by BJ Holmes
‘What problems ?’ he said in a reassuring tone. Kate had always been a worrier.
‘Like getting a wagon across the mountains. Doesn’t seem such a feasible idea now we’ re here and we can see the size of the mountains. They are huge!’
‘Listen. The facts of the situation were in the newspapers back East. And they’re being confirmed by discussions I been having with folks here since we arrived.’
‘Oh, that’s why you’ve been spending so much time in the tavern, eh ?’ she chided good-naturedly.
‘No, seriously,’ he went on. ‘There are several passages across the Cascade Mountains. Why, one group two summers ago even crossed the range with a huge herd of cattle. So it must be workable. Anyways, the wagons they make here are small ones, specially made for the local conditions. Not like prairie schooners you seen pictures of.’
They’d heard the buzz saw in the timber mills zinging all day and seen the wagons in the carpenters’ yard.
She paused. Then: ‘And Indians. What about Indians ? I heard some horrible things on the boat.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to tittle-tattle,’ he reprimanded. ‘Washington Territory has got a new governor––Governor Stevens––and his first job is to make treaties with all the Indians under his jurisdiction. They’re all signing. The Nisqualli, the Puyallup, the Yakima, all of them. I’ve been reading about the local circumstances. Why Governor Stevens’s crossed the whole damn territory himself––in person––that’s nearly a thousand miles. It was in the paper yesterday. He’s reached Nebraska and has got the Blackfeet to sign. No, Kate, the red men aren’t hostile. They’re as eager to keep peace as the white man.’
Certainly the Indians they’d seen around Seattle were docile.
‘Yeah,’ Seth concluded. ‘ They’re getting land called reservations, and lots of supplies as part of the treaties––seed, corn, tools for farming. Even money––every year––from the government. They won’t have any reason to complain––or to go on the rampage.’
His grip tightened around her shoulders. They turned and walked towards the twinkling lights of the seafront shack that constituted the hotel.
But Seth wasn’t so confident as he sounded. His worries were mounting too. He was increasingly concerned, not about Indians or the capability of wagons crossing mountain ranges, but the weather. That was his real worry. Because of illness, they had reached Seattle much later than intended. He had been assured by old timers in the tavern that evening that the weather would hold out for another month. But he didn’t like the wind now scything across the Sound like an icy blade.
Six wagons slithered in an ungainly pattern down the mountain trail. Four were occupied by miners and their equipment. Another contained provisions for the settlement at Wenatchee. The Langtons were fourth in line and were the only settlers in the train. Winter was approaching and other settlers had timed their journeys for the warmer months. Seth had ignored his own suspicions about the weather––but they had been well-founded. The relentless wind blustering across the Canadian border was fast getting colder.
Thankfully the first snow had been delicate and had come after the small procession had made the ascent of the final incline in the journey. They were now less than a day’s journey from the small settlement at Wenatchee, their destination. But there had been problems during the two-week trek. On many occasions ascents could only be made one wagon at a time with wooden spars levered under the back axles and with many shoulders heaving at the rear. Descents were nearly as bad. Even now, like other men, Seth was staggering alongside his faltering wagon, locking the rear wheels with his wooden spar. Braking in this way was effective in reducing the speed but it made the wagon more difficult to steer. Kate, in her fight with the reins to restrain the horses, had lurched awkwardly sidewards across the seat as the wagon slewed downwards at an angle.
Seth was glad to see her managing. If his delicate Pennsylvanian rose could handle horses and wagon under these conditions, she had the makings to cope with farming life on a settlement.
‘We’ll rest here a piece,’ came the shout from the old-timer on the lead wagon as it reached a level part of the rough mountain trail. One by one the wagons leveled and came to a standstill.
Seth leant against the wagon side, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Regaining his breath he opened his eyes and looked about him. He observed how the resting party were dwarfed by their surroundings. It was truly a land of giants. Not only were the mountains on a grander scale than was ever imagined by the easterner but even the trees were enormous. His eyes moved up the slopes taking in the towering Sitka spruce and massive Douglas fir. It was then he saw movement. Figures coming down the snowy incline, flitting amongst some red alder.
‘Hey,’ he shouted to the leader of the train, a gnarled old miner by the name of Bram, who was checking the wheel rim of his wagon. ‘We got visitors.’
Brain looked in the direction Seth was pointing, screwing up his old eyes against the glare of snow. ‘Look like Yakima to me,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t look none too friendly neither.’ He pulled himself up onto the hub of a wheel to address the column. ‘Be prepared. Put slugs in the breech––just in case.’
Seth nervously checked his Walker Colt, purchased on the advice of veterans back in Seattle, and he pushed it into Kate’s hand as she’d shuffled down from the buckboard seat with skirts gathered. His rifle levered and ready to be discharged, he waited with his wife behind their wagon like the other travelers.
Now there was nothing to see. The ominous progression down the s1opes had apparently stopped.
‘Get ready,’ Bram shouted in a voice as wizened as his face. ‘It’s just the lull before the storm. They’re up to something. The wily bastards. They’ll be coming.’
The wind fell to a breeze, working the powdery snow to soften the contours of the terrain. Above its gentle swish nothing was heard during a long interval except for the beatings of wings as a flock of trumpeter swans scudded southwards.
