The Coming

by David Osborne

  “Too many now die! You and your husband deserve to die!”

  “We will die when Creator decides our work is done.”

  She could see that he did not know what to do. He circled his horse close to her, and she could smell the bear grease on him. But she kept her eyes fixed on his. Jacob moved up beside her, gestured with his gun: “Go now, before we kill you!”

  The Indian glowered at him, circled his horse one more time, and trotted back to the others, who sat their horses in a line just 50 feet away.

  “Looks like it’s time to go, ladies,” Craig said. A dozen armed Nez Perce mounted their horses to travel with the party and protect them, and Craig motioned for Jackson and Horace and Canfield to mount up. When they were ready, Craig cracked his whip over the oxen and they moved slowly forward. Eliza looked back at the mission: their neat, two-story log home, the schoolhouse, the meetinghouse, the printing office, the handful of outbuildings, the small, spidery locust trees her husband had planted around the house. Would she ever see it again?

  She heard the shrill cries of Iron Bull and his men, turned in the seat to watch as they attacked the house. She could hear windows breaking, could see men emerging from the building with her chairs and settee, throwing them on the ground, breaking them apart with an axe. “Don’t watch,” she told the children, turning to face forward, blocking their eyes. But she could not hide the tears that slid down her cheeks.

  Spalding was sure he could not go another mile when the mission finally came into view. His feet were bare now, the leather wraps long since disintegrated. His knee throbbed with a sharp, pulsing ache.

  From the bluffs to the southwest, he could see the millpond and irrigation pond, the millraces, the scattered buildings. As he slowly crept closer, he could make out people carrying things out of his house. Scattered around the grounds lay broken chairs and tables. He was too late!

  He stood and watched, no place left to go. He did not dare descend to the house; surely they would kill him. He gazed vaguely around him, saw hawthorn bushes along a small defile through which water flowed in the rainy months. He hobbled toward them with his walking sticks, finally collapsed behind them, for cover. Where were Eliza and the children? Had they been massacred like the Whitmans? The thought was too terrible to contemplate.

  He lay on his back, spent. His legs and feet ached and his mind recoiled from the images that came to him. He closed his eyes and let out his breath, succumbed to the will of the Lord. There would be frost tonight, with these clear skies, and he would die of exposure. If not, he would starve to death. If he were lucky, he would not have long to wait.

  A woman’s voice startled him out of a deep sleep. He opened his eyes, stared up at the night sky, filled with stars.

  The voice came again, speaking Nez Perce: “My friend, are you sick? Do you need help?”

  Spalding sat up and rubbed his filthy face. It was a portly Nez Perce woman on a black horse. She peered down at him from the other side of the trees, stared at his torn pants and his bare, bloody feet. “Are you injured?”

  She did not seem to recognize him in the dark. He pulled his floppy hat down tight over his eyes. “I am looking for the Spalding family,” he said, also in Nez Perce. “Have I found their home?”

  “Yes. But they are not here. Reverend Spalding is gone, and his family is at William Craig’s house.”

  It took a moment before the meaning of the words penetrated his fog. “They are safe?”

  “Of course.”

  Oh what an angel of mercy is hope! He seized his walking sticks and forced himself to his feet. “Then I must go there.” He began to hobble around the bushes, out of the defile.

  She watched him limp. “Ride behind me. I will take you.” She unhitched a rope that lay coiled against the back of her saddle to move it to the front, and it fell to the ground.

  Spalding bent to retrieve it, and as he did so his floppy hat fell off. The woman gasped when she saw the bald top of his head gleaming in the moonlight. “Reverend Spalding!”

  He looked up at her in fear.

  “I didn’t recognize you! Wait here! I will bring help!” She raced away.

  Spalding’s heart pounded as he watched her descend to the mission. Surely he was dead now. But he did not have the strength to flee. He sat and waited, secure at least in the knowledge that his family was safe.

  When the hoofbeats came and he opened his eyes, it was Timothy riding toward him, jumping from his horse and running to him. “Teacher, you are hurt! Come, we have brought a horse for you!”

