The Coming

by David Osborne

  Smoke moved quietly through the trees, circling around until he reached a large rock, near the stream. He knelt behind it, rested his gun on top of it, aiming at the tent. Every sense was alert; he could hear a bee that buzzed in the small meadow, could smell the wildflowers. His eyes swept the meadow, found the horses and mules, picketed at the far end, grazing. But there was no sign of the other man. He looked back at Calf Shirt and waved, then nodded for him to go ahead.

  Calf Shirt walked slowly toward the man in the stream. When he reached the edge he stopped and spoke one word: “Odell.” The Soyappo looked up, startled, then dropped the pan and ran for the far bank, yelling. Calf Shirt caught him as he scrambled up the bank, grabbed his shoulder with one hand and cut his throat with the other. A Soyappo with yellow hair emerged from the tent, a rifle in his hands. Smoke shot, and the man flew backward and lay still.

  Smoke waited, just in case there was another Soyappo. But Little Fire had been clear: there were only two. After a few minutes he waded the stream, walked to the man he had shot. Calf Shirt followed him. The man had a ragged bullet hole in his stomach, but he was still breathing. Smoke knelt down and cut through his blue cloth leggings, pulled them apart. The Soyappo’s eyes opened; they were green, just as his daughter had said. They widened with terror as Smoke grabbed his sex in his left hand and sliced it off with his knife. “You should be more careful what you do with this,” he said, in Soyappo. Then he stuffed it in the man’s mouth and cut his throat.

  PART IV

  WAR

  Suppose a white man should come to me and say, “Joseph, I like your horses. I want to buy them.” I say to him, “No, my horses suit me; I will not sell them.” Then he goes to my neighbor, who says, “Pay me money, and I will sell you Joseph’s horses.” The white man returns to me and says, “Joseph, I have bought your horses and you must let me have them.” If we sold our lands to the government, this is the way they bought them.

  —Thunder Rising to Loftier Mountain Heights Known to whites as Chief Joseph

  FIFTY-ONE

  September 1868

  The coach lurched, tipped, landed back on the trail with a thud. Lawyer sat up straighter, tried to find some position that would not hurt his back. He gazed out the windows as the Green River Valley unfolded before them. So much had changed in Buffalo Country: the Iron Horse that sped across the plains, the Soyappo villages, the absence of game. The great buffalo herds were vanishing into Mother Earth.

  But what wonders he had witnessed on this long trip. They had left Lewiston in the Time of New Plants and Flowers, traveled by steamboat down the Columbia: Lawyer, Timothy, Jason, Spotted Eagle, Indian Agent James O’Neill, and their chosen interpreters, Robert Newell and Perrin Whitman. From Portland they had sailed to San Francisco, then on to Panama City, where they had crossed from one ocean to the other by coach, through a forest unlike any Lawyer had ever seen. The trees teemed with the strangest creatures, like hairy children with shrunken heads.

  They had sailed to New York City, where Soyappos were truly as thick as the grasshoppers on the Camas Prairie, just as he had always been warned. Great lodges reached toward the sky, and many, many boats lined the shores. Washington City was smaller, but its grand buildings were even more impressive than those in New York. The weather had been miserable, like living in a sweat lodge. Spotted Eagle had become ill and died.

  But Lawyer and his friends had pushed on, met with Senator Corbett, with President Johnson, with General Grant, with Nathaniel Taylor, Commissioner of Indian Affairs. Before all of them, Lawyer had explained the injustices that had spurred the Nez Perce to make this longest of journeys. Payments under the first treaty had ceased. They had none of the promised schools, no churches, no doctors, no gunsmith, no blacksmith, no lands fenced or ploughed by the government. Governor Lyon had stolen $46,418 due them; Indian agents had stolen much of the rest. Soyappos were invading to cut down timber on the reservation, not even paying for what they took. Even soldiers from Fort Lapwai were selling whiskey on Nimíipuu lands, and people were becoming drunkards. Worse, Soyappos continued to kill and rape, yet none had been punished for their offenses.

