The Coming

by David Osborne

  “And if their guns are too much for us, will bluecoats hang us, as they did Cayuse and Palouse?” Looking Glass asked. “Will they ride upon our villages and kill our women and children? We must be more careful than our neighbors have been.”

  “Careful?” Eagle from Light’s voice rose. “We have been careful for fifteen snows! Every time there has been war this tobacco cutter who pretends to be our headman”—he gestured across the circle at Lawyer—“has sided with Soyappos! What has it gotten us? Our lands have been overrun, our sons killed, our daughters violated, our horses and cattle stolen.” He spat toward the fire. “Being careful will not save us.”

  Thunder Eyes rose to his feet. He was gray and grizzled, and he had been coughing throughout the night, suffering from influenza. “It does not require many words to speak truth,” he said. “Eagle from Light has spoken truth.” He turned, looked at those behind him, those on the sides, then back at those across the fire. “I will not sign a new treaty.”

  Shooting Arrow rose now. “With Thunder Eyes I stand,” he said. “I am through with Soyappos’ council.”

  Eagle from Light rose and affirmed his agreement. Then Sound of Striking Timber. Then Red Owl and White Bird. Six of the head chiefs around the inner circle stood standing, while six remained seated.

  Lawyer glared at his adversaries. They had never accepted his authority, and now they would pay the price. He was through protecting them from the consequences of their foolish pride.

  “Only one solution remains,” Shooting Arrow said. “We shall be one nation no longer. Friends, yes, but separate nations. You”—he gestured at Lawyer and the others who remained seated—“with your own lands, do what you want. If you choose, sell them. Our lands we will keep. For us no one will speak, and for you we will not speak.”

  The lodge was silent except for the crackling of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. Lawyer stood up, painfully, careful not to betray his fury. “So will it be,” he said, “from this time forth. Go fend for yourselves. When you have to fight, don’t ask for our help. You will live and die on your own now.”

  FORTY-NINE

  June 1863

  Daytime Smoke heard hoofbeats, then saw riders passing: bluecoat chiefs, with yellow stripes on their shoulders. The rider in front carried a flag with the stripes and stars of the Soyappo nations. It seemed that every snow brought more stars. He had been told, once, that each stood for a nation the Soyappos had conquered.

  The smell of broiling meat drifted through the air. The Soyappos were having a feast to celebrate the end of the council. He wished he and his family had departed with Looking Glass, three days ago. He had dreamed, twice, of Soyappos attacking his village, sweeping through on their horses and shooting everyone. The dream worried him; his heart told him to leave this place. But Little Fire was ill with influenza, too sick to travel.

  “Why don’t you ride down and see if they are giving away food again,” Widow Bird suggested.

  He shook his head. “I will hunt.”

  “But we are hungry now. When I smell meat cooking my stomach twists.”

  He scowled at her, and she came closer, gazed into his eyes: “What is it you fear, my husband?”

  He told her about his dreams. “I just want to get away from here.”

  She held him close. “You are becoming like me. I have had the same feelings.”

  “I am part of you. And you are part of me.”

  “And I am hungry!” Red Bear said.

  Smoke laughed. “All right, then, I will go see if I can find some food.”

  He saddled his buffalo runner and trotted along the river road. The long, hot days had begun, the sky empty of clouds, the sun beating down. When he neared the old mission, he hobbled his horse and let it graze with the rest. As he walked toward the gathering he could see that a steer had been butchered, and near the river, behind a large canvas covering set up to block the sun, meat roasted above a fire. Beneath the covering, in the shade, stood a long table the Soyappos had used during the council; men had sat there and marked all the words down on papers. Now more than a dozen Soyappos stood behind it: the soldier chiefs, the three commissioners, the men who had marked the words, Reverend Spalding, Perrin Whitman, Robert Newell, Mr. Anderson, the Indian agent, the doctor they had sent here, and three others he did not know. All held glasses in their hands.

  “Mr. Clark!” Spalding called out, walking toward him, extending his hand. “Come, let me introduce you.”

  Smoke fixed him with a level gaze as they shook hands: “My name is Daytime Smoke.”

