Still clutching the wounded man’s bloody right arm suspended between them, the warrior yanked a pistol from his belt, placed the muzzle between Harry Mason’s open, angry eyes … and laughed as he blew the white man into oblivion.
* * *
Frank Fenn’s companions helped him pick Jennie Norton up from the ground and carry her to the back of the wagon, where they settled her near the tailgate. Then they brought Lew Day and Joe Moore to join her in the wagon box before the rescue party began struggling to remove the harness from John Chamberlin’s dead horses.
That’s when the others decided one of their number, James Adkison, should race back to Grangeville and bring out more volunteers to escort the wounded into the settlement.
Eventually the rest muscled the wagon clear of the carcasses and backed a pair of their riding horses on either side of the singletree. Two of the rescuers, brothers John and Doug Adkison, chose to ride atop their horses they had just hitched to the wagon. Electing to bring up the rear, Fenn joined George Hashagen and Charles Rice when they stepped over to untie their horses from the nearby brush.
With the shrieks of immortal banshees riding out of the maw of hell, the peaceful dawn erupted in war cries and gunshots as a war party appeared at the top of a nearby hill.
Suddenly Fenn and the others were bellowing as they clumsily leaped into the saddles atop their frightened mounts. Already the Adkison brothers were kicking and yelling at their horses, bolting the wagon into motion. Doug Adkison cried for the wounded Day and Moore to stay low and hang on as the wagon careened away from the ditch at the side of the road.
“No!” Jennie Norton screamed, flailing helplessly between Moore and Day. “They didn’t get Benjamin in the wagon yet!”
Joe Moore lunged out for her. “Mrs. Norton, get down!” He grabbed Jennie at the last moment, preventing her from pitching over the tailgate as the wagon weaved onto the road.
The Adkison brothers steered their team of saddle horses around the two dead animals.
A bullet whistled past their heads. “D-don’t leave my Benjamin!” she whimpered, watching their backtrail as the wagon lumbered away from her husband’s body lying by the side of the road, stretched out in the tall grass.
“We can’t!” groaned Lew Day as Fenn, Rice, and Hashagen twisted about to fire random shots over their shoulders, each of them galloping right behind the wagon, courageously forming a rear guard. “They’ll skin us all alive if we take time to fetch up his body.”
Joe Moore nodded, his grimy, powder-blackened face grim. “They can’t do no more to hurt your mister now, Mrs. Norton.”
Jennie cursed herself for not pleading with them to put Benjamin in the wagon bed even before they hoisted her over the tailgate. Now she was abandoning him in death, something she had never once done in life.
Side to side the frightened, untrained saddle horses whipped the wagon along that muddy, rutted road, racing into the new day’s light as Jennie watched the war party gaining, slowly gaining, on Fenn, Rice, and Hashagen. She saw how tight their faces were with fear—figuring they realized that within moments they might well be joining Benjamin Norton in death.
“It’s … it’s help comin’!”
At Joe Moore’s exuberant cheer, Jennie turned about painfully, peering up the road as the wagon took a wild bounce. Galloping off the spur that led to the Crook place and onto the Mount Idaho Road were at least eight to ten riders.
John Adkison twisted about on his horse’s back, his unkempt hair whipped by the wind as he shouted back to those in the wagon, “It’s my brother Jimmy, by damn! He got through to fetch more men! Whoooeee!”
“The red-bellies are laying off!” Lew Day announced, then groaned loudly as the springless wagon bounced over a rock in the road, one wheel spinning free in the air until it came back down with a teeth-jarring jolt.
Twisting around again, Jennie peered beyond the three rescuers on horseback, finding that the war party was indeed slowly reining up.
“They spotted them others coming out for us!” Moore shouted lustily. Then the hired man reached out and gripped the back of her blood-crusted hand. “We’re saved, Mrs. Norton. Don’t you see? We’re saved—”
“But not my Benjamin,” she sobbed, hiding her face in her hands as her head sank to her lap.