  Spalding stared at him, bewildered. “But they are looting the mission.”

  “We drove them away. Do not worry. We protected your family, and we will protect you.”

  Spalding felt dizzy as he rose, his vision growing faint. He collapsed, but Timothy had a firm grip around his waist. “Come!” he called to the others. “He needs help. Bring the horse!”

  PART III

  BETRAYAL

  The Indian must yield, and he might as well have been treated as a child and told to go at once, however it may clash with our abstract notions of justice and philanthropy. In the providence of God, the Indians’ day of possession has passed, and there is nothing left for him but to die or get out of the way of the stronger race. From the time that Joshua led the tribes of Israel into the land of the Canaanites to the present day, it has ever been so in the history of the world, and, for aught we can tell, will always be—at least this side of the millennium.

  —Oregon Statesman

  June 10, 1863

  THIRTY-FOUR

  April 1849

  Lawyer stared down from the top of the hill at the Soyappo settlement below. He could make out eight different houses spread out along the Walla Walla River. After the Cayuse murdered the Whitmans, Soyappos had come up the Big River, armed and angry. Four hundred Cayuse, Wallawalla, and Palouse warriors had met them and driven them back, but more had returned, killing almost any Indian they encountered. They had even invaded Nimíipuu lands in search of the murderers, who had fled into the mountains. In their frustration, they had rounded up Nimíipuu horses and shot their owners when they protested. They had declared Cayuse lands open for settlement, and 50 of the Soyappos had stayed behind in the valley of the Little Stream to build houses and start farms. The Cayuse and Wallawallas had harassed them, stolen their livestock, and not all had stayed. But now, one snow later, here was evidence that their settlement was permanent.

  “They have no right to be here,” Lawyer said. “It is against their own laws. Punishment for murder is death, not loss of land.”

  His older brother, Half Hair, gave him a look that suggested he was naive. “Your laws are a mirage,” he said. “Soyappos take what they want, laws or no laws.”

  “Not all Soyappos,” Timothy said.

  “Tom Hill told us this would happen,” Red Wolf said. “Perhaps we should have listened.”

  To Lawyer, this flew in the face of everything he knew about Soyappos. When they announced Cayuse lands were open for settlement, they had not even set any borders. Would white men start showing up on Nimíipuu land, thinking it was Cayuse? They were aggressive and unpredictable, far more dangerous than he had realized.

  A few days ago word had come that the Great White Father in the East had appointed a new headman for the Oregon Territory. Lawyer had departed immediately to visit him, to assure him that the Nimíipuu were his friends and plead with him to honor the laws Dr. White had laid down.

  May 1849

  Lawyer strode up the wooden sidewalk of Oregon City toward the hotel. Though it was just dusk, thick clouds pressed close overhead, darkening the sky, and a fine rain fell. The street was a sea of mud. Horse-drawn carriages and wagons moved slowly through the mire, clods of mud flung backward from the horses’ hooves. A few horses stood tied to the rails at the edge of the street, heads down, motionless and silent in the rain. The smell of horse manure mingled in the damp air with the scent of wood smoke. The on
ly light came from the shops, which were closing: a dry goods store, its sign painted in large and fanciful black and gold letters on the window; a butcher shop, meat hanging in the window; a place that washed dirty clothing.

  Lawyer’s moccasins sank into the mud as he crossed the street. Glancing to his right, he could see the Willamette River, dark and swift, could hear the falls at the head of town. He was not accustomed to this dark and damp place, with its ever-present clouds. When he pushed through the heavy hotel doors the bright candlelight that filled the lobby felt like a gift. He stopped to wipe his feet, admiring the high ceilings, the deep red rugs and flowered drapes.

  He had met briefly with Governor Lane the week before, with Timothy, Half Hair, and Red Wolf. After the meeting, Lawyer had purchased a new suit, much like the governor’s—dark gray, wool, with a vest—which he wore today with a white shirt and a thick black bow tie.

