Cries from the Earth

by Terry C. Johnston

  Watching her wipe her mouth, Elizabeth Osborn and the children stood quietly in the utter silence of the place.

  Turning to them all as she dropped the two sacks she was carrying, Helen said, “I want all of you to look around for anything to eat. Anything. Bring it here so you can share it with everyone else. And, Masi—I want you and Annie to go out to the barn and see what you can find out there to eat.”

  As the children scattered to search under every overturned table and tick, to search in every drawer and on every shelf still nailed to a wall, Helen glanced at Elizabeth and wondered if her friend was feeling the sort of numbing shame she herself was suffering.

  Perhaps that was why Elizabeth hadn’t spoken to her much after they lit out from the Mason place, hadn’t said a thing at all about what the warriors had done to the two of them.

  It wasn’t long before her daughter Masi and Elizabeth’s girl, Annie, were back from the barn. Masi proudly carried a large pail she set at her mother’s feet.

  “You found that? Wonderful,” Helen enthused as she hugged both of the girls. “Milk is just the thing to have with our supper.”

  After calling the rest of the children over and having them sit in a small circle at the middle of the floor in the ransacked front room, Helen and Elizabeth distributed some of that food the three men had stuffed inside those mill sacks. They located two tin cups, dipping them into what little milk the Titmans had urged from their cows before they up and abandoned the place. But there was enough that the children could wash down their bread, the butter cake, and a little cold meat for each of them.

  “Ain’cha gonna eat, Mamma?” Masi asked innocently, licking at the filmy mustache across her upper lip.

  “I’m not hungry, children,” Helen lied, sensing the pangs stab through her like a twisting butcher knife she wished the savages had used on her instead of their … their … but she squeezed away that thought. Although she hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours, Helen Walsh had no appetite and couldn’t bear the thought of trying to swallow any food. She knew it would likely come right back up. Better that the children were fed—

  Suddenly a face appeared at the front window, like an odd, out-of-place portrait surrounded by the broken panes of glass the warriors had shattered. Two of the children shrieked. Helen and Elizabeth each grabbed for a child, at the same time searching for some object lying on the floor they could use as a club. Then Helen recognized the face.

  “Mr.… Mr. Shoemaker,” she gasped with no small relief, her heart pounding. “You startled us.”

  “I been comin’ on your backtrail,” he admitted as he stepped into the open doorway from the narrow porch, his soppy boots still soggy on the timbers, his clothes damp and clinging to his skin. “After I got them calves out on their pasture, figgered I’d just as well light out to see you got in to Slate Creek awright, ma’am.”

  Helen watched his weepy eyes dart over the children as if he was weighing what he could say. With his next words, Shoemaker’s voice dropped into a husky whisper. “By the time I was coming in from the pasture, I see’d the Injun ponies out front of the house, ma’am. When the shooting started I took off back of the barn. Climbed down into the crick under the brush and stayed up to my neck in the water, hoping like hell them bastards didn’t come find me. Stayed there a long time after it got quiet in the house. Later on, I come up to the window and found wasn’t nobody left in the place. So I reckoned I’d come after you and the children.”

  “We’re glad you’re with us now,” Helen admitted, but doubted that the old man could offer them any protection if the warriors decided to return for more of their abuse or to simply kill them all.

  “I figger to catch my breath here, Mrs. Walsh,” Shoemaker explained as he sat and started to untie one of his soggy broghams. “Dry my stockings a bit, then I’ll push on down to Slate Creek.”

  Thankful for his company, she said, “We’ll be ready to go when you are, Mr. Shoemaker.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” the old fellow retorted quickly as he dragged the first shoe off, and the stocking with it. “I don’t think you and the young’uns should go on with me.”

  Elizabeth Osborn got to her feet to stand beside Helen. She asked, “You’re talking about going alone, yourself?”

  “I think it’s best I leave you and the children here,” he explained as he wrung out that first stocking on the bare floor.

  “You wouldn’t leave us here alone, Mr. Shoemaker!” cried young Annie Osborn as she leaped to her feet and rushed over to clamp her arms around the old man’s neck.

