Cries from the Earth

by Terry C. Johnston

  At the ravine entrance another man pitched onto his back, writing in pain, dying noisily while Theller and the other five shot at anything that moved: a shadow, a sound, even a whisper of the warriors crawling up just beyond the mouth of the ravine.

  Then another flopped at Theller’s feet, clutching his shiny red neck in both hands, gurgling, gurgling …

  Twisting about at the scraping noise, the lieutenant saw the barrel of a gun appear over the side of the ravine twenty feet away. He fired his pistol at it, kicking up enough dirt near the barrel that the warrior retracted his weapon.

  Theller twisted around, hoping to find that they could work their way farther back into the ravine where he and the four would have better protection until reinforcements showed up. Maybe back in the ravine they would even discover a path that would lead them all the way to the summit of White Bird Hill by following the bottom of this deep erosion scar. And once up there they would drop over to the Camas Prairie, which would take them all the way into Grangeville and Mount Idaho—

  But his heart sank as he realized this ravine was going nowhere. Less than fifteen feet from where he crouched against the wall, the ravine ended abruptly. A three-sided box. And the warriors were pressing hard, nailing down the last boards of their coffins.

  He watched the skyline, shooting at anything that moved at the lip of the ravine, any tufts of grass or a branch that rustled while the red bastards screamed their bloody oaths.

  Theller heard the men fall, one by one: some grunting, some yelping a high-pitched feral note of pain. And he could tell as they went that there were fewer and fewer of their Springfields booming. Much more noise from the warriors’ Winchesters—

  Three of them popped up in front of him suddenly as he brought up his pistol and snapped off a shot.

  Watching the bullet’s impact spin one of the warriors around and back from the entrance to the ravine, Theller was jerking the pistol toward its next target as he thumbed back the hammer—only to see the puff of smoke and tongue of fire burst from the muzzle of the next warrior’s rifle. It was a Springfield carbine too.

  The blow felt like the kick of a mule at first, hurtling him back against the end of the ravine. His legs started to lose all feeling, but he did his best to push himself up against the wall of grass and earth at the back of the ravine. Did his best to stand as he finished thumbing back the hammer, aimed it again, and pulled the trigger.

  It clicked.

  They were slipping toward him cautiously at a half-crouch as he frantically pulled the hammer back again, then aimed it at the first one who was grinning broadly at him.

  His pistol clicked on a second dead chamber.

  When the muzzle of another warrior’s carbine spat flame, Theller felt himself shoved back into the end of the ravine so far that he was sure he was being buried by some massive, powerful fist. Propelled against the grassy wall, he sank slowly, his legs unable to support his weight any longer. The back of the ravine had become the end of the line for him.

  Looking up, blinking through the sweat and dirt clouding his vision, he watched the fuzzy form take focus as it stepped closer. Lieutenant Theller stared at the warrior who held the muzzle of his soldier carbine just inches from his eyes, then fired a third … and final bullet.

  Chapter 40

  Season of Hillal

  1877

  After wiping out those eight soldiers in the brushy ravine, Yellow Wolf helped his friends strip the white men of their weapons and what few unused bullets they had left among them. The ground around the dead Shadows was littered with empty cartridge cases. Still, only one of the warriors had been slightly wounded in their ravine skirmish.

  Some of his friends laughed at how these white men were such poor marksmen with their firearms!

  Yellow Wolf stayed with the war party when they left the ravine, turning back down the slope toward the sound of renewed shooting. Evidently there were still more soldiers who had not yet made it to the mouth of the canyon. More enemies to kill somewhere below—more weapons to take and still more glory to make!

  A half-mile down the ridge, Yellow Wolf topped a low crest to discover how most of the soldiers were racing from the valley by a route different from the one they had used in making their advance on the village. While the small group of soldiers he and the others had just wiped out in the ravine had been fleeing the battlefield at a point farther north along the base of the ridge, Yellow Wolf could now see how most of the white men were escaping along a more western route, clinging to the foot of the high bluff.

