The Coming

by David Osborne

  “But them drunken Injuns was no picnic,” Henry said. “We was lucky some Flatheads came with ’em to make sure they didn’t start shootin’. One of ’em took a bead on me, through the window. Flathead said he announced he was gonna kill me.” He grinned. “Weren’t for them Flatheads, I’d be dead.”

  Gibbon saw another thought come into his eyes: “You shoulda seen White Bird, though. He’d been sittin’ his horse the whole time, yellin’ at ’em, tryin’ to keep ’em in line. He jumped off that horse and whipped that boy with his quirt, sent ’em all back to camp. Not a one of ’em protested, just did what he told ’em.”

  “I told you, that weren’t White Bird,” Amos said. “White Bird’s old. That was Looking Glass. You saw the little mirror he had, sewn into the leather star, hangin’ from his neck.”

  “I thought Joseph was in charge,” Gibbon said.

  “Well, that’s what we keep readin’ in the papers,” Amos said. “But we only met Joseph the first day, when they was buyin’ supplies. He didn’t act like he was in charge. He didn’t even come into town with the warriors.”

  “I tell ya, Colonel, I never been so scared in my life,” Henry said. “We locked up and rode back to the fort, and when we got there I like to collapsed. When it hit me how close I come to meetin’ my maker, I tell you, I was quakin’ like an aspen in a stiff breeze.”

  Gibbon had to smile. “I imagine you were. Thank you for the information, gentlemen. If I can pay you for this tobacco, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, no, no, Colonel, you just take as much tobacco as you want,” Henry said. “We’re grateful for what you’re doin’.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  * * *

  Red Bear stared at the medicine tree. It was at the southern end of the Bitterroot Valley, a great yellow pine from which a ram’s horn protruded, at the height of a rider’s head. It was a place of power, filled with spirits of great hunters. Red Bear dismounted, placed a bit of tobacco in a crevice to thank the spirits for their help while hunting. Other warriors had done likewise; beads and other small gifts hung from every branch.

  Red Bear could not shake the feeling that he and his people were being hunted. He could feel the spirits warning him. Two days ago, Lone Bird had ridden through camp on his gray horse, while the chiefs sat in a circle, smoking. He had been visited by a dream, he said. “My shaking heart tells me trouble and death will overtake us if we do not hurry through this land! I cannot hide what I see—I must speak what is revealed to me. Why do these chiefs travel so slowly? Perhaps our enemies are now overtaking us, and we will be whipped! We should keep going, keep watch everywhere! Be ready for fighting any time! Move fast! Death is on our trail.”

  This morning it was Shore Crossing, in his red woolen capote, walking his pony through camp. “My brothers, my sisters, I am telling you!” he shouted. “In a dream last night I saw myself killed. Listen to me, I will be killed soon! I do not care, I am willing to die. First I will kill some soldiers. From death I shall not turn back. But we are all going to die if we do not travel faster!”

  Red Bear was mounting his horse when Shore Crossing approached the tree. He rose up in his stirrups, took a feather out of his hair and placed it in the ram’s skull.

  Red Bear fell in with him. They had scouted together for much of the trip over the mountains. “Tell me your dream,” he said.

  His friend glanced over at him, then returned his gaze to the road. “It was dark, only a little light in east. Bluecoats charged out of willow bushes, like shadows. I dove behind a small log and began to shoot, killing one, then another. Bullets flew around me, kicked up dust. My wife lay behind me; I wanted her to go back. I raised up to tell her, and a soldier fired at me.” He hesitated, looked again at Red Bear. “I could see his bullet spinning toward me, very slowly. It took a long time. It was like watching my own death.”

  Red Bear felt a shiver in his spine. “We should have turned north,” he said. He had heard they could reach Flathead Lake in four days, and the Old Woman’s Country was only four days’ ride beyond. But there was a Soyappo fort on Flathead lands, Looking Glass said. Besides, there were no buffalo there, and if they crossed the mountains that far north to hunt, Blackfeet might attack them. But if they went to live with Crows, they could grow fat on buffalo hump.