  Helen watched as the hardened, resolute look on Shoemaker’s face suddenly softened.

  He gently wrapped his arms around the child and brought her into his lap, his weary, bloodshot eyes misting. “Y-you wanna go with me, Annie?”

  “Take me when you go, please,” she begged.

  Peering up at Elizabeth, Shoemaker said, “If your mamma says you can come with me.”

  Elizabeth glanced uncertainly at Helen for a moment, then said to the old man, “Yes. You can go, Annie. But you do what Mr. Shoemaker says. When he tells you to hush, you be quiet as a field mouse.”

  Annie got to her feet and lunged against her mother. “I know, Mamma. I won’t say a thing because the Injuns gonna hear me. I won’t make no trouble for Mr. Shoemaker.”

  He pulled off his second sock and was wringing it as he said, “We’ll go through to Slate Creek by way of the timber. Get some help, then c’mon back to fetch the rest of you.”

  Helen nodded. “We’ll find a place to hide till you do.”

  After knotting his broghams once more, Shoemaker stood and gazed at the two women. “I’ll be back for the rest of you. Don’t neither of you ladies worry ‘bout that.”

  Then the old man knelt before the child. “C’mon, Annie girl. You’re gonna ride to Slate Creek.”

  “P-piggyback?”

  “A real horsey ride, li’l’un,” Shoemaker said as he rose with the girl on his back, her tiny arms locked around his loose throat wattle.

  At the door he turned again one last time to the two women. “Annie here’s gonna give me a hand bringing you back some help.”

  Then Helen Walsh and Elizabeth Osborn watched the grizzled old field-worker step through the doorway and into what that night would bring them all.

  From that moment on, it was almost as if she were holding her breath. To see if the old man really did make it to Slate Creek to bring back a rescue party … or if they were all destined to die at the hands of the heathens.

  * * *

  Less than an hour after seeing treaty chief Jonah Hayes and Joseph’s nephew, James Reuben, off for the Nez Perce encampment, David Perry heard hollering out on the parade. He went to the door and stepped onto the porch that ran the width of the duplex residence he and his wife shared with the FitzGeralds just in time to watch those two Nez Perce returning to the post on their very weary ponies, accompanied by two civilians he did not recognize.

  As the quartet reined up in front of Perry late that afternoon, dragging with them an instant crowd of the curious and the concerned, the captain had figured the pair for civilians from the settlements. White men. But when he peered under the brims of their hats, Perry could tell the riders were Indians. Likely members of the Treaty bands who were in Mount Idaho on some business when the uproar started. Both of them sat horses clearly done in by their ordeal of crossing the rolling prairie and the Craig’s Mountain Divide between Grangeville and this Lapwai post.

  “My name’s West,” one of the men said a bit breathlessly as he reached inside his shirt and fumbled. “Brown—he give me writing for you.”

  The second added with a thick accent, “Chapman.”

  “Ad Chapman?” Perry asked.

  “Yes, Chapman’s this man’s friend. Tucallasasena is Looking Glass’s brother,” the first rider replied in his uncertain English as General Howard stepped up to Perry’s elbow.

  “Looking Glass’s brothe
r, is he?” David peered over the parade quickly, seeing how the wives and children of the post were converging on the scene.

  He turned and found Emily FitzGerald and Mrs. Boyle too, both of them looking on with the creases of concern graying their long faces. Too much activity, far too much, for any of them to attempt to keep this a secret any longer now.

  “Where is this message from Mr. Brown?” Howard asked impatiently, leaning against the porch railing and holding out his hand.

  The general took the paper from the rider, unfolding it as he stepped back to stand beside Perry. Together, they both coolly read in silence:

  MOUNT IDAHO, 7 A.M., Friday, June 15, ’77 COMMANDING OFFICER FORT LAPWAI:

  Last night we started a messenger to you, who reached Cottonwood House, where he was wounded and driven back by the Indians. The people of Cottonwood undertook to come here during the night; were interrupted; all wounded or killed. Parties this morning found some of them on the prairie.… One thing is certain, we are in the midst of an Indian war. Every family is here, and we will have taken all the precautions we can, but are poorly armed. We want arms and ammunition and help at once. Don’t delay a moment. We have a report that some whites were killed yesterday on the Salmon River … You cannot imagine people in a worse condition than they are here.…

  Yours truly,

  L. P. Brown

  So stunned was he by Brown’s message that it surprised Perry when the other Nez Perce courier held out his own folded paper.

