No one said another word.
Red Bear and White Thunder reached the summit at midday. Lean Elk had come to rely on them as advance scouts. They were in more open country now—massive, gray-brown peaks fell into steep, forested canyons. To the east, past a small, craggy peak the Crows called Buffalo Heart Mountain, golden plains spread out as far as they could see. The wind brought the chill of autumn, and snow covered mountains to the north.
The trail descended into a grassy basin behind another ridge, then turned south, toward the watershed of the Stinking Water.
They rode south all afternoon, until they saw smoke rising far ahead. They continued on slowly, careful to make little noise. The scent of Soyappos came to Red Bear on the breeze. When the thin forest opened into a long, narrow meadow, along a stream, a tall Soyappo dressed in deerskin was leading a black horse toward them. Red Bear pulled his rifle from his scabbard as the man sprang into his saddle. He shot, and the man fell. A second Soyappo, behind the first, galloped down the trail.
White Thunder had kicked his chestnut mare into a sprint, and gradually he gained on the man, Red Bear behind him. As he closed in the Soyappo pulled up and jumped off. His momentum knocked him to the ground, and White Thunder was by him before he could stop. He leapt off and both men fired at once. White Thunder fell backward, and the Soyappo pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Red Bear jammed a cartridge into his gun and shot, and the Soyappo pitched forward on his face.
White Thunder lay on his back, staring up at the sky. Red Bear parted his black hair and felt a slight groove the bullet had cut. “It glanced off your head,” he said.
When he lifted the Soyappo’s gun he saw why his second shot had never come: White Thunder’s bullet had knocked off the hammer. They left the useless gun but took his ammunition belt, then took the other Soyappo’s gun and belt. “These two were scouts,” Red Bear said. “Someone will miss them. We will see if bluecoats come.”
They retreated into the trees north of the meadow, camped without a fire. The next morning Red Bear again smelled Soyappos, and they crept to the edge of the meadow. Twenty men rode in single file up the trail: six bluecoats, six other Soyappos, six Bannock, and two Crow. They stopped and dismounted when they found the corpse. Red Bear and White Thunder watched them for a few minutes, then crept back to their horses and turned back up the mountain.
They reached Lean Elk after midday, just before the summit, and reported what they had seen. “How many soldiers?” he asked, as others gathered to hear.
“At night many fires show down below, near Buffalo Heart Mountain,” Red Bear answered.
Lean Elk pondered this. “Red Spy tells me Cut-Off Arm is just one or two sleeps behind.”
“In one sleep we could travel it,” Red Spy said. “But with wagons, bluecoats would take two.”
“And now we have bluecoats in front of us as well.”
“Could we avoid them on trail to Stinking Water?” White Bird asked.
Red Bear shook his head. “It descends through a canyon. They could easily defend it.”
“And if we went straight down these hills ahead of us?”
“We would be seen by anyone near Buffalo Heart Mountain,” White Thunder answered.
“They want to trap us between them,” Looking Glass said.
They all stared at him, and there was a long silence as they wondered if they had come to the end.
“Long ago,” Daytime Smoke said, “when I crossed through here to hunt buffalo, a large Painted Arrow war party appeared on Stinking Water. We did not have enough warriors to fight them. We backtracked, went north, found a narrow gorge that descended into a canyon. It was difficult, but we made it down, with our horses.”
Lean Elk gazed at him: “Take your son and find it.” He turned to Red Spy: “Leave three scouts on back trail. White Thunder, take others ahead, find out where bluecoats are.”
Before they departed, Widow Bird brought them food and blankets. She embraced Red Bear, then Daytime Smoke. “Please be careful,” she whispered in Smoke’s ear. “You are no longer young.”
Father and son rode in silence for a long time—north, through a valley, then up and over a wooded ridge. Smoke had not yet forgiven Red Bear for defying him and helping start the war, but he had seen what fighting had done for his son. Red Bear had fought well, and Lean Elk now relied on him. Ever since the Place of Ground Squirrels, when they had both picked up guns, Smoke had wanted to bridge the distance between them. But he had not found a way.