  White Bird and Red Owl had argued for the northern route, but Looking Glass had refused to yield. He had been chosen to lead, he insisted, and he would lead them where he chose.

  “I too feel soldiers behind us,” Red Bear said. “People are happy to go slow, to rest their horses, but Looking Glass is making a mistake.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes. “I wish I had never started this war,” Shore Crossing said.

  Red Bear looked across at his friend. “You did not start it. You punished Soyappos for their crimes. Soyappos started it, when they ignored our white flag at White Bird’s camp.”

  “It felt good to punish Soyappos, but I was foolish. And soon I will die.”

  Gibbon sat back against a rock by the fire, thoroughly worn out, eating his meager supper of salt pork and hardtack. They had reached Ross’s Hole today, where Lewis and Clark had encountered the Flatheads in 1805. Then they had toiled up the steepest goddamn slopes Gibbon ever hoped to climb; he had put men on draglines for four long hours, to help the mules pull the wagons. Joe Blodgett, their local guide, told him the worst was yet to come; they were still only at the foot of the Divide. They were traveling the same path Clark had in 1806, on his way home; Gibbon had checked Clark’s Journals. Blodgett had told him about a Flathead chief named Victor—Charlot’s father—who said he had met Lewis and Clark. They were so pale, he’d told Blodgett, that the Flatheads assumed they were cold and heaped them with robes.

  Lieutenant Bradley approached and stood nearby, waiting for Gibbon’s attention. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” Gibbon said, gesturing to the bare ground beside him. Their chief of scouts, Bradley had been with Gibbon when they found Custer last summer. To fill the dead time here in the West, Gibbon had written a memoir of last year’s Sioux campaign, and now Bradley was doing the same. They often discussed it, comparing memories.

  Bradley lowered himself, sat cross-legged. “Sir, we’re passing two of Joseph’s campfires every day. So we’re traveling twice as fast as he is.”

  Gibbon nodded. “I’ve noticed.”

  “I figure they’re only a day’s ride ahead of us. And they don’t seem to know we’re here.”

  Gibbon squinted at him, puffed on the pipe. “I been puzzlin’ on it. They must know we’re here; their scouts have probably been watching us for days. So why are they movin’ so slow?”

  “You think they’re settin’ a trap?”

  “It’s crossed my mind. The two officers who caught up with us today brought a letter from the Secretary of the Montana Territory. Said there’s no territorial militia waiting at the pass, like I’d hoped. So we’re outnumbered.” He shrugged. “Maybe they figure we don’t have enough men. Maybe they want us to attack.”

  “Can they fight, sir?”

  Gibbon filled his pipe, tamped it down. “In my experience, Indians can always fight. They may be doomed, but so were the Sioux that killed Custer.” He struck a match, drew on the pipe to make sure the tobacco lit. “Not that I blame ’em for fightin’. If they’re like other tribes, they been fucked up one side and down the other.”

  Bradley peered over at Gibbon through the gloom: “So what do we do when we catch ’em?”

  “We’ve got to surprise ’em. If they know we’re comin’, we’re up shit crick. But if we surprise ’em, maybe we can force a quick surrender, keep the killin’ down.”

  “I was thinkin’, they lose their horses, we can surround ’em, starve ’em out, force ’em to surrender. All my men are mounted; we could ride ahead, steal their horses. Catlin’s volunteers—the locals—say they usually camp in the Big Hole. They know the trail. If we leave tonight, we’ll be on ’em tomorrow.�
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  Gibbon took the pipe out of his mouth, peered at him. “How many men you want?”

  Bradley shrugged. “My thirty-five, and the twenty-five volunteers?”

  Gibbon’s blue eyes narrowed in thought. “Just don’t let ’em spot you before you get the horses. We don’t want ’em runnin’. And whatever you do, don’t engage them. Custer made two mistakes: he engaged too soon, didn’t wait for me, like we planned, and he divided his forces. Mistakes like that can cost you your life.”

  Red Bear dismounted, drove a small picket into the ground, and tied his horse. They were camped at the Place of Ground Squirrels, where thick meadows covered the valley floor, beside a small, winding stream at the base of the mountains. He had memories of this place, a common stopping point on the way home from Buffalo Country.

