Red Bear found Little Frog lying behind three boulders he had pushed together.
“We have scouted back their trail for a long time,” he said. “We saw no sign of bluecoats.”
Little Frog nodded. Earlier in the night, he said, they had held a quiet council. All agreed it would be senseless to charge the soldiers. If they killed one, a hundred more would come to take his place. But if one Nimíipuu warrior died, no one would take his place. To protect their families, they needed to stay alive.
“But these bluecoats shot women and children!” Red Bear protested. “They deserve to die!”
“Yes, they do. But if we charge them, many of us will die with them. And if we starve them out, other soldiers will come to help them. It is better to save our skins, protect our families.”
Red Bear looked down, frustrated.
“I told all but eight warriors without wives to follow their families,” Little Frog said.
Just before dawn, a Soyappo shout came from the woods above the hillside. The trapped soldiers shouted in response. Then Red Bear heard hoofbeats from the same direction. Soon a Soyappo came loping down through the gloom, heading for the place where the bluecoats had dug their trenches. “Let him pass,” Little Frog called. “We will hear what news he brings!”
Soon after the rider reached the bluecoats, a cheer went up. Red Bear glanced at Little Frog. Both knew what this meant.
Little Frog gave the call of an owl, and the other eight warriors made their way to where he sat. He did not speak until all were there: “Soldiers must be coming. We must warn our families to move on, before these new bluecoats catch them.”
The others nodded. “Return to your positions,” Little Frog said, “and when you hear me fire, give them two more rounds, from two different places. Then we will slip away.”
SIXTY-ONE
August 1877
Thunder Rising opened his eyes. Someone had been screaming, but he heard nothing but the gurgling of water. They had camped half a day’s ride south of the battle site. He sat up halfway, on his elbows, and looked around in the darkness; people lay in the open air in their sleeping robes, under a willow tree. He wondered who had screamed. Perhaps it had only been in his dream—he had been reliving the attack.
He could hear Bear Woman breathing beside him, Springtime on the other side. But from her right he heard nothing. He sat up all the way, stared at Fair Land, Little Frog’s wife. Her robe was still; there was no rise or fall. He moved to her side and put his ear to her chest. Nothing.
Grief welled up inside him. He had counted 67 dead, half of them women and children.
He felt arms around him. It was Bear Woman, embracing him from behind. He turned, and they held one another for a long time. Finally she pulled back and wiped her eyes. “I will find her best clothes, prepare her body.”
Springtime’s voice broke the darkness: “Now do you understand I was right, that we should never have crossed those mountains?”
Thunder Rising moved to her side and knelt. “Yes, I understand,” he whispered. “But you need to sleep.” She had lost a great deal of blood, even as they rode south.
“Let us return now, take southern trail, get away from these monsters.”
“We cannot do that,” Bear Woman said.
“It might be safer than staying here,” Thunder Rising said.
“Our warriors took a prisoner,” Bear Woman said. “He told them Soyappos believe you are our war chief. They call you Chief Joseph.”
Thunder Rising’s mouth fell open. “But—”
“If we go back, they will hang you from a tree.”
General Howard arrived some 30 hours after the fighting had ended. His men helped Gibbon’s bury the 29 dead and care for the 40 wounded, while his Indian scouts—Bannocks from Fort Hall—dug up Nez Perce bodies and scalped them. Two days later, his infantry and artillery still a day behind, Howard mounted his cavalry and headed south in pursuit. For five days he drove his men hard, intent on catching Joseph at the Corrine Road. The Indians had taken a southerly route, back over the Divide and through the Lemhi Valley—giving him a chance to cut them off. They were raiding every ranch they passed, killing men and stealing horses, food, and cloth. The spineless settlers in the valley, forted up at Salmon City and Junction, were so frightened they sent men over to beg Howard to come their way, to protect them. They complained bitterly that he was moving too slowly, yet succeeded only in delaying him for half a day as he listened to their whining.