“They cain’t hurt him no more, ma’am,” Moore cooed. “We’ll go back and get him—that’s a promise. But, till then, the bastards can’t hurt your husband no more.”
Chapter 23
June 15, 1877
Helen Walsh shrieked as she had never screamed before the instant her brother’s head snapped violently and the back of his skull blew off in a red splatter.
In the next moment, the Indians surrounding her were howling as they clawed at her clothing. Cowering in a corner, the children were screeching even louder as Elizabeth was yanked to her feet by her hair. In a matter of heartbeats the warriors stripped both women naked to their stockings and boots, knocking Helen down and throwing Elizabeth Osborn back onto the mattresses as their young children scampered aside like a brood of chicks a fox had flushed from the henhouse.
Helen bit down on her tongue as a warrior backhanded her little Edward when he tried to reach his mother. But she angrily slapped one of the Nez Perce and attempted to lunge toward her whimpering son as his older sister, Masi, pulled Edward back from the growling warriors. The girl swept her brother into her arms, then turned protectively toward the corner.
Almost as if young Masi instinctively realized what these red heathens were going to do to their mother.
Helen’s head was smacked to the side with the brutal blow delivered by the warrior she had just slapped. She staggered, collapsing on her hands and one knee, seeing a warrior already climbing on top of Elizabeth, two more of them holding her arms and legs as she thrashed against the attack.
Then Helen realized she was being stretched out by some hands too, smelling their rancid grease, the firesmoke and dirt as their faces and arms and bodies loomed over her. The others pulled back slightly the moment they got her pinned on the mattress. She looked up through her puffy, swollen eyes in time to watch the Indian pull his breechclout aside just before he flung himself upon her.
She was sure he would rip her apart—but that’ll be all right, she thought. At least I’ll be dead.
One after another the warriors took their turns at both women. Eventually, somewhere in the middle of it all, Helen lapsed into sweet, blessed unconsciousness …
Suddenly she came to, having no idea how long she had been out. Helen did her best to cover her nakedness with her arms in front of the savages as a half-dozen or more of them backed away from the mattress together, settling their clothing and laughing. That is, all but one of the heathens.
As the children continued to wail, this lone savage stood there between the two naked women and surprised them both by speaking a little English. “You go now.”
“You’re … you’re setting us free?” Helen asked, trembling like a leaf with shame and fear. “Letting us go?”
“You go Lewiston. You go Slate Creek. You go where you like. Go now.”
Then the warriors were gone, hurrying out the door, onto their ponies. Their hoofbeats faded in the last of that day’s sunlight.
Masi came over with a thin blanket for her mother, then handed another to Elizabeth, whose dress still hung from her shoulders although it had been ripped completely down the middle.
“I … I wanna change my dress before we go,” Mrs. Osborn said with a hollow voice.
Helen wanted to give this friend a last shred of dignity, so turned away slightly when she asked, “Where do you think we should go?”
“Anywhere,” Elizabeth said, clutching the blanket around the tattered billows of her clothing.
“I figure to head out for Slate Creek,” Helen suggested, summoning up the last vestiges of her courage. “It’s getting late, but we might just make it there before it gets too dark to go on.”
/> “Find me a dress,” Mrs. Osborn said quietly as she started to hobble away, her legs scratched and bloodied beneath the bottom of the blanket. “A bl-black dress for mourning my William.”
Helen realized she didn’t have anything of the kind for herself, then thought of Edward. In a couple more days her husband would be getting back to this house from his trip and he’d find the ruin of it all, discover the three bodies, and likely go crazy wondering where she and their children had gone. Wondering if the heathens had stolen his wife and their young’uns.
Yet Helen Walsh knew she couldn’t stay here. Not with the bodies of the three men lying right there in pools of blood. Not after … what the warriors had done to both women there in front of the children.
When they both had dressed, Helen and Elizabeth picked up those three burlap sacks with the bread, cake, and cold meat still inside and started the youngsters upriver. The sun was going down, and the air was growing cool. Helen brooded on how good a nice, hot bath would feel.
