Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  From their positions it was clear to see how the brief, hot fight had progressed. One body—of the civilian named Foster—was found in the tall grass, far out from the others. Then five more, soldiers all, scattered between the scout and those rocks where they located the last five, men who had attempted to sell their lives dearly. Empty copper cases glittered around them. But the weapons, gun belts, and their clothing were gone. And though the bodies had been stripped, none were mutilated or scalped.

  “That’s the lieutenant there, Captain,” announced First Lieutenant Edwin H. Shelton. He would know. He and Rains were officers together in Whipple’s L Company, First U. S. Cavalry.

  Nonetheless, it was hard for the captain to believe that the disfigured body was that of young Rains.

  “Appears the lieutenant really made the bastards angry,” Whipple said quietly. “Look how many times they shot him before they finally caved in his skull.”

  “Shall we bury them here, sir?” Shelton asked.

  Whipple regarded the climbing sun a moment, then answered, “No, Lieutenant. We can’t help them now—but we must see what we can do to help Colonel Perry’s escort. We’ll push on.”

  Marching beyond the hillside where the Rains dead had taken refuge among those low boulders, Whipple’s men spotted a solitary horse silhouetted atop a knoll, off to their right. Even with his field glasses, the captain was unable to determine if it was an Indian pony or one of the army horses claimed by those warriors who had committed the butchery on Lieutenant Rains.

  “It could be one of ours, sir,” Shelton reminded.

  “I don’t want to take the chance that it’s a decoy,” Whipple argued. “We won’t be lured into an ambush as easily as others might.”

  Some six miles later the column he had deployed in double skirmish lines spotted Perry’s seventy-five-mule supply train in the distance, its escort of twenty men from Company F, First U. S. Cavalry, just coming over the divide formed by nearby Craig’s Mountain.

  Perry patiently listened to Whipple’s extensive report on the Rains affair, then put the captain at ease when he announced, “I’m assuming command of your entire outfit. We’ll continue on in the direction of Cottonwood Station and reestablish our base there. On the way, we’ll stop and bury your dead.”

  But upon retracing their steps to the boulders by midmorning, the Perry-Whipple command soon discovered the Nez Perce had returned in aggravating numbers. Enough marksmen began firing from the rocks and timber on the slope of Craig’s Mountain that the burial details proved impossible. After close to an hour of long-distance sniping at the warriors, Perry ordered the efforts abandoned and they withdrew to Cottonwood.

  Reaching the Norton ranch about noon, the combined battalion now boasted 113 men under arms. For the rest of that Fourth of July morning Perry, along with Whipple and Winters, supervised the digging of four long rifle pits, one arranged in a semicircle on a large hill immediately southeast of the Norton house, another in a semicircle on the height southwest of the house, along with barricades erected near the house and barn, constructed using the split rails taken from the fences they tore down, in addition to some native brown stone found in several piles around the ranch. One of the rifle pits that enjoyed the most commanding view of prairie for miles was backed up with one of Whipple’s two Gatling guns.

  The temperature continued to climb through the long summer morning, baking the men unmercifully as they toiled. The sun had reached midsky when the first picket hollered the alarm.

  “Injuns! Injuns!”

  Hurrying to the barricades at the northern side of their perimeter, Whipple was the first to watch the detail he had engaged to bury Lieutenant Rains turning back for the lines as several warriors approached the group from the upper reaches of Cottonwood Creek. As the soldiers watched from their rifle pits, more and more warriors arrayed themselves on the brow of the nearby hill, not far from where they had watched scout William Foster return at a gallop just yesterday. Some more gathered on another hill to the east and even more on the knoll just to the west, until the bivouac was completely surrounded by horsemen.

  “How many of ’em?” some soldier asked.

  “What the hell does it really matter, son?” growled civilian George M. Shearer. “There’s more’n ’nough of the red niggers up there for all of us put together.”

  THE Yankee soldier who had lost them their fight in White Bird Canyon had assigned Shearer to supervise the construction of their fortifications at Norton’s ranch. George was good at that. Lots of experience in that recent war against Yankee aggression.

