The Coming

by David Osborne

  Craig opened the door to his humble log house in fringed buckskins, a tin cup of steaming black coffee in his hand. The aroma filled the air, made her almost dizzy. His light brown hair was shorter now, worn in the style of a white man, but his mustache was still so bushy it hid half his mouth. He glanced down at the milk pails in their hands, then regarded her with an amused glint.

  “Good morning, Mr. Craig,” she said. “We have brought milk for your coffee, and a request for assistance.”

  He chuckled. “Well, do come in, Mrs. Spalding, I am honored.” He backed away from the door and beckoned Eliza and Timothy in.

  They sat in front of Craig’s fire while his Nez Perce wife poured coffee into two tin cups and brought them forward. It was a three-room house, the kitchen on the left end with the fireplace. The kitchen table was rough hewn from pine logs. Craig reached into a cupboard for a tin pitcher, which he filled with milk and then passed to Eliza. She poured some in her coffee and offered it to Timothy, who declined it; then she poured for Craig.

  “Thank you ma’am,” he smiled. “Now what kind of assistance may I offer?”

  She told him of their troubles with the Indians. “Timothy thought that if you asked them to desist, they might listen.”

  “I see.” He nodded, pursed his lips. “I have much less sway over them than your husband imagines, Mrs. Spalding.”

  “I understand.”

  “You say they won’t let your husband out of the house”—his brown eyes narrowed into a question—“but they let you?”

  “I did not know if they would, but the children need milk.”

  “You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Spalding.”

  “And one in need of assistance, Mr. Craig.”

  He nodded, drained his coffee, and rose. “Well then, I suppose we’d best see what we can do.”

  The Indians stared at them as they passed, Timothy still carrying the milk buckets. They made no move to prevent them from entering the house, simply watched. Then they greeted Mr. Craig, who remained outside.

  She could see her husband and Mr. Gilbert watching at the windows. She invited Timothy and Lawyer, who sat on the granite block that served as their front step, into the house. The door opened from the inside.

  Her husband’s eyes were solemn. “Mrs. Spalding, you are the bravest person I know.”

  “My destiny is in the Lord’s hands,” she smiled. “And Mr. Craig’s. Timothy suggested we ask him to speak to the men outside, and he kindly agreed.”

  “You put our safety in the hands of that scoundrel?”

  She ignored him, led Timothy into the kitchen, where the two of them poured the milk into jugs and set them in the wooden box her husband had built to keep the flies off. When she returned, Henry was staring out the window. “I fear you have placed our fate in the hands of a finished rogue and a liar,” he said.

  “He is trying to save your skin, Reverend Spalding. And this mission.”

  He sputtered and turned, moved toward the front door, peered out the other window. “Selfish, miserable savages. Why are they suddenly so angry?”

  “A large party rode south, to California, to trade horses and buffalo robes for cattle,” Lawyer said. “Nez Perce, Cayuse, Spokans, and Wallawallas. But a Boston shot and killed Yellow Bird’s son. His friends threatened them with war and kept their cattle. People are angry about this, and about all the white men who cross Cayuse land in their wagons. It is no longer safe for you.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Lawyer gazed at Spalding. “I speak from my heart. I do not want to see you and your children die. But if you remain here, you will.”

  “They’re leaving!” Timothy exclaimed.

  Spalding turned back to the window: “I don’t believe it!”

  They all watched as the Indians mounted their horses and dispersed.

  “Now, husband,” Eliza said, “a true Christian would go out and thank Mr. Craig.”

  “A man who tried to steal our land? Never.”

  “I asked him why he filed his claim. He said he expected we would be driven off soon, and it seemed a shame for all we had done to go to waste. He thought he would continue to work the land, keep up the buildings.”

  Her husband made a disgusted sound.

  “What would our savior do, Henry?”

  He whirled on her: “Our savior?”

  “The Lord Jesus.”

  He paused, seemed to deflate. Then he knelt at her knee: “My dear wife.”

  She smiled thinly. She knew how difficult this was for him. “He’ll be at the door soon.”