  Spalding stared back, let his hand drop. “I see.”

  Lawyer approached the table, followed by Timothy, Jason, and John. Lawyer picked up a writing stick and bent over to sign his name as other Nimíipuu began to line up. Suddenly Smoke realized what he was witnessing.

  By the time he reached Lawyer, four of them had already marked the paper. His old friend greeted him with an amused smile: “Welcome. You have not departed?”

  “My daughter is ill.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” He gestured at the Soyappos: “Have you asked the doctor to help?”

  “No.”

  “Influenza is a Soyappo illness.”

  “What are you signing?”

  “A treaty.”

  Smoke looked at those who were in line. About 15 were headmen, but the rest were ordinary men. “Why are men who are not chiefs signing?”

  Lawyer’s smile faded: “This is no longer your business, Daytime Smoke. You are in Looking Glass’s band, now, I understand.”

  Smoke turned to Timothy: “Why would men who are not chiefs—ordinary men like me—sign a treaty?”

  “Soyappos asked that we gather more than fifty,” Timothy said.

  Smoke gazed over at Commissioner Hale, who stood with the other Soyappos, sipping from a glass, watching the Nimíipuu mark their X’s. Suddenly he understood. “They will pretend that all our headmen have signed!”

  Timothy shook his head, but Smoke could see the satisfied look in Lawyer’s eyes. “You have always been more intelligent that most of our chiefs,” Lawyer said.

  Smoke took a step toward him, towering over him: “You are no longer head chief of all bands! You cannot sell land that is not yours! Only for your own band!”

  “Which was your band once.”

  “Until I could no longer stand to watch you grovel!”

  Lawyer’s slanted eyes narrowed. “One day you will wish you had been wiser.”

  Smoke could not believe his lifelong friend was doing this. “Your treaty is a lie!”

  “I have done my best to protect our people, to avoid war with those who have more soldiers and better weapons than we do. Chiefs like White Bird and Eagle from Light have fought me every time, and now they show their disrespect by breaking apart our nation. If they are too stupid to understand what will happen if they resist, let them learn the hard way.”

  “It is not disrespect! They are protecting their people’s land!”

  “I cannot protect them if they will not follow me. They can go their own way, but they deserve what they get.”

  “Soyappos are making you rich, as you have always wanted, and in return you are selling them others’ land! You are a traitor to your people!”

  Lawyer glared at him. “It is time for you to leave, Daytime Smoke. You are no longer part of our nation.”

  FIFTY

  July 1863

  Little Fire stood up straight and stretched her stiff back, gazed across the small sea of lush grass and flowers to the creek. She had been digging camas for three hours, in a meadow by the stream. Her father and husband and Widow Bird had taken Echoes on Mountain and Red Bear ahead to set up a camp. They were on their way over the Road to the Buffalo, anxious to get away from all Soyappos.

  Her dog, Rainbow, rose and stared toward the west, ears perked in a question. Then she bounded forward, and soon Little Fire heard hoofbeats. When the horse finally emerged from the fore
st, it carried a Soyappo with yellow hair. Rainbow circled him and growled, the short golden hair on her back standing straight up.

  Then a second Soyappo appeared, a small man with black hair and bristles on his face. Behind him, on leads, trailed two mules loaded high with packs.

  The first Soyappo grinned at Little Fire in a way that filled her heart with dread. Rainbow circled the mules, sniffing, and one kicked out with a hind foot and caught her in the chest, threw her squealing backward. The Soyappos laughed.

  Yellow Hair swung off his horse, handed the reins to the other, who also stopped. “Howdy,” he said with a smile. He had green eyes.

  Little Fire wanted to run, but her feet remained rooted.

  “Ain’t you a pretty thing, now,” the other one said, swinging out of his saddle. His teeth were crooked and brown.

  “What you doin’ here, pretty lady?” Yellow Hair asked.

  She pointed at the pile of camas bulbs.

  “Diggin’ roots.” Yellow Hair walked to the pile, bent down, picked up a small bulb and brushed it off with his other hand. He bit into the bulb, made a face, spat it out. “Not so tasty,” he said. “Not like this little squaw.”