  The governor was in the lobby, talking with several men. Tall and thin, he had wavy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. When he noticed Lawyer he strode over and thrust out his hand: “Chief Lawyer, I am deeply indebted to you for accepting my invitation.”

  “My heart is pleased to do so. I purchased new clothing.”

  “Very handsome indeed.”

  A smile played at the corner of Lawyer’s mouth. “Cost me two horses.”

  “That is a steep price.”

  Lawyer nodded, and together they walked into the dining room. White linen covered the tables, each one lit by candles. Waiters moved quietly in white coats with black bow ties. On their way to their table they passed five Soyappos finishing their dinner, all puffing on cigars. The men greeted the governor, then leaned back in their chairs to survey Lawyer. A fat one spoke: “Well, Governor Lane, it seems you’ve brought some interesting company into our fine dining establishment.”

  Lane smiled, stretched his hand out toward Lawyer: “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet a remarkable leader of the Nez Perce nation, Chief Lawyer.”

  Two of the men nodded, while the others just stared. “Is this a sign of changes in the wind, Governor?” one asked. “Will you be turning abolitionist on us next?”

  Lane chuckled. “You know I am pro-slavery, Mr. Smith, and I shall remain pro-slavery.”

  “But you dine with Indians.”

  Lawyer’s smile faded.

  “I would have you know, gentlemen, that Chief Lawyer speaks three languages and has helped Reverend Spalding translate parts of the New Testament into Nez Perce.”

  “Four,” Lawyer corrected him. “Sign language also.”

  The Soyappos stared at him, apparently surprised he could speak their tongue. Had they assumed the governor spoke his?

  “Well, sir, that’s mighty impressive,” a third Soyappo said. “But it would hardly do wonders for your political career to become known as an Indian lover.”

  “Your primary concern, as I understand it, gentlemen, is bringing in the murderers of Dr. Whitman and his party,” Lane said. “The killers were Cayuse, and it is my belief that the chief and his men”—he gestured toward Lawyer—“could be instrumental in helping us find them.” He raised his eyebrows, as if to underline his point. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” He bowed slightly, then extended an arm to direct Lawyer toward their table.

  Lawyer understood the Soyappos’ message. They reminded him of those who had invaded Nimíipuu lands last year, ignorant and belligerent. The governor pulled out a chair for him and turned on the charm: “I’ve had a talk with some people who know your tribe well, Mr. Newell and Major Lee. I’ve heard many good things. It seems your people have been friends with Americans for many years.”

  Lawyer’s eyes rose to the ceiling as he counted. “Forty-five years. I was a boy when William Clark visited our lands. My people and his people became friends forever.”

  A waiter arrived, and Lane ordered whiskey and steak for both of them.

  When the whiskeys arrived he toasted Lawyer: “To the great wisdom of your people.”

  Lawyer nodded, picked his glass up and downed half of it in one swallow.

  Lane just sipped his. “How many of your people are Christian?” he asked.

  “Perhaps one in four. We farm and raise cattle.”

  “And why did they turn against Reverend Spalding?”

  Lawyer gazed at him, trying to gauge how much he could understand. “Reverend Spalding was not well suited to his work,” he finally said. “A bad temper. He ordered men to do women’s work. Had them whipped when they refused.”

  Lane’s eyebrows rose: “You don’t say.”

  “He even had women whipped.” Lawyer enjoyed surprising the governor. “Then Black Robes came—men you call Roman Catholics. Told our people Spalding was wrong, would lead them to Hell. Told us holy men should not marry, that Spalding and his wife were wrong in God’s eyes.” A slight smile played on his lips: “I asked them how they were born. Were not a man and a woman involved?”

  Lane chuckled, took another sip. “I’ve made some inquiries about the two Nez Perce deaths you and your friends asked about. I spoke to Major Lee, who led the troops that went to Lapwai. Some of the soldiers thought they were under attack, so they defended themselves. These things happen in wartime.”

