Lay the Mountains Low

by Terry C. Johnston

  He was certain the swaggering youngsters had let the wolf out to howl by the time they came roaring back late that afternoon, leading seven stolen horses.

  “Did you kill any Shadows while you were away disobeying me?” Looking Glass shrieked at Toohoolhoolzote’s young hotbloods the moment he had them stopped at the southern edge of the village.

  “No,” one of them replied in a surly manner as their ponies pranced around the chief and some of the older men. “Everyone is gone—so we weren’t lucky enough to find any Shadows we could torture and kill!”

  The rest in the party laughed along with their brassy leader, then stopped abruptly when Looking Glass hauled the arrogant leader to the ground. He stood over the youth, glaring down at him, trembling as he pointed at the stolen horses.

  “Where did you get these Shadow ponies?”

  “How do you know they are not my horses?” retorted the leader as he slowly got to his feet, rubbing a scuffed-up shoulder.

  Grabbing hold of the callow youth’s elbow and wrenching him around, Looking Glass pointed a finger at the picture scar on one horse’s rear flank. “Is that a Shadow brand?”

  “I-I—”

  “Then this is a Shadow horse you stole!” the chief snapped.

  “There was no one there to watch over them,” the leader explained, turning with an impish grin to the rest of his friends, “so we took them.”

  Slamming the heel of his palm against the big youngster’s chest, Looking Glass knocked the horse thief backward two steps as he thundered, “You have broken my promise to the Shadows!”

  “The white men have no need of knowing,” Toohoolhoolzote said as he stepped up beside the young man.

  Looking Glass glared at them both. “It was my word,” he snarled. “These stupid boys have broken my word not to cause any trouble as we pass through the Bitterroot!”

  Taking a meaningful step toward the top-hat chief, the shaman said, “They are only horses—”

  ”Toohoolhoolzote, these are yours,” Looking Glass chided, shoving the youngster toward the squat medicine man. “If they were my people, I would lay their backs open with a whip.”

  That old, square-jawed tewat began to speak: “But—”

  “But,” Looking Glass interrupted, “they are yours to discipline. If this happens again—if any man disobeys my orders against causing trouble—then I will see that he is severely punished and left behind.”

  Again the old shaman began to speak, but before he could, Looking Glass purposefully turned his back on Toohoolhoolzote and stuck his face right in that of the young leader.

  “On second thought … I will discipline these stupid boys,” he growled.

  The young horse thief’s eyes quickly snapped at Toohoolhoolzote, then back to Looking Glass.

  “I want all of you to pick out one of your own horses from those you own,” Looking Glass ordered, “and if you don’t own another, then you will give me the one you are riding at this moment.”

  “W-what do you want our horses for?” the leader asked.

  “You will take me back to where you stole the Shadow horses,” Looking Glass declared sharply. “There you will leave your horses in place of the ones you stole.”

  Bird Alighting and others rode with Looking Glass when the horse thieves led them to the white man’s ranch house and corral. The poles the young warriors had removed from a section of the corral lay scattered on the ground; the door to the cabin hung open. Inside they found how the young troublemakers had rooted through it all, breaking and destroying everything they did not want to carry away with them.*

  “Build a fire over there,” Looking Glass ordered the young thieves.

  “Are you going to burn some of this?” the leader demanded, grinning, some haughtiness returning to his voice.

  “No, I’m going to find this Shadow’s iron marker and you are going to burn his brand into the horses you are giving him,” the chief said sourly. “Go build that fire for me, now.”

  Proof of their raids back in Idaho became evident as some of the Non-Treaty warriors traded off a few horses to ranchers and merchants as they moseyed up the valley at a leisurely, unconcerned pace—animals that bore the brand scars of their Idaho owners. Here as they neared the head of the Bitterroot, Bird Alighting realized why Looking Glass was doing right by this individual settler: Maintaining the goodwill of these Montana Shadows was crucial to the success of a new life outside their ancient homeland.