  The rest of Yellow Wolf’s friends were spreading out rapidly as they approached these last remnants of the enemy, charging their ponies in a broad phalanx toward that ragged blue line of soldiers angling across the steep hillside.

  But … just then Yellow Wolf heard gunfire reverberate from the valley behind him. Had they been mistaken? Were there still some soldiers pinned down near the burial hill where for many, many generations the Nee-Me-Poo had laid their dead to a final rest? Yes, he spotted it then—a bit of gunsmoke puffing from a clump of brush and rocks. And farther on down the gentle hillside he could see several warriors firing back at the brush. They must have some of the Shadows pinned down!

  With an exuberant whoop and jabs of his heels, Yellow Wolf set off to have himself some more fighting. He raced his pony straight for the rocks and skimpy brush where he had seen the puffs of smoke. Perhaps he could flush the white men into the open with his bravery run!

  On the slope ahead two warriors suddenly stood, waving him off, shouting. But he could not hear their words for the pounding of his pony’s hooves. They signaled their arms in warning, but already it was too late. Almost on top of the enemy, Yellow Wolf realized that the white men were hiding in two places on the hillside. While skirting around the rock barricade where he had spotted the first gunsmoke he had carelessly pointed his pony right for the second group of Shadows.

  Just as he was starting to slip off the side of his pony to put the animal between him and the soldiers, one of the Shadows popped up from the brush, leveling his rifle at Yellow Wolf. Yanking hard on the pony’s reins, the warrior vaulted off, landing hard. He rolled on his shoulders and was pulling the bow from the quiver at his back even while he clambered onto his feet.

  The soldier’s muzzle smoked. In that instant when he did not feel any pain, Yellow Wolf knew the white man’s bullet had missed.

  Immediately gripping the end of his bow in both hands, the warrior whirled the weapon through the air and hurled it against the side of the soldier’s head. Stunned, the Shadow fell backward, but still his hands fumbled at the rifle’s action.

  Two more soldier heads popped up from the other rocks no more than five or six pony lengths away. As quickly, four other warriors were racing up to join him. One of them fired his rifle at the soldier Yellow Wolf had knocked down. The white man tried to rise on his elbow after he was shot, then collapsed and died without another sound.

  Freeing a war cry from his raw throat, Yellow Wolf dashed straight for the boulders where he had seen the other two heads appear. As he neared the edge of a low depression where the pair had taken refuge, the young warrior attempted to slow himself. But his moccasins slipped on the wet grass and he went down, sprawling backward, continuing his slide over the edge of the depression, spinning toward the soldiers. He landed right in front of the white man who yanked his rifle down, aiming it at Yellow Wolf, then fired point-blank.

  But the bullet smacked into the wall of the shallow depression beside Yellow Wolf’s ear. Maybe the Shadow missed because he was so surprised to find the warrior falling in on his hiding place.

  The moment that bullet slammed into the ground, the young warrior lunged out on instinct and seized the soldier’s muzzle as he heard the approach of running feet. For long, desperate moments Yellow Wolf and the soldier wrestled for that rifle while the other white man in the depression struggled to feed a cartridge into his weapon. When that second soldier brought his
reloaded rifle up to point it at Yellow Wolf, a shot rang out. Followed by a second.

  At his feet both soldiers lay bleeding, dying within their nest of rocks and brush. As he knelt there above them, Yellow Wolf’s heart was pounding like never before. Above him at the lip of the depression stood two Nee-Me-Poo friends. The muzzles of their rifles smoked. They had saved his life.

  “There’s another enemy!” someone shouted from behind them.

  His two friends dove out of sight.

  Twisting immediately, Yellow Wolf saw another soldier rising up within the nearby cluster of rocks, aiming his rifle right at him. Even by dropping to his belly, the soldier would still have a shot at him!

  Bolting over the lip of the depression, Yellow Wolf flung himself to his feet and sprinted away, dodging side to side so it would not be easy for the white man to shoot him in the back. He heard a gunshot but dared not stop until another warrior called out his name.