When they reached the top of the ridge, still among thick pines, Smoke stopped. He looked east; they were hidden from the plains below by another ridge. He remembered the bald mountain that loomed ahead of them. He descended the other side of the ridge, gradually, at an angle, then switched back once to the west, climbing back up. Finally he turned northeast, and they climbed the bald mountain. It took a long time, but when they crested the top they could see down into the canyon, the river a tiny stripe, far below. Smoke pointed northeast, and they led their horses on foot across the steep face of the mountain, until they reached a deep gulch that slashed its way through the wall of rock. “This is where we descended,” he said. “It was not easy.”
“Will you be able to make it back up?”
Smoke shook his head. “It will be difficult enough to make it down.”
“Perhaps you should stay here.”
“We need to know if elders can do this,” Smoke said. “I will stay below. I have blankets and food; I will wait overnight, until you bring everyone else.”
Red Bear’s eyes showed his concern: “And if Lean Elk chooses another route?”
“I will find you. I’ll have my horse.”
“You are certain?”
“Leave your horse here. You’ll have to climb back up, then ride back.”
Red Bear gazed at him for a long moment, then tied his horse to a rock. They started down on foot, Red Bear leading Smoke’s mare. Soon they plunged between cliffs on both sides, almost as if they were in a tunnel. It grew so narrow that a horse with packs would barely scrape between the rock walls, but they kept going, in deep shadow. When they reached a drop that was more than half his height, they used a rope to help lower the mare down. Red Bear followed, then reached up and grabbed Smoke under the arms, took his weight as he jumped.
Three white buffalo stood on the steep walls of the gorge, watching them. It must be confusing, Smoke thought, to see men and a horse where only mountain goats normally tread.
Halfway down it grew less steep and widened out like a funnel, but they hit a section of loose rock, where they slid with every step. Smoke picked his way gingerly through the debris. His moccasins provided little protection, and his feet were bruised and cut from the rocks. The mare panicked, her legs bleeding. Red Bear stopped to calm her, talked to her in a gentle voice, while Smoke rested. Finally he was able to convince her to keep going—as much sliding as walking.
As they reached the middle of the scree, Smoke had to sit down again, to rest. “We’re almost there,” his son reassured him.
“My legs tremble.”
Red Bear reached out a hand: “I’ll help you.”
It was an effort, but Smoke got to his feet and continued to pick his way down. A rock slid beneath him, his ankle rolled, and he pitched sideways and forward, landed on his shoulder and slid. Red Bear hurried to his side. “Are you hurt?”
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, felt his left ankle, which throbbed.
Red Bear squatted down: “Can you stand on it?”
Smoke tried; his son put an arm around him and helped him up, but pain shot through the ankle. He shook his head and sat back down.
Red Bear gave the horse’s lead to Smoke, then moved below him and squatted with his back to him: “Put your arms around my neck and hold on.”
Smoke did as he was told. Red Bear put his hands behind him, hooked them under Smoke’s thighs, and stood up. Then he picked his way carefully through the ro
cks, Smoke holding on with all his strength.
Smoke could feel his son’s legs tremble. Sweat poured off Red Bear, and Smoke feared he would lose his grip. Three times his son had to stop to rest. But slowly they inched their way toward the bottom.
When the land finally flattened out, near the river, Red Bear squatted, deposited Smoke, and sat, breathing hard. The welcome scent of sage filled the air. “Thank you,” Smoke said.
Red Bear said nothing. When his breathing finally slowed, he pulled himself up and walked to the river. He returned with a full water bag, handed it to Smoke, who drank long and deep. When he had finished he handed it back, and Red Bear drank. “You make my heart proud,” Smoke said. “We will save our people, you and me.”
“You think everyone can make that descent?” Red Bear asked.
“What choice do we have?”
Red Bear gazed up at the gulch.
“People will manage,” Smoke said. “Some will need help. Our herd will take a long time. But it will work.”
Red Bear nodded, untied the blankets and bag of food from the horse, and handed them to Smoke. “You will be comfortable here for a night?”