  In fact, if they were to be sure that relations with the white people of Montana did not disintegrate as they had in Idaho country, Looking Glass and the older men had to be constantly vigilant, assuring that the young men did not ride off and do something stupid to reignite the flames of war. In this case, the chiefs were clearly as anxious as the Bitterroot Shadows to avoid trouble.

  Every time one of the white men had appeared with a wagonload of trade goods near the camp as the People slowly migrated up the Bitterroot valley, the older men remained close to the visitor so they could assure that the young hotbloods fomented no trouble while the women purchased flour and cloth, and even some cartridges for the guns, although a few of the white men charged as high as one dollar a bullet.

  But the Nee-Me-Poo had money! Lots of it: the Shadows’ paper currency, silver and gold coins from Idaho, and sacks of gold dust earned in trade or taken in those first raids. A dollar a cartridge? That was no problem! After all, each of those bullets would kill a buffalo, making meat and providing another winter robe for the women to tan once they reached the land of their friends the E-sue-gha.

  Far up the Bitterroot, where the terrain no longer lay flat, the valley narrowed and the slopes of the Bitterroot and the Sapphires closed in as the village began its ascent toward the nearby passes. But first, the Nee-Me-Poo temporarily halted their migration to pay homage at the Medicine Tree,* an ancient and hallowed site for them and the area’s Flathead. For generations beyond remembrance the Non-Treaty bands had been coming and going by this spot, migrating between their homes and the buffalo country. Even before the arrival of the first pale-skinned Boston men, they had stopped to make offerings and pray at the base of this tree.

  More than eight feet off the ground, embedded at the base of a large branch, hung the bleached skull and horns of a mountain sheep—those bony remains more encircled with every season as the ancient yellow ponderosa pine inexorably grew around that timeworn skull.**

  Pausing briefly here in this region cloaked with heavy mystery and sure signs of the supernatural at work, the women came up, dragging young children they hushed as the People crowded around the tree’s enormous base. With murmurs of prayers and praise, men and women alike tied offerings of cloth or ribbon, tobacco or strips of buckskin, even some copper-cased cartridges, to the branches and limbs, each item attendant with a special and heartfelt prayer … for this was known to the Nee-Me-Poo as the wishing tree.

  Found along many Indian trails, these renowned “wishing” sites offered a traveler the opportunity to make his or her prayers for success in some current undertaking, be it as innocent as a new love affair or a hunting trip or as serious as a deadly foray against a powerful enemy. Far, far back into the days of the ancient ones, the Non-Treaty bands had believed this sacred tree itself would not only grant the wishes of those women who made their prayers at its base but also give their men the power of mastering horses and killing game for the survival of their people. There were powerful forces at work in this place of great mystery. Now that they were closing on the buffalo country, their prayers to such spirits would be vital to the survival of the bands—

  ”Kapsisniyut!” Lone Bird exclaimed. “This is a bad and evil thing I see!”

  Everyone suddenly turned the man’s way as he stumbled in approaching the base of the tree, collapsing to his knees—eyes rolling back in their sockets—a long moment while the crowd grew hushed.

  Bird Alighting rushed to the man’s elbow, supporting this warrior known as Peopeo Ipsewahk. As th
e frightened women pulled their children against their legs, everyone inching back to give Lone Bird a broad circle, the warrior’s eyes slowly focused on the Medicine Tree’s highest branches and he began to explain in a trembling voice.

  “I have just had a dream given me while I was awake!” he spoke in a loud voice. “A dream of what is to come,” he said a little quieter but even more emphatically. “A great heartbreak, a terrible tragedy, is about to befall us if we tarry too long in making our way into the land of the buffalo! Koiimzi! Hurry! We cannot wait; we cannot linger!”

  Never before had Bird Alighting heard the slightest fear enter Lone Bird’s voice. An icy-cold fingernail scraped itself down his spine.

  All too true: They were moving slowly—taking as much as nine days to march the one hundred Shadow miles it would take to get from the mouth of the Lolo Canyon to reach the Big Hole Prairie.