  “Teeweawea threw a rock at the soldier,” Going Alone said. “It hit the Shadow on the head. Then we shot him.”

  “Come on!” cried Five Times Looking Up, standing on the far side of the depression. He was signaling frantically to Yellow Wolf and the others. “There are two more still alive and fighting in those trees down there!”

  He looked down at the pale faces of the white men, then at the carbine near his foot. Now he had a soldier gun!

  After stuffing his bow back into its quiver, Yellow Wolf dragged the cartridge belt from beneath one of the dead men, shoved a bullet in the captured carbine, then followed the rest who crept off to finish those last two Shadows who had not managed to escape the battlefield with the others.

  There would be no prisoners this day.

  * * *

  “About bloody time you got here, Sergeant!” Parnell roared at Michael McCarthy as he and the one other soldier who had just survived their retreat from the breastworks came riding up. “Couldn’t bring you any help,” he explained, gesturing toward what few men had remained behind with him—only nine. “You see for yourself how badly this bloody retreat is going for us.”

  “For a time there,” McCarthy huffed breathlessly, “didn’t think I’d ever see your smiling face again, Lieutenant!”

  “We’ll hold these buggers back, by gawd,” Parnell vowed. “But to do it I need you to take charge of the line, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Hold this road if you can and block those red buggers from flanking us,” the lieutenant ordered, quickly gazing up the ridge where the rest of the battalion was streaming. “I’ll take the point of our advance. See what I can do to bring your outfit some help.”

  “Very good, sir,” McCarthy agreed. Counting himself and Parnell, now there were twelve of them—a grimy, red-eyed, bone-weary, bloodied dozen. “We’ll hold the line.”

  In moments the sergeant had his men spread out in good order across the gentle slope that rose against the high ridge flanking the valley on the west. Three yards and no more, he had given the order; that’s how far apart they were to position themselves in a skirmish line as they slowly, slowly retreated. These ten soldiers were the last out of the valley. Make no mistake about that.

  There simply was no more fighting, not any rifle fire, not a lick of noise coming from the creek bottom. Any soldier who was going to make it out had already gotten at least this far to join Parnell. The rest were … were—

  Suddenly the warriors sprouted right out of the ground behind them and were throwing everything they had against his thin line.

  From atop his weary, staggering horse the sergeant bawled at them, “This is where we hold the bastards back, men! This is where we save our hides … or this can be where we spill the last of our blood! There’s no one else gonna help us now.” And the raw taste of sentiment choked him a moment before he could speak again. “Now it’s up to us!”

  “It sure as hell ain’t up to them thirty warriors!” Parnell bellowed at the other side of the road.

  No, now there were forty of the savages—by the grace of Joseph and Mary! Damn but there’s bloody well at least fifty of them coming at us now!

  He was sure these other men had seen what he had witnessed below them on the slopes during their desperate retreat: how every wounded man, those either paralyzed with fear or so completely exhausted with fatigue, had been killed without resistance right before his eyes as the battalion pulled back.

  So with no more soldiers left alive for all the warriors to fight down below, the red bastards were congregating, hurling themselves on the rear of the fleeing column. Even the bastards’ war ponies had to be exhausted. Why, in the last desperate minutes since fleeing from the rocks McCarthy had seen one warrior’s squaw bring her husband three changes of horses!

  “Every march has them brave men what close the file, boys!” he shouted above the rising of the war cries as the warriors came rushing toward his few steady hands.

  And he thanked his God that that was what Parnell had left him: these unflappable old files who hadn’t bucked and run at the first shot of the fight earlier that morning. These were the ones who had remained steadfast until the very last. These were the men he could count on to fire slow and low. Around Sergeant Michael McCarthy at that moment were men who understood the final duty of true soldiers might well be to protect the retreat of the others … even unto the sacrifice of their own lives in the bargain.