  Young Nimíipuu were leaving in disgust, to live with White Bird, Shooting Arrow, and others who had not moved onto the reserve. They laughed at Lawyer, taunted him for believing the white men. If whites continued to break their promises, he warned their leaders, it could only lead to war. The bands that had refused to sign the treaty were becoming larger and angrier with each passing snow.

  The commissioner had agreed to sign amendments to the 1863 treaty. The government promised to keep timber cutters off the reservation, reimburse all money appropriated for schools but stolen, and set aside 20-acre plots for all Nez Perce now living off the reserve. If there was not enough fertile land, he said, they would give people plots off the reserve. In return, Lawyer had given the Soyappos permission to build a larger fort at the Place of Butterflies.

  He wondered if this treaty would be ignored like all the others. Were White Bird and Sound of Striking Timber right, when they said white men could never be trusted? Had all his efforts to protect his people been in vain?

  These dark thoughts filled his mind as they reached the Green River. Twice he had camped here for the summer rendezvous, in happier times. White clouds hung low on the western horizon, and across the river he saw an Indian camp—several dozen tipis and a large herd of horses. Here little had changed, since that fateful day when the Spaldings and Whitmans arrived.

  The river was low, so the driver took the coach right through it with the passengers aboard. On the far bank he stopped, to unhitch his team and let them drink. Lawyer opened the coach door and stepped down gingerly, using his cane to cushion the impact. Every joint in his body complained.

  He stared at the Indian camp as Timothy and Jason descended. The Indians looked to be Crows; he saw several with eagle feathers in their hair. But others wore their hair in Nimíipuu style. Yes, there were Nimíipuu among them! He spotted young Looking Glass, his trade mirror dangling from his neck. He pointed, gestured for Timothy and Jason to follow, and hobbled toward the Indian camp. He liked young Looking Glass. He lacked his father’s ambition and courage, but that was a blessing, for he had never resisted Lawyer’s leadership.

  Widow Bird watched as Daytime Smoke and Red Bear approached the camp from the north. The boy had seen nine springs now, and he was growing tall and thin. He was dark like her, and he had her broad face and nose. Strapped to the back of his horse was an antelope.

  Yellow Hair shrieked and ran toward them, and Widow Bird followed her. She smiled at the boy’s expression, so grave one might imagine he was riding into battle. She could see pride in her son’s eyes; he had killed rabbits and squirrels, but this was his first large animal. He was a hunter now.

  Daytime Smoke beamed with pride as the boy dismounted. “He killed it all on his own.”

  Widow Bird embraced Red Bear: “We will have a feast to celebrate! You will be a great hunter, my son.”

  When Smoke dismounted she embraced him, and the two of them stood arm in arm, gazing at their son with pride. Having each lost a son, they both understood what a gift they had been given in a second one. Red Bear had no living grandparents, so his father taught him everything, savoring every step. They had remained in Buffalo Country, careful to stay away from Soyappos. They were now camped on the Green River with Looking Glass’s band, in the spot where fur hunters had held their summer trade gathering when the Sent Ones arrived, her husband told her.

  Red Bear pointed south. “Who is that?”

  Widow Bird turned and in the distance saw two Soyappos standing by their horses, which drank from the river. Further on stood their coach. Fear coursed through her and she felt sick in her stomach. What harm had they come to inflict?

  “Soyappos,” Smoke said. “Stay away from them.”

  She could see panic in Yellow Hair’s eyes, and Smoke reached down to pick her up. “They are just passing through
this place,” he told her. “There is no danger.”

  A small, elderly man hobbled toward them, leaning on a cane. He was dressed in dark Soyappo clothing, with a white shirt, and his gray hair was short, but his oval face was dark and his eyes were like the People’s. He wore a strange black hat that rose straight up from his head, with a small brim.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  Smoke grunted: “Lawyer.”

  “My friends,” the Indian said, smiling. “My heart rejoices to see you, so far from home.” He reached out a hand to shake with Smoke, who just glared at him. No one said a word.

  “Widow Bird,” the man continued, dropping his hand, “you are as beautiful as ever. Are these your children?”