When Howard reached the Corrine Road, his pickets brought in a rotund German who had arrived with a handwritten message. Pollinger, he said his name was, a road agent with the stage line. “Joseph and his Indians have been spotted twenty-six miles south of Pleasant Valley,” the message read. “Have crossed the Corrine Road at Hole-in-the-Rock Station.”
Howard felt his bile rise. “Why wasn’t this communicated by telegraph?”
“Injuns cut the line.”
He turned away and paced. Hell and damnation. They had only two choices now. They could move directly east, over Mynhold’s Pass to Henry’s Lake, try to cut them off at Tachee Pass, beyond the lake. His Nez Perce scout, Cutmouth John, was sure they were headed for the pass and the new Yellowstone National Park beyond; it was their traditional route. Or he could move south and chase them.
His horses were played out and his infantry was still two days behind. The officers insisted that their horses needed a day of rest and good grazing, though the soil here was so dry and alkaline that the grass was poor.
He decided to send 40 cavalry under Lieutenant Bacon ahead to Tachee Pass, with orders to do what they could to delay Joseph. Then he pushed on down the Corinne Road and east. When he finally picked up their trail, their sign was everywhere: trampled grass, three fresh graves, pyramids of piled-up horse dung on the trail. The piles were to express their contempt, John explained.
It took two days in the saddle to reach Camas Meadows. Howard could see with his own eyes what the scouts told him: Joseph had camped here just 24 hours earlier.
What a relief it was to see abundant greenery here in the barren lava flows of the Snake River Plain. The horses would be replenished by the grass, and their weary riders would be restored by a good night’s sleep. Men were already stripping and wading into the streams. Yes, a bath would do him good. A bath, a clean uniform, a good meal of fresh trout, and a pipe. After dinner he would inspect the troops, prepare them for the last dash after Joseph—perhaps even invite the fiddler to play and the men to sing. And then, for the first time since they had left Gibbon, he would sleep with his stinking boots off.
Howard came awake as a gun went off. Panicked, he sat up. More guns fired, and the air filled with savage cries. He forced himself to stand and peer out of the tent. Was he about to go the way of Custer? It was pitch black; he could see no stars—only rifles firing in the meadow below, flashes of light like larger-than-life fireflies. “Where are my blasted pants?” said his son Guy, his aide-de-camp. Both men groped in the dark for their clothing, listening to the war whoops and gunfire.
“White men!” someone kept shouting. “Don’t shoot!”
Even with Guy’s help, it took several minutes to get his boots on; it was always a slow process for a one-armed man. When he left the tent he could hear the pounding of many hooves. Lieutenant Wood stood there with his rifle up, guarding the tent. “Best to stay inside,” he said. “People don’t even know what they’re shootin’ at.”
When things quieted down Guy lit a lantern. Howard pulled out his pocket watch; it was a few minutes past three, the night still as black as tar. Their horses were picketed nearby, but when they walked down into the meadow, only a few mules grazed. Sweet Mother of God, Joseph had stolen 200 mules!
Howard’s stomach twisted as he realized what a subject of ridicule he would be now. He should never have let reporters travel with them. This entire campaign was a farce, a disaster. Here he was, sent by God to help the Indians, and Joseph was litera
lly thumbing his nose at him.
Without mules to carry their supplies, there was little point in pursuit. But that evening his infantry finally caught up. With their wagons to carry supplies, the entire outfit set off early the next morning. Two days later they reached Henrys Lake, where the Bannock scouts reported that the hostiles had already made it through Tachee Pass. They had seen no sign of Lieutenant Bacon.
Once again, Joseph had escaped him. Howard wondered if he would ever catch his elusive quarry. And now, his officers and staff surgeon, Major Alexander, were requesting a three-day rest. “We’ve only got rations for five more days,” Alexander told him. “You can go no further.”
Howard frowned.