  “A second message, General,” Perry commented.

  “Tucallasasena,” the half-breed began, “he come out of Mount Idaho ’bout a hour after me. Catched up with me on the road near Craig’s Mountain.”

  Howard appeared to give the riders no mind as he took the page and opened it, both he and Perry seeing that Brown had written it an hour after the first message they had just finished reading. The captain’s eyes flashed across the words written by an increasingly agitated L. P. Brown:

  I have just sent a despatch by Mr. West, a half-breed. Since that was written the wounded have come in … Teams were attacked on the road and abandoned. The Indians have possession of the prairie, and threaten Mount Idaho … Lose no time in getting up with a force … Give us relief, and arms and ammunition … I fear that the people on Salmon have all been killed, as a war party was seen going that way last night. We had a report last night that seven whites had been killed on Salmon. Hurry up; hurry! Rely on this Indian’s statement; I have known him for a long time; he is with us.

  L. P. Brown

  Perry looked up from the page, blinking with worry as he took a step closer to the railing. Deep concern gouged a furrow between his eyes as he glowered at the half-breed and Looking Glass’s brother.

  Apprehensively Perry took a deep breath, then said, “All right now—you must explain to us exactly what’s going on at Mount Idaho.”

  * * *

  Afternoon

  Mamma, dear,

  I only have time to write a few lines, as the mailman will be here. Oh, Mamma, we have just heard such horrible news. The Indians have begun their devilish work. An Indian and half-breed came in this afternoon with dispatches from Mount Idaho, a little settlement up on the mountains. The Indians have murdered seven more men on the road and also have attacked an emigrant train killing all. They broke one poor woman’s legs, and she saw them kill her husband and brother. They say everybody is gathered into this little town. They want help, and arms, and ammunition immediately. They say in the most piteous manner, “Hurry, hurry, hurry. We are almost helpless and bands of Indians are all around us.” They fear the settlers in the ranches around them are killed, as nothing is seen of them.

  Our post is all in a commotion. The two companies of cavalry will leave in a few hours. They don’t dare to wait even for more troops, though dispatches have already been sent everywhere to gather up the scattered troops in this Department. My dear old husband will have to follow Colonel Perry’s command, as soon as he gets back here. These poor people from Mount Idaho say, “One thing is certain. An Indian war is upon us.” You know these devils always begin on helpless outlying settlements. Mrs. Boyle and I have just been sitting looking at each other in horror. Poor Mrs. Theller is busy getting up a mess kit for her husband. Major Boyle remains in command of the post. The talk among the officers is that there will be a great deal of trouble.

  I will write more before I turn out the lamp for the night.

  Chapter 25

  June 15, 1877

  “Shush!” Helen Walsh hissed at the children.

  Elizabeth Osborn instantly looped her arms around two of the littlest youngsters and clamped her hands over their mouths lest they cry out.

  “Stay down!” Helen warned them all.

  “T-they come back?” Mrs. Osborn’s voice cracked with undisguised fear.

  Helen felt that very same terror. Only difference, she figured, was that she could swallow hers down and Elizabeth could not. If this was going to be the end, Helen thought it better to see it coming, to know death was on its way, to prepare herself and the others.

  So if those horsemen just now reaching the tree line in the distance were another war party who had tracked them here—or even the first bunch of heathens who were returning for more of their depraved assaults—then she damn well hoped the bastards would out-and-out kill her right off rather than subject her to their unspeakable tortures. Kill her two children too, she prayed. Better that than ever witnessing again what they had been forced to watch done to their mother—

  Those weren’t headdresses. And those horsemen didn’t ride like bareback warriors sat atop ponies.

  They were … white men!