  But it seemed strange that he would be put in charge of so important a task when Colonel Perry had officers in his command who might have just as much experience building such defenses. But, George thought with a wry grin, while he and the poor enlisted men were up here on the heights digging the rifle pits, most every one of Perry’s officers were down there in the gulch near the station buildings, idle as could be, not occupied with a damned thing.

  Shearer had come in from Mount Idaho late that morning with three friends, having received word that there were soldiers at Cottonwood who might be in need of reinforcements. Four men weren’t much, but every man with a gun could well mean several more dead Indians by the end of a skirmish. Besides, if there was any chance of cutting down some more of those redskins, George was the first to mount up and ride into the fray.

  Back when the outbreak was just getting under way, Shearer had put together a posse of twenty volunteers to go in search of any additional survivors after the raid on the Norton party. He had rallied them into action, reminding his group of the pitiful sight of that Chamberlin woman as she scrambled away from her rescuers like a terrified animal, reminding them, too, of the wounded, inhuman cries that had escaped her throat.

  “Ain’t none of us ever gonna forget the sight of that poor Mrs. Chamberlin, fellers,” he had drawled in that distinctive Southern manner of his, something unique that set him apart from most others here in the Northwest, “knowing full well what them red Neegras done to her again and again: a fate that’s nigh wuss’n death.”

  Such treatment of women and children was enough to lather a gentleman something fierce.

  “So let’s go see ’bout catching us some red bucks and chopping off their balls afore we kill ’em real slow!” Shearer had goaded his band of twenty, shaking his doublebarreled Parker shotgun over his head.

  Little wonder he was worked up by the time they got the jump on a trio of Nez Perce bucks out at Ab Smith’s place. That set George to whooping with something akin to the Rebel yell, partly growling like that big black-haired mastiff one of the shopkeepers kept chained up outside his trading tent in the mining camp of Florence. Why, he sounded just like a snarling dog ready to lunge and latch onto your leg, take a hunk of meat right out of your arm … maybe even clamp its jaws down on your throat—if you were a Nez Perce.

  While two of the trio had leaped their horses over a fence, the third dismounted and started to hobble away. The posse shot the warrior several times before George halted over the Indian’s body and unloaded one of the two barrels into his back, so close the black powder started the Indian’s shirt to smoldering. But when he discovered the buck’s hand still twitching, Shearer had dismounted and inverted his shotgun, slamming the buttstock down into the warrior’s head. With a second blow, George shattered the stock.

  “Goddamn, if that didn’t feel good!” Shearer roared triumphantly, shaking his blood-splattered double-barreled shotgun in glee.

  “Bet this son of a bitch was one of them what got to Chamberlin’s woman!” one of the posse had cheered.

  “This’un prob’ly killed that li’l girl, too,” another voice chimed in.

  A third man had growled, “Likely this bastard chopped off the other girl’s tongue!”

  The killing of that lone warrior had in no way cooled the unmitigated fury Shearer felt at the Nez Perce for what they’d done to those women and children they had
attacked out on the Camas Road. And the army’s defeat at the White Bird only added more heat to his bloodlust for those less-than-human warriors who could commit such savage acts against the innocent.

  Maybe now, here at Cottonwood—he brooded—they could finally pit themselves against these red sonsabitches in a stand-up, man-to-man fight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  KHOY-TSAHL, 1877

  THE DAY WE CELEBRATE.

  —

  The nation will celebrate to-day the one hundred and first anniversary of the declaration of independence. The first century with its record of heroic achievement and splendid growth has closed, and we stand inside the threshold of the second. The war of the revolution, the second conflict with England, the conquest of Mexico, the determined struggle for the union, the social, industrial, moral, commercial and political progress of the first hundred years of national existence, with all their proud memories and patriotic reminiscences, are now matters of a past century,—to be recalled on each recurring anniversary, to impress their lessons of duty and patriotism upon every citizen of the republic …

  —editorial

  Rocky Mountain News

  July 4, 1877

  SHORE CROSSING COULD SEE THAT THE SOLDIER CHIEF WAS content to fight nothing more than a defensive skirmish through the rest of that long, hot afternoon. Evidently, the suapie saw no need to order his men out of their deep holes and charge off in pursuit of all those warriors who had them surrounded. In their hollows,* those soldiers were far safer than the soldiers had been at Lahmotta.