  The smaller man grinned, slapped at a mosquito on his neck. “Yes, indeed. How’d you get that light skin, missy?”

  Panic coursed up her spine. She looked down, pretended not to understand. Yellow Hair approached her, took her hand, held it palm up. “I kin smell the bear grease on her,” he chuckled. Then he pointed to the skin on the underside of her arm: “Half-breed?”

  She pulled her hand away.

  “Now, now, nothin’ to be afraid of.” He towered over her; his stench made her almost nauseous. “You got a white daddy?”

  Her instinct was to bolt and run, but her feet would not move. She shook her head.

  “Mama?”

  Another shake.

  “Somebody back there was white.” He grinned at her, put a hand under her chin and forced her to look up at him.

  “Father’s father,” she said.

  “Ah, your granddaddy was white.”

  “Clark. William Clark.”

  His eyes narrowed: “Come again?”

  “William Clark.”

  Recognition dawned in his green eyes. “Well, Miss Clark, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He thrust out his hand, and she shook it. The shorter Soyappo, who was beside him now, did the same.

  She pointed at the trail. “My people. I go.”

  The short one would not let go of her hand. “No, no,” he said. “Why don’t you stay a bit.”

  She tried to pull away. “I go.”

  He would not release her. She struggled, yanked, but he kept his grip, a leering smile on his face.

  She heard a growl, and Rainbow attacked, knocking him down. Yellow Hair pulled a pistol out of his leggings and shot the dog.

  Little Fire bolted for her horse, which grazed at the other end of the meadow. She was almost there when Yellow Hair caught her, knocked her down. She kicked at him, but he held on. She scratched at his face, tried to gouge out an eye. Angry now, he rose up and punched her in the face, hard. Dazed, she felt him grab her around the waist and hoist her over his shoulder. He carried her back to where his partner sat on the ground, staring at the bite marks in his arm.

  “My, my, would you look at that,” Yellow Hair said. “You gonna have to do somethin’ mighty nice to make up for what that damn dog o’ yours did to Odell.”

  She tried to push herself off his shoulder, but he held on tight. Rainbow lay in the deep grass, blood leaking from a hole in her chest.

  “Tie her hands,” Yellow Hair said. He dropped her like a sack, then rolled her over and held her arm up behind her back until the pain made her stop struggling.

  His partner brought rope from the first pack mule and forced her other hand behind her back, then tied the two together. Every time she struggled Yellow Hair forced her arm up until the pain stopped her.

  When her hands were secure, Yellow Hair turned her around and smiled at her. “Now why would a purty little thing like you want to make herself ugly by crying like that?” He pulled a cloth out of his shirt pocket and wiped her cheeks and eyes. Then he sat on her legs and the short one tied her ankles together.

  Yellow Hair went to the pack mules, which grazed on the meadow. He came back with a clear glass bottle half full of amber liquid. “Have a drink with us, Miss Clark.”

  The short one lifted her into a sitting position. She turned her head away, but Yellow Hair held her chin with one massive hand and tried to force the liquid into her mouth. She spat it back at him.

  He squatted in front of her, gazing at her. Then he took a long drink and handed the bottle to his friend. “She’s feisty, I’ll give her that.”

  “Been a long time since I seen one this pretty,” the other one said.

  Yellow Hair moved behind her, squatted and took her head in his hands, forced her jaws open. “Give her a taste, Odell. She’ll feel better about this when she’s had a little Blue John.”

  The whiskey burned her mouth and throat. She tried to spit it out, but he would not let her. Some of it ran into her lungs and she coughed violently.

  “Calm down, now, little missy. Just drink it nice, and it won’t feel so bad.” He swatted at a mosquito on the side of his face; they were growing thicker as the shadows lengthened.

  He forced her jaws open again, and this time she did not resist. She did not want to drown on the whiskey.

  They sat and drank for a good long time, talking to her the whole time, telling her their names, where they were from, how long they’d been in Indian country. She understood some of it, though she pretended not to. When they asked her where they could find the yellow stones, she just glared at them, told them in Nimíipuu to stay off her people’s lands or they would be killed.

  They laughed at her and swatted mosquitoes.