  Four times the hordes of screaming horsemen threw themselves against McCarthy’s thin line of blue. And four times the old files held like an immovable rock wall. A soldier dropped here or there—winged or wounded—but the sergeant’s line never broke.

  Then just as he was thinking the warriors had pulled off so they could mass for a fifth charge, the horsemen surprised him by splitting and circling wide, racing high along the slope above the last man on his right flank, making for the rear of the fleeing column. A few of the enemy thundered past farther down the slope below them, their ponies lunging by the left end of his line.

  “Time to go, boyos!” he shouted.

  “But the Injuns are atween us and the column now, Sarge!” one of the men protested as the line stood and helped the wounded scramble to their feet.

  Those few who still had horses remounted. And the rest who no longer had a horse to carry them out of this valley of death moved out among the riders, trudging up the hillside while their weary legs protested with the fiery burn of their superhuman efforts against this excruciating climb.

  McCarthy heard the unmistakable sound the bullet’s flight made at the very instant his horse shied, sidestepped, then almost went down before it gamely regained its legs. Directly in front of his right knee McCarthy watched the crimson glisten against the claybank’s pale coat.

  Loud voices instantly snapped his attention up the slope. The warriors who had swept around their right flank were doubling back and were pressing in on that upper end of McCarthy’s line. Those men farthest up the slope were falling under the greatest pressure, unable to hold no more than moments before they bolted down the slope, some scattering onto the trail to race after the other outfits who had already fled, the remainder bunching up as they rejoined McCarthy’s file closers.

  “Halt and hold!” he cried at those now left him, sensing his horse shudder beneath him when he kicked it to start after those who would not stop. “Halt, men—and hold this line!”

  But the animal would not move. He realized it was dying where it stood.

  Down, down, down the slope came the horsemen, chasing the soldiers before them, rolling up the end of that thin blue skirmish line. When his horse shuddered again, whipping its head wildly, the sergeant could tell it was getting watery in the knees and about to go down. Leaping off before he was thrown aside or trapped beneath the animal as it sank, McCarthy saw how the left of his line had continued away, curving up the slope. Those men were already well past him on the trail, skirmishing with a few horsemen as they retreated.

  Here he and a handful of men rema
ined at the center of the line—which meant they were the last. Having scattered his right flank, the warriors were streaming down from the slope above. Other Nez Perce were blocking the trail with a line that angled around to shut off his hope of escape—a pulsing, screaming, horse-mounted barricade that stretched from the foot of the hill across to McCarthy’s left, where it intersected his route of escape.

  Turning on his heel there in the middle of the trail, the sergeant realized for the first time that he was without cartridges for his carbine. Dropping to a knee beside the horse, he yanked up the flap to his saddle pocket and stuffed a hand inside. Empty. And with the way the heavy carcass lay, he couldn’t get to the other pocket—

  As McCarthy stood, the danger immediately struck him. He was suddenly alone. Every other man was on his own and on the run, clawing up the slope.

  The carbine in his hands did him no good now. He flung it aside, spun around in a crouch, and broke into a sprint, wheezing as his boots slipped on the damp grass.

  Just ahead an Indian horseman appeared through the scrub brush. The sergeant lunged to a halt, prepared to fight with his bare hands if he had to—when he saw a second rider appear behind the first. An old soldier, one from his company—Private Fowler! Then McCarthy recognized the Indian horseman as one of the Nez Perce friendlies who had come along to scout for Colonel Perry.1

  As the soldier and the tracker halted their horses on either side of him, at the same time the brazen warriors pulled wide and raced on past, the tracker held down his arm and helped McCarthy scramble up behind Charles E. Fowler. By the time the three had started up the trail, the sergeant gazed up the slope to see how most of the warriors had bypassed his file closers, choosing instead to pursue the main column.

  Within the next quarter of a mile, their two horses overtook some of McCarthy’s men gone afoot, slowed as they helped the wounded retreat. Now there were seven of them struggling up the steep hillside together … when on the slope above his bunch he spotted a detachment being brought back by Lieutenant Parnell.