  For the most part, the Nee-Me-Poo also seemed content to harass the suapies, staying on their ponies, just out of range of the Shadow guns, riding this way and that around the entire circle of the soldier camp while a long-distance duel was waged throughout the long summer afternoon. But a few men dismounted from time to time, creeping up through the grass, often slipping as close as two arrow flights to the hollows, hidden by the brush choking the ravines, until they were discovered—when they were either driven back by soldier bullets or forced to keep their heads down, stalled in their skulking.

  Just before dusk Rainbow called for an attack on the southwestern edge of the suapie lines. But before the mounted charge could get very close, the soldiers turned their wagon gun* on the horsemen, hitting four of the ponies and turning back their daring assault. At times through the day, one or more of the horses were hit, here or there around the huge circle, but no man was ever struck by a bullet. There were no wounded or killed in that hot, noisy fight.

  Those soldiers had no idea that the Nee-Me-Poo weren’t fighting to dislodge the white men dug in like frightened gophers. No, this skirmishing with a lot of noise and yelling but no killing was only a diversion being conducted to keep the suapies busy while the camp inched across the naked, barren prairie just behind the northern hills. The men were buying time for their families, women, and children to escape down the Cottonwood to the Clearwater, where they could join up with the Looking Glass people.

  They kept up their shooting until it grew dark; then Rainbow and Five Wounds had their warriors mount up. They rode off to rejoin the village.

  And when the sun rose tomorrow, there might be some more long-distance skirmishing to keep the soldiers in their holes while the village finished its journey across the rolling prairie. This diversionary tactic had been decided by the Non-Treaty bands at a council held all the way back on the west side of the Tahmonah two days ago.

  Finding that Cut-Off Arm was indeed determined to follow them into that high, rugged, muddy country, the chiefs hurried the people north until they reached the familiar crossing at Luke Billy’s place.* But before ordering their people into their bullboats once again, the chiefs met in a hastily called council to decide where they would be going once they had crossed the river. North, east, or south? To the north lay the friendly Cayuse but also the Flathead, who might prove troublesome to the Non-Treaty bands because they were so closely allied with the Shadows. Over to the east lay the buffalo country that Looking Glass knew so well—but to reach it they would need Looking Glass’s help. And to the south lay a route that, Joseph explained, would take his Wallarmwatkin people back in the direction of their ancestral hunting grounds.

  “I wish to stay close to my homeland,” the Wallowa chief told the assembly. “If we need to fight, my heart tells me to fight the war in our own country. To fight for our own country.”

  Listening to the other chiefs, Shore Crossing was thankful White Bird and Toohoolhoolzote spoke on behalf of turning east and fighting their way across the Camas Prairie. A good thing the fighting chiefs outnumbered the Wallowa leader in the arguments made in that council. Joseph was silenced when White Bird announced that they would cross the river and march in search of Looking Glass on the Clearwater.

  Over the past two days of fighting the suapies, first in the rocks and later from their dug-out hollows, Shore Crossing had been reminded how most of the warriors really felt about Joseph. That soft-spoken orator had taken no part in the fight at Lahmotta. Instead, his brother, Ollokot—called the Frog in his childhood—had dashed out to join in humiliating and routing the soldiers.

  Every one of the fighting men who had listened in on that fateful council among the chiefs before crossing the river believed that Joseph should leave the fighting decisions up to the war leaders. His words and wishes shunned on the west bank of the Salmon, Joseph had been relegated to an even more subordinate role.

  It made Shore Crossing grin to think how this Wallowa who had spoken so strongly against the struggle at its start, was now helplessly swept up in that war, overshadowed by real fighting men. Eeh! Let Joseph take care of the women and children arid sick ones! Leave to this camp chief only those decisions no more important than those made by a herder!

  Yet one thing remained a constant: The suapies would follow the village. They always followed. Which meant that the real fighting was yet to come.

  Shore Crossing didn’t think he could wait for the blooding.

