The Coming

by David Osborne

  “All that you say is true,” Lean Elk replied. “But we have all seen how Soyappos soldiers arrive unexpectedly, from directions we have not scouted. We know Soyappos talk to one another through singing wires. We know they have soldiers in many places. We know they have sent many of their war chiefs against us. If we slow our march, another chief might catch us, from a direction we do not expect. Medicine Line is only a few days’ travel ahead. Let us put it behind us. Then we can rest in safety, hunt buffalo, prepare for winter.”

  There was an edge of impatience in Looking Glass’s voice: “Bluecoats are far behind us. They will not risk marching into this open country, when they can smell winter. Their walk-a-heaps need three meals a day to keep up their strength, and even then they fight like women. I know these lands, and I know our people. Lean Elk, whose blood is half Nimíipuu, half white, has done a fine job of keeping us out of danger. But it is time for a Nimíipuu chief to lead.”

  Sound of Striking Timber and Little Baldhead pulled their blankets over their shoulders.

  White Bird’s drooping eyes looked up from the fire to gaze at Thunder Rising. “My friend, you have not spoken. Your father was a headman of great wisdom. Perhaps you were wise as well when you told us we should not leave our own lands. Our future looks cloudy. We do not know if Sitting Bull will welcome us; it was only three snows ago that Looking Glass helped Crows fight his people. If he does not, our people are not equipped for winter. But we are here now, cold moons are coming, and we have little choice. You have done a fine job of organizing our camps, caring for our elderly, our children, our wounded. You know their suffering better than anyone. How badly do they need further rest? Should we allow Looking Glass to lead, at his own pace? Or is there more wisdom in Lean Elk’s caution?”

  Thunder Rising looked up at the waiting faces. Was it not obvious that Looking Glass’s ego had almost destroyed them once, and Lean Elk had brought them through great danger unscathed? Why were they were even discussing it? “Were I in Lean Elk’s place, I would do as he has,” he said. “The important thing is to keep people alive.”

  “People are dying already!” Looking Glass scowled. “This half-breed has pushed them so hard, from before dawn until after dark, that we have left many beside our trail, unable to travel. I do not want to leave any more of our elders behind!” His eyes flashed as he glanced around the circle. “It is time to let people rest, hunt buffalo. If we reach Old Woman’s Country in six days rather than three, it will make no difference. But we will be better prepared to live through cold moons.”

  Several “ah-hehs” greeted his words, and two more warriors pulled blankets up around their shoulders. By now eight of the 15 had shown their agreement.

  Thunder Rising’s heart sank.

  “A majority prefer your leadership, Looking Glass, so you take control now,” Lean Elk said. “Perhaps you will do better than you did last time. I have tried to save your people, to cross into Old Woman’s Country before soldiers find us.” He paused, stared out into the black night. “But I tell you three times, I think we will all be caught and killed.”

  After 36 hours, Miles finally called a halt to let the wagon train catch up. The winds had quieted, and the sun warmed the men as they stretched out to sleep. They were in prime hunting country: buffalo surrounded the camp, lifting their great shaggy heads to stare at the men and horses. Miles forbade shooting—a buffalo stampede might give them away.

  When the wagons caught up, Miles ordered eight days of rations packed on the mule train. At four p.m., 350 mounted men set off, the pack mules trailing behind. Five white scouts and 30 Cheyenne and Sioux rode out ahead, to scour the prairie for any sign of their quarry.

  They made camp at nine p.m., on a dry fork of the Milk River. Reveille sounded at three a.m., and when they broke camp at five a steady rain soaked them. They rode with heads down, water dripping off the brims of their dark hats, but they rode. They made 29 miles and camped in a deep ravine, where Miles let them gather buffalo chips. In this oppressive weather, at night, their smoke would go undetected, and Nez Perce scouts would have to be on the very edge of the ravine to spot their fires.

  The next morning they emerged around the end of the Little Rockies and angled northwest toward the Bear’s Paw, a series of low, half-forested ridges and conical buttes that stretched some 20 miles north to south. The temperature dropped and rain came intermittently. In truth, the weather was a blessing. They no longer had the Little Rockies between them and the hostiles, but the clouds pressed so low it was as if God himself had thrown a cloak over them.