  He bent his head, was silent for a long moment. Then he prayed out loud: “The Lord in great mercy look upon these heathens and forgive their sins, and sustain this unworthy servant in kindness under these accumulating trials.”

  He rose, pulled on his buffalo coat, and opened the door.

  THIRTY

  October 1847

  Daytime Smoke stared out at the long line of wagons, their white covers billowing between the high grass and a pale blue sky. Already they were turning, beginning to create a great circle. He pulled out his glass and watched as Soyappo men with rifles rode up and down the line, waving at the drivers to hurry.

  Smoke rode with his wife’s people—300 Cayuse and Wallawalla warriors, under Tauitau, Five Crows, and Yellow Bird. All were armed and painted for war. The Cayuse had already seen two groups of wagons move through the valley this summer and across the mountains to the Big River, and they were boiling mad. Young braves had begun to attack stragglers, stealing everything they had, leaving them to walk naked to the Whitmans’ mission. One group had even killed five Bostons. And now a third group of wagons had appeared, far larger than the others. The Cayuse headmen were determined to stop it, to turn the Soyappos back.

  They spread out in a line, ready to attack at a word from the chiefs. Smoke prayed to his wyakin to keep the young warriors from doing something foolish. He was with the war party only as a translator. He wanted the Soyappos turned back, but he could see that they outnumbered the warriors.

  As the wagons completed their circle, several hundred Soyappo riders spread out in front with their rifles in hand. Three of them rode forward; the middle rider held a rifle with a white cloth tied to its barrel high in the air.

  Five Crows, a big man with a large, hooked nose and angry eyes, glanced at his brother Tauitau and nodded to ride forward. Tauitau turned to Daytime Smoke: “Come with us to change their words.”

  The grass was high and golden, almost to the horses’ bellies. They stopped two horse lengths short of the Soyappos. Smoke could now see even more men with rifles defending the wagons. “Tell them they cannot pass through our lands,” Five Crows said.

  Smoke relayed the message.

  “We mean no harm,” replied the tall, thin Soyappo who carried the flag. He had a thick brown beard and blue eyes that looked into Smoke’s as if searching for some hidden meaning. “We will not stay. We are on our way to the Willamette Valley.”

  Smoke translated, though he was sure the others knew enough English to understand this. Five Crows had even lived at the Place of Butterflies and studied with the Spaldings for two snows.

  “Too much damage,” Five Crows said. “Horses and cattle muddy our rivers, eat our grass. Soyappos shoot our game. They must go back.”

  Smoke again translated, and now he could see disbelief in the Soyappo’s blue eyes. “We cannot go back,” the man said. “It is too far. We have been traveling for five months, and we are almost out of food. We could not survive the winter.”

  Five Crows looked at Tauitau as Smoke changed the words. “Find another road,” Tauitau said, in English.

  The Soyappo shook his head. “I know the Barlow Road, I helped open it. But it is too late in the season; snow would block the Cascades.”

  The two groups stared at one another, neither sure what would happen next. “If we turn back, we will die,” the Soyappos said.

  “Then die,” Five Crows said. �
�Your people are ruining our lands.”

  The Soyappo took a deep breath, then pointed back toward the wagons. “We have seven hundred men,” he said, “and they will all fight.” He shrugged, as if helpless. “We have no other choice.”

  The two Cayuse looked at one another in silence. “We cannot attack,” Smoke said, in their shared tongue. “They would stand behind their wagons and shoot us down like dogs.”

  He knew the brothers understood this; he just hoped they would accept it. “Tell others,” Five Crows said in English, “next year take other road. No more use our land.”

  The Soyappo nodded, relief clear in his eyes. “I will do that. I will send letters. That is why I opened the Barlow Road.”

  Swan Lighting on Water’s back ached from the ride, but she did not regret coming. When Daytime Smoke rode into the Cayuse camp and told them about the Soyappo wagons, she had longed to see them. She had heard many times over winter fires about the endless streams of wagons, with their great arching covers. She was old now, her hair white, and she wanted to see this Soyappo invasion with her own eyes before she died.