  “We are going, Lone Bird,” consoled Looking Glass as he stepped to the man’s side. “We are marching to the land of the E-sue-gha.”

  Lone Bird reached up to grab the front of Looking Glass’s shirt as he leaped to his feet again. “No! I feel the breath of hattia tinukin, the death wind, on my neck,” he pleaded. “We are taking too long, too long!”

  White Bird himself shouldered his way through the fringe of the murmuring crowd and confronted the two men, glaring at Looking Glass with worry graying his wrinkled face. “See, Looking Glass? For the past two days I myself have told you we should leave the lodgepoles behind and hurry, hurry! The women can cut more another place.”

  “The war is far behind us!” Looking Glass argued, shrugging, his palms to the sky.

  “Dragging our lodgepoles is making us too slow!” White Bird snapped.

  “But we have children and women, a big herd of horses,” the head chief explained.

  “Yes!” Lone Bird warned, turning from Looking Glass, his frightened eyes searching out others in the front ranks of that hushed crowd shrinking back from his nightmare vision. “My dream showed me how we are moving too slow. Far too slow … on this trail that will bring us death—”

  “Just on the other side of these heights is the Iskumtselakik,”* Looking Glass scoffed. “And Cut-Off Arm is far, far behind us. Besides, the Shadows of Montana have shown themselves to be our friends. They trade with us; they sell us what we need for our travels. We have left the war far behind us—”

  “No! Even as we stand here, the death wind is already coming up behind us!” Lone Bird whirled, pointing down the valley in the direction they had come.

  Past the little settlement of Corvallis. On past Stevensville and their big earthen fort. Perhaps even past the mouth of Lolo Creek toward the community of Missoula City itself.

  “I have seen the face of death,” Lone Bird whispered in the stillness of that hushed assembly, “the death that is already stalking our trail!”

  Bitter Root Mountains

  Camp Spur gin in the Field

  August 1, 1877

  Darling Wife,

  Last night we had rather an unpleasant time, but I was somewhat comforted with your letter of the Saturday after my departure, and was made happy in your saying that you are all well, or were so when I left, I said we had a rather unpleasant night of it, for we went to bed without our tents, and it began to rain about midnight. So I had to get up and make a shelter with a tent fly which I had laid on the ground as a sort of mattress. Doctor Newlands and I were bunking together. However, we finally made it comfortable and rain proof and then slept on till morning.

  Got up at 5 A.M. but did not march until 11 A.M., and then only went 8 miles and made the nicest camp we have yet had in among partially wooded hills, or rather, mountains. We had some fine mountain views yesterday and today. We were so high up that the whole extent of mountainous country was spread around us. Tomorrow we are to march about 18 miles and make camp on the Clearwater River, the same river that runs by the Agency, only we shall find it a mere mountain brook that can be easily forded by the men and horses. I shall think then of my darlings, and make the stream a little mental address about going down to the Lapwai and leaving a message from me to those I so love.

  Captain Spurgin, 21st Infantry, caught up with our army last night, and today some beef cattle arrived to serve as food for us all, poor things. We find for the last 3 nights hardly any grass for our horses and pack mules. It is very poor, indeed, and we shall not get any better for 3 or 4 days to come. We are still some 50 miles from the summit of the Bitter Root range of mountains which, you know, is the dividing line between Idaho and Montana Territory. Then we shall have 60 miles more to Missoula. No Indians have been heard of yet, and I suspect that our mountain climbing this week and next will not accomplish any substantial result. The life we lead on such a campaign is very rough, and it would puzzle many to account for the fact that it is, to some extent, enjoyable. Only when the elements frown upon us does it seem discouraging. Last evening and night, and also this morning, everyone looked disgusted with everything, but we made an early and very pleasant camp after a short day’s march, and presto, everybody is changed, and a generally cheerful aspect prevails.