  Just after midday a courier rode in with a message from Howard: neither he nor Sturgis were in any position to offer Miles support, should he catch the hostiles.

  So much the better, Miles thought. There would be no need to share credit.

  Red Bear was not happy to learn that Looking Glass had called a halt at noon. Scouts had killed four buffalo and left them in a hollow along Snake Creek, and Looking Glass decided they should use the willow bushes along the creek to build small lodges, to dry themselves and rest before their final two-day march. He knew this place from buffalo hunting, he said. There was good water here, and shallow bluffs rose on three sides to the rolling plains, offering some protection from the wind.

  Widow Bird and Daytime Smoke were already skinning buffalo when Red Bear dismounted. “Yesterday, when we were scouting behind us, we saw something far away, moving north,” he told them. “It was raining; we could not be sure what it was, but they did not move like buffalo. I think we should keep moving, and send out scouts to see what it was.”

  Both stopped their work. “I feel it, too,” his mother said. “Death stalks us.”

  “Go tell Looking Glass,” his father urged him. “You were right before, at Place of Ground Squirrels. He was wrong.”

  “You go with him,” Widow Bird said. “You saved us when we were trapped. He cannot ignore you.”

  “Yes,” Red Bear nodded. “He listens to you more than me.”

  The rain turned to large flakes of wet snow as Smoke limped through a gully and back up to Looking Glass’s makeshift tipi. The chief was inside, with his family, eating buffalo hump. He invited them in, offered them seats and food.

  Red Bear told him what he had seen yesterday. “I would like to take a party of scouts and see what it was,” he added. “Perhaps you should keep moving north.”

  Looking Glass frowned. “There are no soldiers near here. You saw Walk-Around Sioux, or Big Bellies.”

  “We camped three suns ago with Walk-Around Sioux,” Red Bear said. “They told us of a Soyappo war chief who chased Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse most of last winter, through deep snows. He did not stop until it was so cold cottonwoods split.”

  “Who is this white chief?”

  “Cutthroat People call him Bear Coat.”

  Looking Glass scoffed: “We will not travel in this weather. People need to dry meat and skin buffalo hides. They need to prepare for cold moons.”

  “Still,” Daytime Smoke said, “it would not hurt to scout.”

  “Our people and ponies must rest and eat! That is what we will do today!”

  Smoke rocked back, his eyes narrowing. “If soldiers are near, this is not a safe place to camp. We could be surrounded; they could shoot down on us from those bluffs.”

  Looking Glass’s eyes flashed. “I have been chosen to lead, and I have made my choice! We will camp here until tomorrow morning. The people need shelter. They need meat. If you disagree, take your women and leave!”

  Late in the afternoon, Miles saw riders approaching from the west. He waited impatiently, until Captain Maus and his scouts finally reined in. Maus saluted, then said, “Colonel, we’ve found their trail.”

  A slow smile broke over Miles’s face. “Where?”

  “Northwest of here.”

  “How far ahead?”

  “Perhaps a day.”

  “How far to the border?”

  “From here, maybe s
ixty miles.”

  Miles grinned. “Get some food, then go back out and find their camp.”

  He pushed the men hard, until dark. As they rode, he prayed that Joseph’s scouts would not spot them. If the hostiles proceeded at a normal pace, he would catch them short of the border, tomorrow. And the victory, after his defeat of the Sioux last winter, would surely earn him a general’s star.

  They camped beside a pond, just north of the Bear’s Paw. Several inches of snow had fallen by the time they stopped, but Miles ordered no fires. The men would have to do with hardtack and pork.

  “Tell everyone to get some sleep,” he ordered his adjutant. “Reveille at two a.m.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  September 1877

  “People! Listen well to my words! I dreamed last night, and when I woke up here, where we are camped, I saw my vision. Above was thick smoke of battle. In this stream was Nimíipuu blood. Very soon now we will be attacked!” It was Hair Combed Over Eyes, his breath forming clouds in the frigid morning air.

  Red Bear looked north, across a dry coulee, where Looking Glass had camped. No one was moving. “Go!” his mother told him. “Convince him to move this camp! Hair Combed is right! I can feel it!”