  She introduced Red Bear.

  “And you have one with Soyappo hair,” Lawyer said, nodding at Yellow Hair, still in Smoke’s arms. “She must take after her father.”

  “She is my granddaughter,” Smoke said. “A Soyappo with yellow hair forced himself on my daughter.”

  The smile left Lawyer’s face. He glanced at Yellow Hair, then back at Smoke. “It pains me to hear this.”

  Smoke beckoned to Red Bear and Widow Bird and turned away.

  “My friend, are you still angry with me?” Lawyer asked.

  Smoke ignored him, just walked away.

  “Who is that?” Red Bear asked.

  “A traitor,” Smoke said. “A chief who sold our lands.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  July 4, 1874

  Lawyer gazed out at the Kamiah Valley, marveled at the changes he had witnessed during the course of his 78 snows. Today most of the valley was fenced off into farms and ranches, and irrigation ditches kept parts of it green even in the time of midsummer heat. Cattle grazed, and between fences neat rows of vegetables and corn grew.

  The crops looked healthy this year. Two years ago a drought had ravaged them, then crickets had finished off the few that survived. A few months later, in December, the earth had shaken. The heathens had taken all three events as signs that the spirits were angry with those who had abandoned the old ways, and more than a few young men and women had left the reservation to join hostile bands.

  Fortunately, Lawyer’s sons owned big enough farms that they could afford to feed their father through the drought; otherwise, he would have been reduced to begging from the very people he had once showered with gifts, to ensure their loyalty. He had lost his government salary when the tribal council voted him out as headman, two years ago. He had served for 16 years, and they had thanked him by telling him he was too old. That was their idea of loyalty.

  Three canoes pulled up to the river’s edge and their occupants called to him. They were boisterous, probably drunk already. Every Fourth of July people drank so much the celebrations lasted for a week, with dancing, drumming, gambling—even wife-swapping. He shook his head. In the old days, there was no need to swap; you just took another wife.

  The revelers wanted Lawyer to join them, but he waved them away: “I must visit Reverend Spalding.”

  “Too bad,” one of the men shouted, “you’ll never get a drink out of Old Spooley,” and the entire group burst into laughter.

  It was true, Lawyer thought, as he approached the small wooden house across from the church, under a large cottonwood. It had been exactly 38 snows, to the day, since he first met Spalding, and in all that time, he had never seen the reverend take a drink.

  When Spalding’s wife answered his knock, plump and gray, her face deeply creased with age. He still had trouble getting used to the idea that Eliza was gone, though it had been many snows. The new Mrs. Spalding led him into the living room and offered him some cool tea, which he accepted with gratitude. After she disappeared into the bedroom, he heard Spalding’s angry voice: “I will not remain in bed! I will rise and we will sit on the front porch, as we always have.” Long minutes later the reverend limped out of the room, Mrs. Spalding supporting him on one side, and gestured toward the front door.

  Last November Spalding had fallen, while cutting wood, and sustained broken ribs. He had never healed properly; something inside him was still broken. By now he was weak and bedridden, his face thin and pale and his once-black hair and beard almost completely gray. He was eight years younger than Lawyer, but he looked much older. Lawyer’s hair was still black. How could they think he was too old to be chief?

  They sat in rocking chairs, gazing across the road at the small, white church building. Mrs. Spalding refreshed Lawyer’s drink and brought one for her husband.

  “How are you feeling today, Reverend?” Lawyer asked.

  Spalding grimaced. “Weaker every day. The wife has me imprisoned in bed.”

  “You look well.”

  “Don’t flatter me.” He glanced sideways at Lawyer: “You old liar.”

  They both chuckled, and Spalding sipped his drink. After a moment of silence, he spoke again. “I understand Jacob is trying to get Montieth fired.”