  The women had cut down lodgepole pines and erected tipis, and now his mother was cooking at a fire outside their lodge. “I found no game,” he told her. “It is as if I carry danger with me. Animals sense it.”

  “Hair Combed Over Eyes has dreamed of soldiers coming,” she said. “His wyakin told him to move on, that death was approaching.”

  “I feel it, too.”

  His father stepped out of the tipi. “War is over,” he said. “You saw in their villages, when we traded. Soyappos here know us. We are friends. Looking Glass is right.”

  Widow Bird turned and pointed across the winding stream and up the hill. “I saw two soldiers up in those trees, watching our camp.”

  “We should scout behind us,” Red Bear said.

  She nodded. “I will pack food for you.”

  “No,” Smoke said. “Just because they are watching us does not mean they will make war. They want to make sure we make no trouble.”

  Red Bear scowled. His father had been angry with him ever since war broke out, and he took every opportunity to quarrel. But Red Bear had long since stopped listening. He found Shore Crossing, Red Moccasin Tops, and Five Wounds, told them what his mother had seen. They agreed to put together a scouting party.

  By the time they returned from the herd with fresh horses, drums were pounding and people were beginning to dance. Looking Glass planned to stop here and dig and cook camas for several days, and the People were in a festive mood. When Looking Glass saw his best scouts saddling their horses, he strode over. “Where are you going?”

  “We will scout behind,” Red Bear said. “Hair Combed Over Eyes has dreamed of soldiers.”

  “It is good that young men think of war,” Looking Glass said. “But I do not want what happened in Salmon River Country to happen again.” He gazed at Shore Crossing and Red Moccasin Tops, as if to make sure they understood. “We must harm no one. If you ride back and see soldiers, and there is gunfire, war could begin again. We have made peace on this side of mountains; let us remain at peace.”

  “But Red Bear’s mother saw soldiers today!” Five Wounds said.

  “Yes, those we passed on Lolo Creek have followed us, I am sure,” Looking Glass answered. “But they are not foolish enough to attack. There are not enough of them. They are just watching us, making sure we do as we promised, move on to Buffalo Country.”

  “How can you be certain?” Red Bear asked.

  Anger flickered in Looking Glass’s eyes, and his jaw took on a hard set. “In this camp I have been chosen leader! People did not choose you to make decisions for them! I will not have you stirring up more trouble!”

  “We are being foolish,” Red Bear said, “not protecting ourselves.”

  “Fighting is over! We left it behind! Why do you keep wanting to fight!”

  “You are chief,” Five Wounds said to Looking Glass. “We will obey. I have no wife, no children to suffer from what I feel coming to us. Whatever we gain, whatever we lose, it is on your shoulders.”

  SIXTY

  August 1877

  Gibbon lay on his back and stared up at the few stars he could see between the branches high above him. He had ordered the men to get some sleep, but his mind would not rest. It had been a long, tough march today, and he was bone weary. They had departed at five a.m., hauled the wagons over the Divide with double mule teams and men pulling on draglines.

  Lieutenant Bradley had found the Nez Perce in the Big Hole Valley, just as the volunteers predicted. Their women were cutting down lodge poles on a hill just above the herd, he said, so it had been impossible to drive their horses off. Bradley and Lieutenant Jacobs had climbed a tree and viewed the camp, but they had been spotted by Nez Perce women. Still, neither they nor their men had seen scouts. The more he thought about it, the more Gibbon was convinced the Nez Perce were laying a trap for him, like the Sioux and Cheyenne had for Custer. He would never forget what he had found on that hill by the Little Bighorn: men stripped, their hearts cut out, their heads scalped and beaten to a pulp. As he stared up at the dark shapes above him, the images haunted him.

  He had only 17 officers and 146 enlisted men—many of them green—plus 32 volunteers from the Bitterroot Valley. But he wasn’t going to make Howard’s mistake and let the Indians outrun him. He’d been vilified enough by yellow-bellied newspaper editors for not reaching Custer in time. No, this was his chance to redeem the reputation he’d earned during the war, when his volunteers had stood so well against the rebel charge at South Mountain that McClellan had dubbed them the Iron Brigade. He would strike at dawn, before the Nez Perce could move again. If he could take them by surprise, he could defeat them with minimal damage. If not, well, that was what kept him awake.