  Red Bear motioned to Hair Combed, who followed as he hurried into the coulee and back up to Looking Glass’s side. The scent of roasting meat filled the air. Looking Glass was seated before a fire, outside, eating.

  “Hair Combed Over Eyes has had another vision!” Red Bear said. “An attack is coming!”

  Looking Glass gazed up with contempt. “Hair Combed has many visions. The bluecoats are far behind us. We have nothing to worry about.”

  “But his dream warned us at Place of Ground Squirrels, and now he warns us again!”

  “Is Hair Combed a tewat? Does he see what will happen tomorrow?”

  “Is Looking Glass too proud to recognize a warning from spirit?” Hair Combed replied.

  The men glared at one another. Finally Looking Glass laughed. “Let people eat their breakfast in peace. No soldiers are near.”

  “Can you not see what is in front of your nose?” Red Bear exploded. “We have been warned twice! Will you wait for a third warning?”

  Looking Glass stood up slowly, turned his back, and walked away.

  As Red Bear ran back toward his family’s camp, he saw two riders at the top of a bluff, to the southeast. “Stampeding buffaloes!” they shouted. “Soldiers must be near!”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing. The riders repeated their message, then started down the bluff. Looking Glass’s voice boomed out: “Do not worry! It must be Indians who have stampeded buffalo! We have plenty of time! Let our children eat! They need full bellies.”

  Was his mind not right? Was his pride so great that he would accept no warning that did not come from his own mouth?

  Another rider appeared at the edge of the highest bluff, directly south of camp. He circled his horse and waved a blanket—the signal that enemies were about to attack.

  “Our horses!” Thunder Rising called out. “Save our herd!”

  Red Bear grabbed his rifle and slung a cartridge belt over his shoulder. His mother had already untethered his horse and Daytime Smoke’s; he mounted his own, took the lead for his father’s, and dashed after Thunder Rising, who had splashed across the creek. He and his young daughter were running through the deep grass, their leggings soaked. When Red Bear caught up he handed Smoke’s horse to the chief, who mounted it and pulled Sound of Running Feet up behind him.

  Red Bear heard a rumble like stampeding buffaloes from the south. He glanced back, saw Indian riders circling to the west of the camp, galloping toward the herd. As he sprinted toward the horses he heard gunshots. The herd began to move north, away from the attacking warriors.

  Red Bear saw an Indian galloping after some of the women who had run to catch horses. He raced after him and fired, and the Indian turned and fled.

  Grizzly Bear Lying Down threw signs to a Painted Arrow chief who rode toward him: “Stop right there! You have red skin, red blood. You must be crazy! We are Indians. We are humans. Do not help these white men!”

  The man reined in and answered: “I will not shoot you. I will shoot in air.”

  Red Bear watched as the man turned and trotted away. He reached a mounted Nimíipuu woman, caught her bridle, raised his six-shooter, and shot her in the head. Blind rage overcame Red Bear; he kicked his pony and raced toward the man, raised his rifle, and shot. But the Painted Arrow galloped away.

  South of the camp, Little Frog led 20 Nimíipuu warriors up the bluff to meet the soldiers’ charge. Smoke grabbed his rifle and ammunition belt and hobbled after them.

  “Wait for my signal!” Little Frog shouted. “Shoot those with stripes on their shoulders first!”

  Smoke reached them, out of breath, and peered over the crest of the bluff. A hundred horses thundered toward them. Their riders wore heavy buffalo coats and brandished pistols. Hatred surged through Smoke’s veins—he wanted to kill them all. He felt the wolf teeth that hung in a small hide bag around his neck and sang his power song.

  “Now!” Little Frog shouted.

  The Nimíipuu fired as one. Horses and men went down in a tumble and smoke rose thick and gray. A second volley hit those who stayed up, from close range. A few riderless horses reached the top of the bluff and stumbled over the edge and down, but most shied and fled. A few of the soldiers who survived turned and rode east, while others fled backward. Smoke took aim at a rider with shoulder stripes and brought his horse down. Reloading, he crawled to his left, to get a second shot, but another soldier rode between him and the downed man, carrying a music maker. Smoke fired and the signal-giver lurched backward. The striped shoulder rose to his feet, tried to aim his pistol at Smoke, but could not raise his arm. Smoke jammed in a cartridge, raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger, and the man flew backward.