  “He’s got a petition up.” John Montieth was the agent hired by the Presbyterian Church three years ago, when the government gave it control of the reservation. Lawyer had worked closely with him, but Spalding despised him. Though the Presbyterians had named Spalding superintendent of education, Montieth had refused to give him real control of the schools. Predictably, Spalding had mounted an attack. He said the school books Montieth ordered were “the works of the devil,” accused him of favoritism for hiring his relatives, even charged him with gross moral delinquency, for intemperance. The Presbyterians investigated but found no substance to the charges, though Montieth had indeed hired relatives. Once he had been cleared, Montieth fired Spalding. Aware that he would starve without a salary, the Church paid him to preach, just as in the old days. Except Spalding was no longer stingy with baptisms; he had baptized almost a thousand people, between the Nimíipuu and a visit he and Lawyer had made to the Spokans. Now that the Catholics were baptizing Nimíipuu, Spalding had few scruples about rushing people through.

  When the Presbyterians appointed another superintendent of education, Spalding lost no time in attacking him as well. So they opened a new church here in Kamiah and shipped Spalding up to get it started. Lawyer had been his first elder.

  “Have you signed this petition?”

  Lawyer shook his head. “Montieth has problems, but Jacob is worse.”

  For a moment, Spalding’s eyes showed the old fire. “How can you support such an unflinching rogue? You must lead the effort to get rid of him. Others will follow you, where they won’t follow Jacob.”

  Jacob had defeated Lawyer as head chief, but he wasn’t even Christian, and the Christians were now the majority on the reservation. Few were willing to follow a non-Christian.

  “I can’t do that,” Lawyer said. He didn’t like some of Montieth’s policies—the man refused to let children speak Nimíipuutímt in school, forbade dancing, drinking, hiring tewats, even long hair on men. But Montieth had given Lawyer his full support, even when Jacob replaced him, and Lawyer needed that support if he was to unseat the pretender.

  “Montieth is letting the Catholics run wild! They’ve baptized hundreds!”

  “Not as many as you.”

  “Of course not. But they’re working on it, and you know how prejudiced they are against me. Montieth encourages them.”

  “The petition will never work, Reverend Spalding.”

  “But he lets the army sell liquor to your people! Does that not trouble you?”

  The Soyappos had built a new fort, near where Spalding’s first house had been. The government had kept most of its promises after the last treaty, but the soldiers still sold whiskey, and they had accumulated a small army of Nimíipuu hangers-on, most of them drunks. “It does,” Lawyer admitted.

  “He’s giving ammunition to your enemies! Eagle from the Light. White Bird. And now he’s helped convince President Grant to give Young Joseph title to part of the Wallowa Valley! That is bound to stir up the heathen bands.”

  He was r
ight—the president’s decision had riled up the Salmon and Snake River people. Lawyer shrugged: “They’ll get what’s coming to them soon enough.”

  “Eh? You mean they’ll get land too?”

  Lawyer shook his head. “They’ll get lead in their bellies. War is coming.”

  Spalding looked confused. “War?”

  “War.” He had argued fiercely with the heathen chiefs last fall at a council at Lapwai, with Montieth presiding, but they had refused to budge, vowed never to move onto the reserve. If anything, they were growing more militant, regularly insulting Lawyer and the Christians. “And when it comes, they will get what they deserve.”

  Spalding stared at him. “Well, I won’t be here to see it.”

  “Nor I, perhaps.” He gazed out at the church. “I’m almost 80.”

  “But you’re healthy.”

  “You have a few years left, as well, my friend.”

  “I have a few weeks.”

  Lawyer’s brows knit in surprise. “No.”

  Spalding glared at him: “I’m dying, my friend. That’s why you must sign the petition, and get others to help. Once I’m gone, there’s no telling what Montieth will do. The man is disgraceful.”

  Lawyer shook his head again. “He wants me to run for chief again, and he will support me. I cannot stab him in the back.”

  Disgust flickered across Spalding’s face, then anger. He stared out across the road for a long time, but he said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Lawyer offered.

  Spalding looked at him, and the anger was gone. “At least promise me you will support our new church. Find a new pastor, help it prosper.”

  Lawyer nodded: “Of course.”

  “Lapwai is in good hands, with Timothy. But I want our work here to bear fruit as well.”