  Lawyer’s eyes narrowed: “Will you hang them?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t hang every soldier who makes a mistake during wartime. I led five thousand men in our war against Mexico. There were times when we didn’t know who was shooting at us and who was simply trying to get out of the way. Innocent people were killed. But if we hung the soldiers every time this happened, we wouldn’t have had much of an army.”

  Lawyer frowned.

  “You’ve been in battles yourself?”

  “Many.” Lawyer stood up, removed his suit coat, untucked his shirt, and lowered one side of his trousers to reveal the wound in his hip. “I was shot here fighting at side of American fur hunters, against Big Bellies. I was in many battles, before I read your holy book and learned fighting is a sin.”

  “Did your warriors ever mistakenly kill someone who was not fighting them? A child, perhaps, or a woman?”

  “Once.”

  “Did you punish them?”

  Lawyer shook his head. He carefully tucked his shirt back in, rebuttoned his trousers, and donned his coat.

  “As a man of your intelligence surely understands, war is a bad thing,” Lane said. “Many people die. In Mexico we had many thousands of soldiers and guns that fired balls like this”—he held up his hands to outline the size of a cannonball. “Many died—some because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He smiled. “Some of these soldiers are now on their way here. If the Cayuse do not give up these murderers, more will come—more soldiers than you have people in your nation.”

  “We want no war,” Lawyer said. “But my people are angry. Your people say one thing and do another. Your chiefs say they will hang white men who kill others, but they never do this. After Whitmans were killed, we told your chief we would negotiate with three of your headmen, not with soldiers. Yet you sent four hundred men. Did they not expect Cayuse to defend themselves?”

  “They did not come for war, but to talk.”

  “And when they talked, they promised they would allow no whites on Cayuse land. Then they left fifty men behind, to farm.”

  Lane held up a hand. “I’m sure you remember that Major Lee promised there would be no settlers if the Cayuse gave up Dr. Whitman’s murderers so they could be tried and, if found guilty, punished according to the laws of our nation. The Cayuse refused. By doing so, they forfeited their lands. I know a man of your stature can understand this.”

  “No. Lee promised there would be no settlers, without conditions.”

  Lane looked relieved when the waiter arrived with another whiskey for each of them. The governor smiled, clinked glasses with Lawyer, and threw back a good swallow. “If the Cayuse wish to save themselves,” he said, “they must give up the murderers. It is too late to save t
heir lands. If they continue to refuse, many, many soldiers will come, with guns the likes of which you have never seen, and war will bring total destruction to the Cayuse people. They must understand this.”

  Lane paused as Lawyer absorbed this, then continued: “Your people and the Cayuse agreed to a set of laws that say if a man commits murder, he should die by hanging. You have made it clear that you understand the value of these laws—indeed, you understand better than many of my white citizens.” He smiled again. “If we do not enforce the laws, no one is safe. The rule of law is the key to a civilized society.”

  “I agree,” Lawyer said. “My people respect these laws. But your people must respect them, too. Those who murder Indians should be tried.”

  “I understand. And perhaps the fact that Cayuse died when our volunteers attacked may mitigate any jury’s verdict if Dr. Whitman’s killers are put on trial. I will see what I can do toward that end.” He leaned forward, put a hand on Lawyer’s forearm. “But I have an important question for your people. If you help enforce these laws on the Cayuse by bringing the guilty parties in for trial, the Cayuse may live in peace. Is this something your head chief can do?”

  “Our head chief died of measles.”

  Lane sat back in surprise. “You have no head chief?”

  “Major Lee appointed another, Richard, who traveled with Dr. Whitman when he was a boy. He chose him because he speaks English, and he is easily controlled. Our people will not follow him.”

  Lane’s blue eyes bored into him: “Then who will save the Cayuse from war? Surely you have a chief of the requisite stature among your fine people.”

  “I will see that we hunt down the murderers. I give you my word.”

  Lane gazed at him, surprised, then broke into a broad smile. “It is clear to me who Major Lee should have appointed as head chief.”