  * * *

  Miles kicked his big gelding, raced east into a swale and back up onto the next bluff. Bullets cut the air around him. He found Captain Hale sprawled dead on a small knoll, a bullet hole in his throat, his white charger dead beside him. A little further on lay the body of Lieutenant Biddle.

  Lieutenant Eckerson galloped up, his arms full of ammunition belts, and threw them to the ground. “Who’s in command here?” Miles demanded.

  “I am, sir. They’re targeting officers. I’m the only goddamned man of the Seventh left with shoulder straps!”

  Miles whirled his horse, looked back across the swale to the central bluff. He could see Lieutenant Romeyn of the Fifth Infantry and his men. They had reached the spot where the Nez Perce had first stopped the charge, and their fire down into the camp was forcing the Indians to retreat to better cover, further back. He kicked his horse and sprinted back through the swale, bullets zinging past him. “Lieutenant Romeyn, take command of the Seventh!” he shouted, pointing. “Take Company G with you!”

  Company H was on the west side of the creek, where the herd had been. The cavalry charge had failed to drive the Nez Perce out of their defenses, but it had cut them off from their horses, and they were surrounded. They had found cover in the gullies and dug rifle pits.

  “Find someone who speaks their language and ask them to surrender!” Miles roared. Lieutenant Long raced off toward the rear, where Miles had established a headquarters. Five minutes later he returned with a packer. The man called out in Chinook, but there was no response. “Cease firing!” Miles shouted, and had him repeat the words in the relative stillness.

  “Come and take our hair!” an Indian voice replied.

  Miles sent a courier to Lieutenant Romeyn, who now held the bench to the east of the Indian camp, to take his G Company and what was left of the Seventh up to the edge of the cutbank and direct their fire against the Indians in the gullies below, to pin them down. Meanwhile Lieutenant Carter would take the 20 survivors from I, B, and F Companies, cross the creek, and charge the camp. Romeyn would signal them to move by sw
inging his hat.

  Miles watched through his glasses as the courier reached Romeyn and the two of them passed word down their lines. After a few minutes Romeyn looked his way, rose to his feet, and waved his black slouch hat in the air. His troops rose with a full-throated rebel yell just as rifles cracked and Romeyn spun backward and fell. His men charged forward, but three of them were hit, and the rest dove for cover.

  Little Frog had led his warriors back off the bluff, into their camp. He and Thunder Rising dug rifle pits, camouflaged by their crude, humpbacked lodges. Smoke retreated into a gully behind their camp and began to dig.

  Red Bear found him there. “The women are back in a ravine, safe from bullets!” he said. “Mother wants you to join them.”

  Smoke stared at him as if he were mad. “We must fight! Protect them!”

  A bullet thudded into the ground to their left, and they both started digging. “You will die!” Red Bear said.

  “My wyakin promised me bullets could never kill me!”

  “What if they charge our camp? With your ankle, you are slow. Can bayonets kill you?”

  “If they do, it is a good way to die! We must fight, my son! Together!”

  Their rifle pits were almost complete when 20 soldiers emerged from a ravine to the right of the bluffs, running in a crouch for the gully cut by the creek. Soyappos fired from both left and right, to pin down Little Frog and his men in their lodges. Smoke picked off the first soldier as he clambered up out of the gully. Little Frog and his men fired and thick smoke rose from the lodges. But as they reloaded more soldiers climbed out of the gully and charged onto the flat. Little Frog, Thunder Rising, and their men scrambled back toward Smoke; two men went down as they ran. The bluecoats got to the first lodges and dropped into the rifle pits.

  Little Frog and his men flung themselves into the gully next to Daytime Smoke and Red Bear. Red Bear spoke in Smoke’s ear: “Stay here and give us cover with your many-shots gun! We need to drive those bluecoats away!” Smoke nodded, began to shoot at the now-tattered lodges. Red Bear let out a piercing war cry and led the others in a charge back at the lodges, firing as he ran. When the smoke cleared soldiers were running for their lives. Daytime Smoke took careful aim at one, pulled the trigger, and watched him pitch face first into the gully.