  Beside her rode her son and Darting Swallow, who wanted to trade with the Soyappos. Behind them, tied to their saddles by ropes, two packhorses dragged tipi poles, and behind them Little Fire and Takes Plenty rode with a herd of 25 horses, Little Fire’s dogs trotting at their sides.

  Smoke wanted to trade horses for cattle, to replace the five he had lost during the cold moons. It had been the worst winter since his father’s coming: deep snow had blanketed the land for more than two moons, and the air had been so cold it was difficult even to gather wood. The horses could eat willow bushes and the inner bark of cottonwoods, but many cattle had starved or frozen.

  When they neared the great circle of wagons, three Soyappos rode out toward them, rifles held in front across their saddles. They stopped ten paces away and stared, their eyes hidden under the shadows of their wide-brimmed hats. Smoke gestured at the herd, and Swan could see him holding up fingers, telling them he would trade five good horses for one cow. The white men nudged their horses forward and trotted toward the herd, surveying them. They stopped, leaned forward on their saddle horns, talked amongst themselves. Finally their leader nodded his agreement.

  “Good,” Smoke said. “We will camp with you tonight. We have other goods to trade.”

  Swan picked a spot outside the circle of wagons, near the stream. Little Fire and Takes Plenty led the horses to water while she and Darting Swallow put up the lodge, lashing the hide tipi to one lodge pole, then lashing four poles together at one end and standing them up. Swallow had to stand on a horse to wrap the hides around the poles, near the top. When they had finished with the tipi they laid buffalo robes on the ground for a floor. Then they unpacked the robes Swallow wanted to trade for Soyappo cloth.

  Children sat or knelt under wagons, in the shade, and watched them wide eyed as they approached. Inside the ring, Soyappo women were cooking over small fires. Swan smiled at them, hoping to see smiles in return, but all she saw was fear and anger. One woman put her cooking pot down on the grass and approached them, holding up a hand as if to stop them. She was older than the others, stout, with graying hair tied in a bun on the back of her head. She spoke to them, urgency in her voice, but Swan could not tell what she was saying.

  Swallow spoke with the woman, and Swan helped her hold up one of the robes, then spread it out on the ground so the woman could see how large it was. A man approached, his face covered with gray hair, and spoke to the woman. She turned on him, and they argued in short, angry bursts. Swan could see that the woman did not want to do what the man told her. Finally she walked to her wagon and climbed up onto a wooden box that lay behind it, searching for something. Swan saw two children sit up behind her. They were pale like the other Bostons, but their faces were covered with red blotches. Swan squinted, trying to see them clearly, then stepped closer. Yes, they had a bright red rash on their faces, large blotches that bled into one another. The lining of their eyes was pink and crusty.

  Their mother turned around, stepped down from the box, a folded piece of red cloth in her hands. She offered it to Swallow, who took it in her hands and felt it. Swan touched it also; it was soft and smooth. Swallow nodded yes and handed the robe to the woman.

  Swan pointed at the wagon and signed: Your children are sick?

  The woman shook her head and made a face, as if she did not understand. “Sick?” Swallow said in Soyappo.

  The woman nodded, said something in her own tongue.

  Swan Lighting raised a finger. “Wait,” she said in Nimíipuutímt. “I have herbs that help with a rash like this.”

  The woman stared at her while Swallow translated.

  Swan walked back to their lodge, ducked inside, and found the large hide bag in which she carried her herbs. She gathered up all the yarrow leaves she had, then picked up a metal pot she had bought at the fort of the King George men, on the Big River. She walked to the stream and filled the pot, then dumped the leaves into the water to soak. They would only stay on the children’s faces as long as they were wet.

  When Swan returned to the Soyappo camp, the white woman was at the fire again, frying dough in grease. Swan showed her the wet leaves, then pantomimed applying them to her face.

  The woman stared at Swan, then down at the leaves, then shook her head. “No,” she said, then motioned for Swan to leave. Swan could not understand why she would reject this offer of help, but the woman pushed her away, kept repeating the word “No.”