  At 10:30 he gave the order to make ready. Water froze at night at this altitude, even in August, but he ordered the men to leave their greatcoats behind. Their dark blue blouses were warm enough, buttoned tight over their gray woolen shirts. Each of them had been issued two days of rations and 90 rounds of ammunition, which they carried on cartridge belts around their waists. Between that and their eight-pound Springfields, they were carrying enough weight without the damn greatcoats.

  He ordered the supply wagons taken well off the trail and circled by the creek. The howitzer would make too much noise in the dark, so he left it behind as well, along with 20 men to guard the supplies and bring the big gun up at dawn. It pained him to lose 20 fighting men, but it couldn’t be helped. He just hoped the volunteers could fight.

  They departed at 11, with Joe Blodgett, who knew the trail, in the lead. Gibbon had given orders for strict quiet, so the only sounds were the footfalls of the men and their low curses as they stumbled over rocks and fallen trees. It was so dark Gibbon had to dismount and lead his horse on foot. He could barely see the dim shapes ahead of him, except when the trail crossed the creek or wound through a sawgrass marsh and they could make out stars overhead. As his boots sank into muck, he could not get the threat of ambush out of his mind—in this murky gloom, they would not even see who was firing at them.

  About one a.m. the trail descended out of the pines onto a steep, grassy hill above the valley, and Gibbon breathed a sigh of relief. He looked up at the stars, saw a faint reddish glow. “Old Mars is smiling on us tonight,” he whispered to Lieutenant Woodruff, his adjutant. “That’s a favorable omen.”

  The bunchgrass was almost waist high on the hill, and he could smell sage. After a time he heard a whisper: “There they are—look!” A single light appeared out on the valley floor. As they moved forward, Gibbon saw a few more lights spread out in the distance. “Take our horses and flank us, on the right,” he whispered to Woodruff. “If the Nez Perce spot us, maybe they’ll think it’s just their herd.” He wished they had brought more than four mounts.

  Ten minutes later, the trail entered a thick stand of timber that reached all the way down the hill. If they were going to be ambushed, this would be the place. Gibbon held his breath, but he heard nothing but the sound of men walking, and finally they emerged back out onto open grass.

  The procession stopped, and Gibbon strode ahead to see what the problem was. As he neared the front of the line, he ducked and raised h
is rifle; shapes were moving in front of them. “It’s the Nez Perce herd,” Lieutenant Bradley whispered.

  A few horses neighed and whinnied as they moved away. Dogs barked in camp, and Gibbon crouched down. He heard babies cry out, then women’s voices, and he was sure they would be discovered. Gradually, though, the dogs quieted and the horses moved north and up the hill, away from the trail. Gibbon let out a long sigh, then signaled to Blodgett, ahead of him, to move on.

  They halted opposite the Nez Perce camp. They were still on the trail, 50 feet above the flats. The camp stood several hundred yards away. “What’s below us?” he whispered to Blodgett.

  “Ruby Crick. It winds all through there. Swampy in places.”

  There was nothing to do but wait for dawn. As the men cooled down in the damp bunchgrass, they began to shiver. They still had two hours, but Gibbon could not believe their luck. He decided to send Blodgett back to guide the howitzer here.

  He walked back along the line with Blodgett until he found Private Bostwick. “I want you to take some of the civilians,” he whispered, “and drive the Indian herd back the way we came. We want to catch them on foot.”

  Bostwick shook his head. “If you want to surprise ’em, sir, I recommend you sit tight. Indians never leave their herds unguarded.”

  “We haven’t seen anyone.”

  “They’re asleep. But you move that herd and someone’ll wake up.”

  Bostwick had spent most of his life with Indians. The post guide at Fort Shaw, he had been with Gibbon when they found Custer and Reno, had ridden 140 miles in 48 hours to locate the steamer they used as a hospital for Reno’s wounded. Gibbon gazed at him in the darkness, wondered if he was right.