  After a time, Yellow Hair took his knife and began to slice her dress up the front. Then he parted it. He got a funny smile on his face, reached out and fondled her right breast. She pulled back, and he laughed. “Now don’t deny it, I know you squaws like that.”

  Even with her legs tied she kicked at him.

  “Oh, but she’s a lively one.”

  He grabbed her feet and spoke to Odell, who picked up the knife and cut the ropes that bound her ankles. She tried to kick again, but he had a firm grip on her legs. He spread them apart and lay down on top of her. “Now, Missy, you can take this hard or you can take this easy.” She lurched up, tried to bite his nose. He hit her across the face, hard, then knelt upright on his knees and loosened his leggings.

  Little Fire screamed.

  * * *

  Daytime Smoke sat by the fire while Calf Shirt and Widow Bird put Echoes on Mountain and Red Bear to bed. He wondered if he should go back to look for his daughter. What could have kept her? Perhaps her horse had wandered off while she was digging roots.

  The night air was chilly, so he threw another log on the fire, watched the sparks fly up.

  He heard a snap and the dogs bounded into the darkness. He stood up, peering across the fire. Then he heard a horse blow.

  He circled the fire, moved toward the sound. He could hear the horse walking now, then the sound of weeping. He ran toward it, saw his daughter on her horse, holding her dress together in front of her. It had been cut open.

  “Calf Shirt!” he shouted. “Come!”

  Tears streamed down her face. He reached her side, but she made no move to get off the horse. He could see her face now, could see deep bruises beside and below one eye.

  He took hold of the horse’s bridle, his heart beating wildly. “My daughter, what happened?”

  She sobbed: “Soyappos.”

  Calf Shirt reached them, helped her off her horse, then carried her in his arms back toward the tipi, where Echoes on Mountain and Red Bear stood, staring with frightened eyes. Calf Shirt said something to them as he passed, then ducked into the tipi. Smoke l
et go of the horse, put his arms out toward the children, who ran to him.

  An hour later, when everyone else was finally asleep, Calf Shirt and Smoke gathered their weapons and saddled their horses. Neither had to say a word.

  They rode for several hours down the trail as trees emerged like ghosts out of the dark. Smoke carried his rifle in a scabbard, loaded, his bow and quiver slung over his head and shoulder. He wore leggings and a hide tunic, his bone breastplate over the tunic for protection. In his medicine pouch, around his neck, he carried two long wolves’ teeth.

  The sky lightened and the air warmed as they descended. Smoke was no longer young, and he was relieved when they reached the meadow where Little Fire had dug for camas bulbs and he could dismount. He stretched his back, then led his horse to the stream, where she drank for a long time.

  When she was done he followed Calf Shirt, who was inspecting a pile of bulbs. Nearby lay a patch of matted grass. Smoke’s rage threatened to consume him as he stared at it, so he turned away. He needed to calm himself, to think clearly, if they were to kill the Soyappos. Calf Shirt had found the tracks of two Soyappo horses, shod with metal shoes, which led back down the mountain. Smoke bent down, examined two sets of smaller prints, unshod. “These?” he asked.

  “Pack mules.”

  Smoke nodded, and they walked back to their grazing horses.

  They followed the tracks down the mountain, which lay silent under a blanket of fog, no sound save the occasional call of a jay or crow.

  Calf Shirt saw it before Smoke did—the white of a Soyappo tent. Quietly, Smoke sang his power song, asked his wyakin to make him a strong hunter. Soon the scent of Soyappos came to him.

  They dismounted, tied their horses, advanced slowly, quietly. They could hear the gurgle of the stream. Then a man began to whistle.

  They squatted and searched the trees. The Soyappo stood in the stream, with a metal pan in his hand, looking down into it. He was a small man with black hair and a black hat, just as Little Fire had described. But where was the other Soyappo? Calf Shirt put a hand on Smoke’s knee, then a finger to his own lips. He pointed to his own chest, then at the man. Daytime Smoke pointed at himself, then at his gun, then at the tent. Calf Shirt nodded. Rising, he pulled his knife out of a scabbard at his waist. His bow and quiver still hung down his back.