  It left Swan with a terrible sadness. She had wanted to believe these Soyappos would be like Red Hair and the fur hunters. The Sent Ones were different—strange, arrogant, not always right in their minds. She had hoped these Soyappos would be friendlier. Deep down, she realized, she wanted one more chance at Soyappo friends, people who would bring her memories of Red Hair and his men back to life.

  By the time they reached the winter camp of Darting Swallow’s family, Swan Lighting was burning up. Her chest was full and she coughed—long, wracking coughs.

  Swallow led her to a bed and she collapsed, slept for so long she no longer knew where she was. At one point Swan felt her son pick her up, one hand under her shoulders, the other under her knees, and carry her, wrapped in her buffalo robe, for a long time. Then she felt the heat of a fire, and Smoke lay her down. She opened her eyes when Swallow began to undress her. When she was finished, Swallow pulled her own dress over her head and kicked off her moccasins. “Into the Old Man,” she heard, and with a loud grunt Swallow managed to lift her through the door and drag her in.

  It was dark in the lodge and the air was hot and damp. Soon the sweat was rolling off her, and she began to cough. She groped for the flap, fought to get out of the heat. Swallow opened it, knelt to pick her up, and staggered to her feet. “I will take you into the river now,” she said.

  The cold water was a shock; Swan almost cried out. She began to shiver, then cough. After a few minutes of this Swallow struggled up the bank with her, then knelt in front of the sweat lodge and set her down on her robe. Swan lay there, her eyes closed, shaking.

  Swallow dragged her into the lodge. Swan was limp, her eyes glassy. She stopped shivering, began to sweat. After a few minutes, she felt Swallow pick her up again.

  No, she wanted to say, not the cold water again. But she could not speak. When Swallow submerged her she felt the knot inside her lungs tighten; she could barely breathe. She shivered uncontrollably, and she felt as if her spirit were rising out of her cold, dead body. Was this how she would come to her end?

  Daytime Smoke watched the old tewat as he waved a smoking branch of alpine fir, from high in the mountains, to purify the lodge. Five fires down the middle of the dim longhouse threw shadows against the wall. Swan Lighting lay on her back, unconscious, on a bed of robes. Red sores covered her skin. Her forehead was like fire, her breathing harsh and labored, her lungs choked. Her cheekbones stood out like ridges below her sunken eye
s, which had not opened in three suns.

  Smoke was frightened. He had summoned Small Salmon and agreed to pay him two horses to cure her, but he did not know this tewat, did not know what powers he possessed.

  Small Salmon smoked to the directions, sang for help from the spirit world. He sat cross-legged at Swan’s head, in a headdress of owl feathers. On each side of Swan sat members of Darting Swallow’s family, in two rows. Those in front sat on their knees, feet tucked under, beating on a log with sticks, keeping time to the high wail of the tewat.

  He dipped a horn into a water bag, filled his mouth, and sprayed water over Swan. He began to sing, motioned for the drummers to increase their pace. He picked up two rattles and shook them above Swan, then on each side of her, his body swaying backward and forward over her. Finally, after a long time with his rattles, he put them down and asked people to drum louder, for he was about to extract the bad spirit. He extended his hands over Swan’s chest but did not touch her. Two stout men moved behind him and put a rawhide cord around his waist, to hold him back. He grasped just above Swan Lighting’s heart and began to pull, drawing something out of her. Sweat poured off his brow as he tugged at it, and the men behind him had to pull hard to keep him from being drawn into Swan. He yanked and sang and the people beat their logs in a frenzy, minute after minute, until finally he fell backward as if what he was tugging had given way. Smoke let out his breath in relief, but when the tewat held up what he had pulled out of her, Smoke could not see it, and this filled him with disquiet.

  Small Salmon sliced through the invisible object with a long knife. He took the two segments and walked to the fire with them, dropped them in. Slowly the drumming quieted. He sat again at Swan’s head and took another mouthful of water, sprayed it over her. “She is healed.”