Smoke nodded. “I will soak my ankle, to keep it from swelling too much.”
Red Bear pulled him up, ducked under one of his arms, and helped him hop to the water’s edge, where he sank down, removed his moccasin, and lowered his foot into the frigid water. “Thank you, my son,” Smoke said. “Now hurry back, before darkness falls.”
He watched as Red Bear began his climb. Tears came to his eyes and his heart filled with pride. They would outsmart the bluecoats, and soon they would be safe, across the Medicine Line.
SIXTY-THREE
September 1877
“Colonel Sturgis, Lieutenant Hare is back, sir.”
Samuel Sturgis glanced up from his writing desk, then rose quickly and followed his adjutant out of the tent. It was three p.m. He had been awaiting word since yesterday, when he sent two parties into the mountains to search for the savages.
Slightly portly at 55, with wavy gray hair and a goatee that looked out of place on his fleshy, cherubic face, Sturgis had been fighting Indians for 30 years. He commanded the Seventh Cavalry—Custer’s Avengers. He had never had much respect for Custer: the man was an egotistical fool, and he had died a fool’s death. But Sturgis’s son Jack had been with him. No one could even identify Jack’s body, the savages had so badly mutilated their victims. Sturgis would never forgive General Sheridan for sending Custer after the Sioux, leaving Sturgis—his commander—at a desk in Saint Louis. But Sturgis reserved his greatest hatred for the Indians who had mutilated his boy. He had missed out on revenge; those honors had gone to Miles, last winter. But now he had an opportunity to bring his long career in the field to a close by crushing the Nez Perce.
Miles had sent him to the Judith Gap, afraid that Sitting Bull would descend from Canada, ally himself with Joseph, and kick off an Indian revolt across the plains. When Joseph moved east through the new national park, General Howard had telegraphed, proposing that they trap him between their two forces as he descended from the mountains. From where Joseph was now, Howard said, there were only two possible exits: southeast, down the canyon of the Stinking Water, or northeast, down the Clark’s Fork.
Sturgis and his staff had ridden six miles up Clark’s Fork Canyon, from the plains. Five miles in, the canyon swung to the west and narrowed dramatically, between 800-foot-high vertical walls. As they rode along the river, its pounding water so loud it echoed like drums off the canyon walls, the bottom grew narrower and narrower, until there was no place to ride. It was obvious no one could descend through that canyon. So he had moved his camp south, closer to the Stinking Water.
Hare was dismounting when Sturgis reached him. “You find them?”
“No sir. But we found your two scouts. Rogue’s gone under, Seibert’s fixin’ to follow.”
“Where were they?”
“Pretty high. On the trail from the Stinking Water to the summit.”
“But you saw no Indians?”
“No sir.”
“Goddammit!” Sturgis had heard nothing from Howard for two weeks. He was still trying to guess where the Nez Perce would emerge. “Did you look?”
Anger flared in Hare’s hooded gaze. “I thought you’d want an immediate report.”
Sturgis stared up at the arid mountains. He spotted riders making their way down a defile, dust rising behind them. He pulled out his glass, but they were still too far away to identify. As they came closer he began to see blue coats; it must be Lieutenant Fuller. He waited, anxious and silent, until the lieutenant finally reined in and dismounted.
Sturgis returned his salute. “Lieutenant Hare found the scouts,” he said. “Did you spot the Nez Perce?”
“I believe we did, Colonel. We were on a ridge, up that way”—he pointed southwest. “We could see the dust of a lot of riders. We went a little higher and, with field glasses, we could see the ponies themselves. It was a huge herd; it had to be the Nez Perce. Mr. Greene says they were headin’ for the Stinkin’ Water.”
Sturgis leveled his gaze at Greene, a skinny, bearded prospector he had hired to guide Fuller and his men up through the mountains. “You certain they were on the Stinking Water trail?”
“I know the trails up there.”
“Could they get from where you saw them to Clark’s Fork Canyon?”
Greene shook his head, stuck out his lower lip. “A woodchuck couldn’t do it, Colonel.”