“Sir, with all due respect, these men need a rest,” his chief of staff added. “They wrap their feet in burlap every morning. They’ve marched nine hundred miles on a diet of flour, bacon, and coffee. Your cavalrymen have covered fifteen hundred miles. These men have thin blankets, no overcoats, no socks, no shoes. You see water frozen in our pails every morning. If you don’t procure some suitable clothing, sir, you’re not going to have an army, you’ll have a traveling hospital.”
Even the horses were failing, plodding along with their heads down, ribs showing. Joseph had 2,000 horses with him; when one tired, his people just saddled a fresh one. By stealing all the horses he came upon, he had denied Howard fresh mounts.
Howard spent the better part of the next day considering his options. Three times he changed his mind before bowing to reality: no one was in condition to press on. He decided to let the men and horses rest while he traveled the 70 miles north to Virginia City to telegraph Generals Sherman and McDowell. He would recommend that Crook, Miles, and Sturgis now take up the pursuit. The quartermaster and purchasing agent could shop for food, clothing, blankets, horses, and mules, and Howard could have his uniforms cleaned and enjoy a decent meal or two. They took a light wagon, traveled all night, trying to sleep on the rattling floor of the wagon box.
McDowell’s staff responded to Howard’s report by forwarding telegrams they had already sent, every one telling him to press on. But it was Sherman’s response that truly stung. “I don’t want to give orders, but that force of yours should pursue the Nez Perces to the death, lead where they may. Miles is too far off, and I fear Sturgis is too slow. If you are tired, give the command to some young energetic officer, and let him follow them, go where they may, holding his men well in hand, subsisting them on beef gathered in the country, with coffee, sugar and salt in packs.”
Howard balled up the telegram and threw it into the corner. Beef gathered in the country. Sherman had no clue.
He smarted for a day, grew ever hotter as he read the newspaper accounts of his pursuit. Apparently it was front-page news all across the country. After the theft of his mules, he had become a national laughingstock. One Idaho paper had come right out and called for his dismissal.
But the biggest surprise was how some of these writers were romanticizing Joseph as some kind of Red Napoleon, leading his noble warriors in a just cause against all odds. Right here in Montana, the Deer Lodge paper practically celebrated the savage cause!
That did it. Howard was not going to go down in history as some kind of bumbling idiot, chasing a Red Napoleon. He would catch Joseph or die trying. “Yours of the 24th received,” he telegraphed Sherman. “You misunderstood me. I never flag. It was the command, including the most energetic young officers, that were worn out and weary by a most extraordinary march. You need not fear for the campaign. Neither you nor General McDowell can doubt my pluck and energy. My Indian scouts are on the heels of the enemy. My supplies have just come in and we will move in the morning and will continue to the end.”
SIXTY-TWO
August 1877
Daytime Smoke stood by the fire, a dry blanket wrapped around him, trying to get warm. They had forded a river in a cold drizzle and ridden on in wet leggings. His were now drying—he had no others left. They had lost most of their possessions at the last two battles.
Echoes on Mountain lay unconscious by the fire, on her pony drag. Widow Bird had tried every herb she knew, but the bullet was still deep inside her. Smoke wished he could die instead of her.
Every part of him ached: his back, his knees, his hips, his shoulders. The traveling was growing more difficult, the nights colder. They had buried those who died beside the trail, left others who could no longer bear to travel hidden, with food and water and prayers that they would survive long enough to heal.
Fortunately, they had stopped early today, because people needed time to make fires and construct shelters against the drizzle. Little Fire and Yellow Hair were building a small shelter out of pine boughs. Widow Bird was off tending the other wounded.
Smoke knew this area well. It was a strange and unsettling place: steam bubbled from loud, boiling mud pits, giving off a smell like eggs rotting. Sometimes water shot into the air, as high as a tree.
Two Soyappo women sat by the fire of Thunder Rising, weeping. Lean Elk had asked Thunder Rising to protect them, after angry warriors shot two of the white men they had captured. Lean Elk had stopped the shooting, then helped the other white men escape, fearing that his young warriors would strike again.