Then she realized that no matter how hard she might scrub, likely she would never feel clean again.
Fort Lapwai
June 15, 1877
Dear Mamma,
Well, our Indian troubles, that we thought all over, have begun again, and this time the officers here seem to think it means business. General Howard is here again, and an Indian inspector from Washington is at the Agency. The thirty days that was given the Indians to come onto the Reservation expires today, and early this morning a party was started from the post to the upper part of the Reservation to see if they were keeping their promises. The party came back an hour ago, riding like mad people, and brought with them two friendly Indians that they met on the mountains and who were bound for the post and the Agency. The Indians had been riding all night and said other Indians, not friendly, were after them. These Indians bring word that the Indians have murdered four settlers up by the mountains, and that they are holding war dances, and that White Bird is riding round his tent on horseback and making circles on the ground, which is his way of declaring that they have taken up the hatchet, etc.
General Howard sent at once for four companies more to move up here and has sent off for hard bread and all such things that troops on a scout need. Things look exciting.
The story of the Indians is corroborated by a letter sent to the General from some settler up in the region asking for help and stating that the Indians were making trouble already and saying, “For God’s sake, send plenty of troops. Don’t handle them with gloves on.” I have heard officers discussing it, and the general impression is that if the Indians have begun, the troops are in for a summer campaign. General Howard said, “I wish the Doctor was here, but I will dispatch at once for Dr. Alexander, who is at Wallula, and he can join us at once.” My first thought was that I was glad John wasn’t here, but I know he would feel that his place was with the troops from the post he belongs to. If there is trouble, he will have to go anyway, as soon as he gets back. So I expect that all my delight in getting him back will be spoiled by knowing he will have to leave me again at once. We here will feel perfectly safe. The post will not be left without a good garrison. Two companies of infantry, at least, will be left here. But how anxious we will be about the little party out after the Indians. It is all horrible!
Mrs. Boyle just ran down the back way for a minute to discuss the matter for a little. She says it makes her feel sick. It is dreadful to think what might happen, but I can’t think these Indians, those we have seen so often, are going to fight the troops. General Howard, the inspector, the Agent, and Colonel Perry and the aides are all just now counciling together as to the country and best plan of action. I wish John was home, and I wish the Indians were at the bottom of the Red Sea. I don’t feel as if any other matter deserved consideration this morning.
… I do wish Doctor would come home. I feel as if the bottom was knocked out of everything.
Emily looked down and saw how her pen was trembling so. It was almost as if she were holding her breath and she couldn’t take another until he got back to her. How she wished he was there to put his arms around her.
* * *
Oliver Otis Howard stirred from his chair at the sudden hubbub out on the parade and stepped from Captain Perry’s quarters onto the porch and into the early-afternoon light to watch the five riders hurriedly dismount from their lathered ponies in front of the quartermaster’s office at the south end of the post grounds.
They appeared to be those same two soldiers and that half-breed interpreter—the three men Perry had dispatched early that morning to make the long journey to Mount Idaho in hopes of determining why the settlers in that area were so alarmed at the Non-Treaty bands presently on their way in to the Lapwai Reservation.
But with them were two more riders: Indians.
Howard stepped off the porch and started across that end of the parade for those five riders who stopped among a gaggle of soldiers and officers in front of the commissary. He realized he was already distressed that the three had returned after no more than a matter of hours—on lathered, done-in army mounts.
“Get them inside, Colonel!” Howard barked at Perry. “This is not meant for general gossip!”
The curious soldiers and anxious officers turned, finding the general approaching. They self-consciously began to back away from the five new arrivals. Perry quickly ushered Corporal Lytte and Private Schoor, along with Rabusco and those two Nez Perce, into the office and closed the door as soon as Howard shoved his way past the muttering crowd beginning to grow outside.
Otis slammed the door behind him. “What’s going on, Colonel?”