  “COUNT me in, Cap’n Randall!” cheered thirty-eight-year-old Luther P. Wilmot as he scrambled up to join the small group gathered around D. B. Randall in front of Loyal P. Brown’s Mount Idaho House hotel.

  “I’m proud to have you ride with us, Lew!” answered Darius B. Randall, the popular leader of the civilian militia recently banded together, what with the Nez Perce uprising. He himself had a long-standing dispute with the peaceful Treaty bands, who claimed Randall was illegally squatting on their reservation.

  “I ain’t got no horse, ’cept that wagon puller brung me in when Pete and me was jumped on the Cottonwood Road,” Wilmot apologized in his soft voice, brushing some of the dirty blond hair out of an eye.

  “One of you boys fetch Lieutenant Wilmot a saddle,” Randall asked the crowd, then looked at Lew again.

  “L-lieutenant?” Wilmot echoed the rank.

  Randall nodded. “You’re a steady hand, Lew. We’re gonna get in a fight with these redskins soon enough. Something happens to the captain of this outfit, they’re gonna need a lieutenant—a steady hand—to keep ’em together. Besides Jim Cearly over there—you fit the bill nicely, Lieutenant.”

  “T-thanks, D. B.,” he answered quietly, a little self-conscious in front of the other men.

  “Now go get that big horse you rode in here,” Randall suggested. “That wagon puller of yours was strong enough to get you to Mount Idaho just in front of them Injuns. It’ll be strong enough to carry you on that scout I want you to lead over west to Lawyer’s Canyon.”

  This first morning after Independence Day, a Thursday, Randall was calling for volunteers to join him in going to relief of the army entrenched on Cottonwood Creek.

  For the last two or three days news had been drifting in that the hostiles had recrossed the Salmon River and were slowly marching for the Clearwater, with the likely intention of joining up with the survivors of Whipple’s botched attack on Looking Glass’s village.

  Wilmot and his ha
ndful of scouts hadn’t gotten but a couple of miles out of town, making for Lawyer’s Canyon on the far side of Craig’s Divide, when they met a Camas Prairie settler, who told them the hostiles had in fact reached the east side of the Salmon and were crossing behind Craig’s Mountain.

  “I was up to the soldier camp at Ben Norton’s ranch last couple of days,” Dan Crooks explained. “Told them the news, too. To see for themselves, the officers sent out a scouting party two days back, with near twice as many men as you got with you, Lew.”

  “Them soldiers see the Nez Perce camp like you done?”

  Crooks wagged his head dolefully. “All of ’em got wiped out.”

  Of a sudden, Lew remembered how the body of John Chamberlin had looked when they found him on the prairie. “Massacred?”

  “Soldiers went right out that evening to bring back them butchered bodies, but on the way back to Cottonwood they was jumped by an even bigger war party and was drove back to Norton’s about nightfall,” Crooks declared.

  Lew studied the face of this youngest son of John W. Crooks, a wealthy landowner in these parts. “Them Injuns move on?”

  Crooks wagged his head. “They come right back yesterday for a long fight with the soldiers; noon till moonrise, it was. So last evening I decided I was gonna light out for Mount Idaho at sunrise this here morning—gonna bring word to my pa and everybody that them soldiers need a hand.”

  “C’mon,” said the lean and lanky Wilmot as he reined his horse around. “We’re going back to tell Captain Randall your bad news. I figger he’ll want us all to light out for Cottonwood Station to give the army some help.”

  If anything was going to be done about stopping that Nez Perce village marching east from Craig’s Mountain, then they would need every man—soldier and civilian—to get the job done.

  Lew Wilmot and his twenty-eight-year-old freighting partner, Peter H. Ready, had had their own run-in with some murderous Nez Perce out on the Cottonwood Road just twenty days before, the same night the Nortons and Chamberlins were jumped and most in the escaping party killed. But the pair of teamsters had managed to cut free a couple of their big harness horses and lumber off bareback while most of the warriors slowed and halted to rummage through all those supplies destined for the Vollmer and Scott store in Mount Idaho that the white men had been hauling in their two wagons. Up to that moment, neither of them had heard a thing of what trouble was then afoot. An outright Indian uprising.