  “Eliz—Elizabeth,” she stammered, finding her mouth gone dry from those moments of panic and dread that suddenly drained from her the way a leeching poultice could draw poison from a boil. “We’re safe now.”

  Mrs. Osborn scooted slightly on her rump, still holding the little ones tightly against her, and poked her head over the windowsill, staring toward the side of the Titmans’ yard. Then Elizabeth began to cry, silently—only her mouth ratcheting up and down slowly, tears streaming from her eyes. Not making a sound.

  “Old Shoemaker must’ve gotten through,” Helen declared, reaching out to grip one of Elizabeth’s grimy hands. Squeezing the hand, she whispered, “We must swear to each other, for all time, that we won’t ever tell what happened to us.”

  Elizabeth Osborn gazed into Helen’s eyes with a blank expression.

  “Swear it,” Helen prodded. “Swear you won’t ever tell what those savages did—how they ruined us.”

  Mrs. Osborn turned slightly to peer at the riders slowly coming to a halt just beyond the line of trees.

  “Swear it, Lizzy! Swear not a word of what they done to us will ever cross your lips,” Helen demanded.

  Turning back to look at Mrs. Walsh, Elizabeth finally nodded. In a barely audible whisper, she vowed, “Never will I say a word of what they done to me—”

  “Ho, the house!” one of the riders called as he threw up an arm and stopped the dozen or so men with him.

  It was clear the horsemen had halted where they could wheel into the timber should they find themselves under attack by the savages, Helen thought as she stood, knees beginning to tremble. Fatigue, lack of food, all the hours and miles—but mostly the nightmarish terror they had somehow endured. She slowly pulled back the broken, ill-hung door with a loud scrape and stepped into the twilight shadowing that front porch.

  “Ma’am?” the rider croaked with no little surprise as he nudged his horse forward.

  With no more than that one word, she could hear the faintest rolling resonance of a Southern accent. “I’m Helen Walsh.”

  He took his hat off politely, his eyes clearly jarred by her disheveled appearance. “William Watson, Mrs. Walsh. Your husband in there with you?”

  She dragged a hand under her nose, jutted out her chin, and said, “No, Mr. Watson. My husba
nd has been killed.”

  “The Injuns?” he asked, replacing his hat snugly.

  “Yes,” she replied as she heard the sound of feet shuffling out the door and coming to a stop behind her skirts.

  All those horsemen sat frog-eyed as they peered over the two women and those pitiful children.

  “Just you ladies and the young’uns?” Watson asked.

  “Yes,” and Helen felt like she needed to sit. Slowly lowering herself to the front of the porch, Helen settled as the dozen riders dismounted with a squeak of their saddles.

  Watson gave orders for two of his horsemen to enter the house and assure themselves that no one else was inside, then look for any weapons and ammunition they might find. He posted four others around the house to keep watch for a war party that might try to slip up on them.

  The group’s leader stepped over to Helen and removed his hat again. “You been through hell, ain’cha, ma’am?”

  “W-we just wanna go where we’ll be safe,” she begged, still rooted on the porch.

  He peered up at the woman. “That’s what we come for, Mrs. Walsh. Last night an Injun woman named Tolo1 come in from the Nez Perce camp over on Camas Prairie. She walked twenty-six miles to Florence, up in the hills yonder—where all of us are working our claims. Damnedest thing: that Injun woman coming to warn us.” Watson sighed. “She brought word that some of their bucks was whiskeyed up and killing white folks over on the Salmon. I asked for volunteers, and these fellas got under way with me last night. We been taking folks over to Slate Creek, so that’s where I’m fixing to take all of you when we light out from here.”

  Her damp, red-rimmed eyes studied some of the mud-crusted, shaggy, poorly dressed miners; then she asked, “Any of you men have families over here along the Salmon, Mr. Watson?”

  “No, ma’am. Ain’t none of us from these parts,” he confessed as he ground a boot heel into the damp earth, glancing around at the six miners who had remained with the horses when he dismounted and dispatched the others to search the house. “A time like this, howsomever, a man does what needs doing. Time like this, Mrs. Walsh … we’re all like family now.”