  I hope, Darling, that this scribble will find you all well. Tell Bert that Papa is coming back to his place at the table and home just as soon as he can. Tell him that when I was riding along in the big woods today, I came upon a poor little Indian pony which had been left behind, and it followed us into camp. If I was only going towards home, I would try and bring it in for him. Tell Bessie, my girl, that Papa yesterday saw a great many beautiful flowers along the way, and they made me think of my little girl. I wish I could send her some fresh ones. As it is, I will put it in for you, Dear, and a sprig of heather in bloom which is all about our camp tonight. I gathered an armful of it to spread my blankets on for my bed tonight. I wish, Darling, you would write—every chance you get. I will endeavor to do the same.

  Your loving,

  John

  Remember me to the Sternbergs and the Boyles.

  *By now past Sweathouse Creek, farther up the Bitterroot valley.

  *Myron Lockwood later put in a claim for $1,600 for the loss of not only some horses and a few cattle but also a supply of flour, all his busted furniture, some harness chopped up, and three of his favorite shirts.

  *This colossal tree dating back to the 1700s still stands east of U. S. Highway 93 a few miles south of present-day Darby, Montana.

  **For many years the local settlers protected this revered religious icon. Some time after the Nez Perce war, the skull was chopped out of the tree by a local lumberjack, roaring drunk at the time. After hearing that irate locals were planning to lynch him for his desecration of this sacred object, the man fled for safer parts. As the tale is told, he had only meant to adorn the wall of his favorite saloon in nearby Skalkaho (present-day Hamilton, Montana).

  *What the Nee-Me-Poo called the Place of the Ground Squirrels, the valley of the Big Hole.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  AUGUST 2–7, 1877

  BY TELEGRAPH

  —

  MONTANA.

  —

  Progress of the Indian War.

  PORTLAND, July 30.—General Howard is at present at Kamia, awaiting the arrival of Major Sanford, and as soon as that officer joins him, Howard will take all the available forces and push vigorously on after Joseph and White Bird, who have already crossed Bitter Root mountains by way of the Lolo trail. He will go to Missoula as rapidly as his command can move. He will have in the neighborhood of five hundred men. Another force, under command of General Wheaton, will leave Fort Lapwai and pass through the Spokane country over into Montana, through Sahon pass. After crossing the mountains the troops will push down to Missoula, where they will join General Howard. It is expected that Howard’s and Wheeler’s detachments will reach that point simultaneously.

  HE HAD BEEN THE FIRST WHITE MAN TO VIEW THE stripped, bloated, mutilated bodies of more than 220 dead soldiers offered up on that hot, grassy ridge be
side the Little Bighorn River as if in sacrifice to some heathen deity.

  First Lieutenant James H. Bradley was his name. Seventh U. S. Infantry; serving under Colonel John Gibbon out of Fort Shaw on the Sun River in north central Montana Territory.

  This past May Bradley had celebrated his thirty-third birthday. Uneventful his life had been until April 1861, when seventeen-year-old Jim left his place of birth—Sandusky County, Ohio—and marched off to war with the Fourteenth Ohio Volunteers. Taken prisoner and held for half a year by the Confederates, he was released in time to serve during the siege of Atlanta. By the time he was discharged at the end of the war he had risen to the rank of sergeant with the Forty-fifth Ohio Volunteers.

  The remembrance of those long, deadly days on the outskirts of Atlanta always made the young soldier smile at the ironic twists his life had taken. With Reconstruction under way across the Confederated states, he fell in love with and married a daughter of the Old South, her father, an Atlanta physician—his Miss Mary Beech.

  Knowing what little opportunity he had to return home to at the end of the war, Bradley enlisted in the regular army, serving with the Eighteenth U. S. Infantry—which engaged against the Lakota at Crazy Woman’s Fork in Dakota Territory during the early days of the Bozeman Road—before he was transferred to the Seventh U. S. Infantry in 1871, along with a promotion to first lieutenant.

  The young lieutenant and his wife were soon blessed with the first of two daughters—Bradley called all three his houseful of ladies.