out from behind the counter. “The first day, we all holed up at Fort Owen when they marched by. They was across the river, so there weren’t no danger. I sat on the wall and watched. Took ’em an hour and a quarter to go by, single file, all on horseback. I counted 762.”

  “How many warriors?”

  “That second day, when the warriors come to town,” Amos said, “I counted 115.”

  Gibbon peered at him skeptically. “General Howard says he was fighting three hundred men.”

  “Well, now, I can’t say they all come into town.”

  “But there ain’t three hundred,” Henry said. “There’s a lot of women and old folks and kids.” He put a hand to his face, rubbed his chin. “Oh, maybe one out of five might be fighters.”

  Gibbon did the math. “You’re saying there’s less than a hundred and sixty warriors?”

  Henry nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “Some of ’em speak passable English,” Amos said. “Said hello, civil as can be. Gave us their tales of woe, ’bout how white men stole their lands, ordered ’em where to live, attacked ’em ev
en when they put up a white flag.”

  “They tell you about the settlers they butchered?”

  “Told us all about it, Colonel. Damnedest thing. They don’t deny killin’ white folks, but they say it was all in revenge for whites who’d killed their folks and gone scot-free.”

  Gibbon had no doubt it was true. American Indians were the most abused people on the face of the Earth, in his opinion. But he had a job to do, and he was going to do it with as little loss of life as possible. “Were they well armed?”

  “They sure were,” Henry said. “Some nice guns, too. Breech-loaders. Even some repeaters.”

  Gibbon frowned. Congress gave the army so little money the generals back in Washington wouldn’t trust enlisted men with repeating rifles anymore. Figured they’d just waste most of the ammunition shootin’ it off in a panic. The kind of men they got these days, they were probably right. “You sell ’em ammunition?”

  “Like I told you, we had no choice,” Amos said.

  Gibbon’s blue eyes showed his disgust: “You think any of those cartridges might be used against my men?”

  “Now Colonel, don’t get your balls in a knot,” Henry said. “They’d a stolen it if we didn’t sell. And we charged ’em a pretty penny, I can assure you.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “Dollar a cartridge.”

  “You folks had a goddamn picnic, didn’t you?”

  “Hang on, now, Colonel, it weren’t all peaches and cream,” Amos said. “Some of them young bucks started tippin’ the bottle.”

  “You sold ’em whiskey?”

  “Oh no sir. That was Spooner, down to the saloon.”

  Henry snickered. “We marched down there, a bunch of us, took every barrel he had, loaded it on a wagon, and took it back to the fort. Liked to lynch him. Course we was afraid if we killed him, the Indians might get excited and join in.” He chuckled at his own wit.

  “Then we found Fahy—he’s our competition, down the street here—was sellin’ drinks,” Amos chimed in. “We marched in and demanded his barrel. He got all righteous on us. He says, ‘By what authority do you make such a demand?’ Reverend Flowers takes out his pistol”—Henry acted it out—“and points it at Fahy’s head. ‘By this authority,’ he says. Fahy stares down that barrel for a minute, then he says, ‘Well, now, that’s mighty good authority. There’s the barrel; go on and take it.’?” Amos slapped both thighs and let out a horselaugh.