Perry wagged his head, saying, “Just what we were trying to find out, General. I’ve sent for Whitman to help Joe translate.” The post commander immediately whirled on Rabusco. “Tell it to me again: what did these two say to you that made you turn around?”
“Them two, Nat Webb and Putonahloo, not silly young men,” Rabusco answered gravely. “Them two say they’re killing white men.”
“Who’s killing white men?” Howard demanded, a cold knot tightening in his belly. Just when everything had seemed to be in place for making a success of his Nez Perce policy, enough of a triumph to wash away the stain of that debacle over the Freedmen’s Bureau … now some of the young bucks in the throes of their Dreamer religion had gone off and pulled the rug out from under him.
“Non-Treaty,” Corporal Joseph Lytte explained.
“White Bird’s warriors,” Rabusco clarified.
“When? And how did this happen?” Howard demanded.
He could clearly see how agitated the two Nez Perce became as they began to repeat their story for the interpreter. Rabusco had to stop them constantly, waving his hands for quiet that would allow him to make some sort of translation here and there throughout their tidal wave of information. The whole lurid tale of it came out in a hodgepodge of warrior names, places, and incidents. Disjointed as it was, the story nonetheless spelled out that at least two, perhaps as many as four, warriors had taken off from the village gathering at the head of Rocky Canyon to exact some sort of revenge against a white man who had killed the father of one of those avenging warriors.
By the time that Perrin Whitman and agent John Monteith arrived in a sweat from their sprint across the parade to confirm Rabusco’s terrifying translation, Howard was working hard at convincing himself this would prove to be only an isolated incident.
The general sighed and told them, “I have heard nothing that convinces me this is anything more than one young buck getting in a last, bloody lick against this fellow Ott who was absolved of murdering the man’s father.”
“But, General,” Whitman began, “it wasn’t Ott the warriors ended up killing. They murdered another man—Devine. A Salmon River settler who also harbored no kindness for the Nez Perce.”
“This isn’t good,” Perry intoned, wagging his head.
“We’ll surely keep an eye on things,” Howard observed, in
tent on not letting the somber mood get out of hand. “The bands are on their way in, just as planned.”
“But, General—this doesn’t bode well for getting the Non-Treaties onto the reservation,” Perry argued. “I suggest that we send some emissaries from the agency right to their camp on Camas Prairie, see if they can settle things down and convince the chiefs to get their people to Lapwai before any more incidents stir up the white settlers to retaliate against the Nez Perce.”
“Yes,” Howard ruminated, combing fingers through his graying beard. “If the settlers start taking revenge for that murder, then the Non-Treaty bands will take their revenge … and we’ll soon have a general war on our hands.”
Perry turned to Whitman. “Perrin, I want you and Agent Monteith to convince Chief Jonah to go talk to the Non-Treaty chiefs—convince them to get on their way here and do all they can to quiet things down right away.”
“I’ll send Jonah along with another,” Monteith suggested. “A good man for this job would be James Reuben.”
“The one who helped translate when Joseph and the chiefs were here?” Howard asked.
Turning to the general, Monteith said, “He’s Joseph’s nephew. A treaty Indian, like Joseph’s father-in-law.”
“Very good,” Howard replied hopefully. “I’m sure these two emissaries of yours will find that the murders are the handiwork of a few rebellious young bucks who have merely stepped out from the control of their chiefs.”
Chapter 24
June 15, 1877
After trudging a few miles up the Salmon from her brother’s place while the shadows lengthened, Helen Walsh led the others out of the timber, hurrying them across the open ground and in the back door of the Titman place. The warriors had been here, breaking everything they did not take with them as they scrounged about for weapons and whiskey.
Her gut flamed once more with the nightmarish memory of their repeated assaults, smelling again the stench of their stale, whiskey-sodden breath, feeling them rip her apart inside as each one in turn grunted over her. Just that remembrance made Helen start to retch, but she caught herself and swallowed down what little bile there was left in her stomach.
Cries from the Earth Page 23