Son of a French trapper and a Nez Perce woman, Lean Elk lived in the Bitterroot Valley. When he returned from Nimíipuu lands with a cut on his leg, whites had accused him of being in the war. For his own safety, he had joined the People on their journey. With Looking Glass in disgrace, the headmen had asked Lean Elk to lead them to Crow country. His thin face was wrinkled and his hair was gray, but he knew all the trails, and he was known to be lucky at gambling, which meant he had strong spirit power. Equally important, he would not favor any band. Some even thought that, with his white blood and his ability to speak English, he might be better at understanding the Soyappo soldiers.
Smoke watched Lean Elk cross through the damp meadow to talk to the white women. Smoke saw him lift up his tunic and show them his wound from the last battle. A Soyappo bullet had entered his stomach and gone right through him, exiting his back. It was a wonder he could lead the people, riding through camp bellowing his instructions, just 16 suns after being shot.
Smoke turned back to the fire. He noticed that Echoes on Mountain’s skin had gone very pale, so he knelt and felt her neck, for a pulse.
He closed his eyes, sank to his knees.
Little Fire let out a wail and ran to him, picked up her daughter’s wrist. She bent over her body and wailed. Suddenly she picked up a knife and slashed at her arm, but Daytime Smoke grabbed her: “No! Not now! You need all your strength!”
She struggled against him. “I want to die with my daughter!”
Though she was strong and he was old, he managed to wrench the knife away and toss it behind him. “You are talking crazy!”
“I do not want to wait for Soyappos to catch us and kill me! Bury us both, here!”
He held her in his arms, spoke into her ear as she struggled: “And what about your other daughter?”
Little Fire stopped wailing and looked up at Yellow Hair, who stood staring at her.
“She has no father, no sister, no brother,” Smoke whispered. “I will die soon. Widow Bird is old.”
Little Fire gathered Yellow Hair into her arms and wept.
Daytime Smoke peered out from beneath his oilskin shelter as three riders approached from the north. Looking Glass, Bird Alighting, and Red Owl rode with buffalo robes draped around their shoulders, rain pouring off the brims of their dark Soyappo hats.
Seven days earlier they had departed to find the village of their Crow friends and ask if they would take in the Nimíipuu and help them fight the bluecoats. Lean Elk had let the people rest while they waited, moving only a few miles each day through the mountains, to give the horses fresh pasture. They had left behind the strange country, where steam bubbled and stinking water shot high into the air. Lean Elk had led them through dense forests where there were barely any
trails, knowing that Cut-Off Arm could not follow with his wagons. The trees were so thick that sometimes packhorses got stuck between them.
Scouts reported that the soldiers had detoured far to the north. They were still several days behind, and though ice now skimmed the ponds at night and more aspen turned yellow with every sun, the rest had done everyone good.
Lean Elk called a council beneath the shelter his wives had erected and asked Looking Glass to tell them the Crows’ answers. Smoke could see Looking Glass’s discomfort. Slowly the chief cleared his throat: “Since Cutthroat and Painted Arrow People’s victory on Little Bighorn River, many bluecoats have come to Buffalo Country, built new forts. In snows of winter, they defeated Cutthroats. Sitting Bull’s people fled across Medicine Line, to Old Woman’s Country. Soyappos now fear that we will join Sitting Bull to start a great uprising. If Crows honored their promise and allowed us to live in their villages, they would be hunted down like so many buffalo. This they will not risk.”
Daytime Smoke’s mouth hung open; he had never doubted their Crow friends would welcome them. The silence stretched out until Lean Elk spoke: “So we have no friends in Buffalo Country?”
Looking Glass stared at the ground: “We are alone.”
“You have misled us again!” Sound of Striking Timber shouted. “You let bluecoats catch us at Place of Ground Squirrels! Now you have led us to Crows with promises that they would take us in! What other plans do you have to destroy our people!”
There was a long silence. Chiefs did not speak to one another this way.
Lean Elk finally broke it: “We will follow Sitting Bull across Medicine Line.” He paused, looked at each of them in turn. “It is our only hope. If Sitting Bull is safe there, we will be, too.”
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