“Then we’ve got ’em.” He turned to his adjutant: “Find the bugler. Boots and saddles. We depart as soon as the men are ready.”
Sturgis’s big roan made its way steadily up Rattlesnake Creek Canyon, its broad butt swaying with the strain of his weight and the climb. Yesterday at noon they had reached the Stinking Water. The horses had shied from the scent at first, sidestepping and tossing their heads. After a brief stop to eat, the men had forded to the south side and proceeded up the trail as it wound itself through the red rock canyon carved by the river. After it split into two forks, the trail had forded both and headed northwest up Rattlesnake Creek. The terrain was desolate, a tinge of red still in the rocks, the only greenery a dry, stubby line of red haws along the stream. Last night a cold rain had soaked them in their meager tents, but the morning had turned up clear.
Sturgis expected an ambush every step of the way: he had scouts out front, then a skirmish line, then the bulk of his 360 men riding in columns of twos, their rifles loaded and ready in their scabbards. Behind them he had another skirmish line and more scouts. But there was nothing—just the faded red of the rocks on each side thrusting up toward the sky.
At midmorning they crested a ridge and found themselves in a more forested area. After working their way up and down several more ridges, Sturgis saw a grassy basin ahead. He turned and told Lieutenant Garlington it would be a good place to take their noonday meal. When he turned back three of the scouts—Lieutenant Hare and two Crows—were loping toward him across the basin, dust rising behind them. While he waited he fished a fresh plug of tobacco out of his breast pocket, inside his blouse, and stuffed it in his left cheek.
Hare reined in next to him. “Found their tracks, Colonel.”
“Where?”
“They milled their horses just up there, after the grassy swale.”
“Milled them? What in hell for?”
“Hide their trail.” Hare looked pleased with himself.
“Or raise dust,” Garlington said.
Sturgis stared at him, knew he was right. “Where’d they go?”
“We ain’t figured that out yet.”
Sturgis leaned over and spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice. “Just where in the hell are we, Lieutenant?”
Hare nodded toward the Crow scout, who wore a gray blanket against the chill, then pointed northwest. “Injuns say that’s a summit right up there. Other side’s Sunlight Basin. Clark’s Fork Canyon’s a few miles north.”
“How far?”
“Three, four miles”—he pointed up the valley to the north.
“Find their trail, Lieutenant.”
The men ate while the scouts searched. Finally Sturgis heard a shout, saw Hare gallop across the grassy swale toward the timbered ridge, to the north. He pulled out his field glasses and watched him disappear into the woods.
In a few minutes Hare reappeared and trotted down the swale toward Sturgis.
“Lots of tracks up there, Colonel. They headed north, up through that timber.”
“Where the hell does that lead?”
Hare shook his head. “Injuns don’t know.”
“Son of a bitch!”
Hare stared at the ground for a moment, waiting. When he raised his eyes Sturgis could tell more bad news was coming. “We found horseshoe prints, too.”
“The Nez Perce steal horses.”
“Yes, sir. But we found a shitload o’ horseshoe prints. Fresher’n the Nez Perce prints.”
It could mean only one thing: Howard had beat him here. “Boots and saddles!” Sturgis barked. “Right now!”
He and Lieutenant Hare followed the Indian scouts up through the timber. It was easy to see the trail, so many horses had come through. It ran north along the side of the ridge for several miles, then angled up the ridge and over. An hour later, they were ascending a steep mountain. When they reached the top the view opened up, and they could see the Clark’s Fork winding its distant way to the northeast. To the left the ridge fell off and far below lay the canyon they had ridden up a week ago.
“That’s the Clark’s Fork?” Sturgis said.
“’Fraid so, Colonel.”
Frustration welled up black and bitter in his chest. “God damn his soul to Hell!” Joseph had outwitted him, feinted toward the Stinking Water to draw him south, then headed north through Clark’s Fork Canyon.
Hare said nothing, just stared down at the canyon.
“Double time,” Sturgis said. “I’m going to catch that son of a bitch if I have to go alone and on foot!”
The Coming Page 44