Then they came. God knows how many. Every tree seemed to produce its own screaming apparition. Down the slope they came, some slithering, others leaping through drifts, billows of snow spraying from their legs. The forerunners dropped into the snow, almost out of sight, and began firing. A mixture of bullets and arrows peppered the wagons.
Seth was scared. More than he’d ever been in his life. But he told himself not to panic. He had to set an example for Kate. He lined his sights on an Indian who had leapt out from cover and was running faster than the others down a stretch of hard ground. Encased in furs the Indian presented a sizable target. Seth squeezed the trigger and the man spun sideways as the bullet ripped into his body.
Other Indians fell––but some were getting through! Damn, his gun jammed. It was probably something simple to correct but he didn’t have time for lengthy investigations. He turned to take Kate’s weapon but she was already clicking on an empty chamber. He had no time to reload. Several red men were almost upon them. He grabbed the wooden spar that he had cursed so much when it had blistered his hands yet had been so indispensable in maneuvering the wagon up and down the mountain trails.
One Indian, wielding an axe, was thundering to the edge of the small bluff to the fore of the Langton wagon. Such was his impetus that he clearly intended leaping across to the backboard and fighting at close quarters from there. Seth circled the wagon and waited just below the overhang with the heavy spar, its end resting on the ground. He couldn’t see their attacker but he soon heard his feet pounding on the hardened ground above him. He heaved the spar forward and upward just before the Indian appeared, launching himself into mid-air. With hands raised, the man’s arms presented no protection for his face which, together with his chest, took the impact of the swinging beam. There was a sickening sound as the red man buckled in mid-flight and fell backwards to the ground. Seth. grunted as the force of the violent connection travelled up his arms. He looked at the smashed face of the man who was drunkenly trying to get t
o his feet beneath him. Instinctively he raised the beam and brought it down on the Yakima’s head. Something cracked. He did it again and looked on the bloody mayhem he had wrought to confirm the man was no longer a threat.
Meanwhile the spiky, shattering noise of the milieu was spooking the horses along the line and, one by one, the wagons began rolling as terrified animals reared and strained.
‘Onto the wagon!’ he shouted to his wife. ‘We have no choice. There’s too many of ‘em.’ He pushed her up to the seat and released the brake. The buckboard shot forward but the preceding wagon was jammed into the bluff. In a frenzy the Langton horses tried to circumvent the blockage but there was not enough space on the narrow mountain trail.
As the right hand wheels began to slither over the edge of the drop he pushed Kate clear but the wagon angled too fast for him to make it. The last thing Seth remembered was the ear-piercing neighs as his horses were dragged over the edge.
All was quiet when he opened his eyes. His body was cold and aching. He looked about him. He’d dropped about a hundred feet and come to rest in some bushes.
‘Oh my God––Kate! ‘ he thought, getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘What’s happened to Kate ?’ He could see where he’d landed and the channel through the snow where he’d rolled. The fact that he’d fallen unimpeded for some distance and thus left no immediate trail in the snow explained why no Indians had followed him. Far below he could see the wagon and the grotesque, inert shapes of bloodied horses.
He climbed back to the trail. There was no one living. With redness stark against the snow, crimson stains pinpointed where fallen defenders had been butchered. Near to puking and afraid of what he would find he investigated each mutilated corpse. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad that he found no Kate.
Everything usable had been taken from the bodies and wagons. There was a flattened course of snow back up the mountain where the victorious raiders had made their triumphant way back with their booty. All he could think of was––the savages had his wife! And he could plainly see whence they’d gone. He knew Wenatchee was not far away. He would get help and guns and fetch her back!
Five hours later he reached Wenatchee. It was a disappointment. A few shacks clustered around the rough trail. Small though the place was, it was a hive of activity as people around the town were loading up wagons. He almost collapsed with exhaustion outside the first house.
‘Dearie me,’ an aging lady said as she opened the door. ‘What’s the matter ?’
‘Indians,’ he whispered. ‘I was with a small wagon train out of Seattle. Attacked by Indians. The savages––they got my wife!’
The woman bit the back of her hand and gasped.
He was helped inside by her husband who had come to the door. As Seth recounted his story, the door of the little cabin repeatedly opened as curious neighbors entered. A growing group clustered around the fireplace, the matter being of communal interest.
‘That confirms it,’ one said when Seth had finished. ‘That’s the third attack in a couple of days. The first one might have been an isolated incident. But it’s clear now there’s a big uprising on.’
By this time Seth had realized that some of the settlers had already decided to leave. That explained the wagons that he had seen being loaded on his arrival.
But his story now prompted all the remainder to join the exodus.
‘What about my wife ?’ he said in a weak, pitiful voice as people hurried out. He was met by silence. One by one his audience left. They’d heard enough.
‘This is a beautiful land, son,’ one of them said as he passed, ‘but if it turns nasty it can be a hell on earth.’
Seth didn’t hear, just continued. ‘I gotta get her back. What’s gonna happen to her?’
‘It’s probably already happened,’ one man said. ‘You gotta face reality, son. The best for you is to forget about her, she is in the past. Hard though it is to take account of but you must concentrate on saving your own skin now.’
Seth breathed deeply. It was plain that there was little chance of his getting help. If he was to return to the mountains it was going to be a one-man job. But food and sleep had first priority.
When he awoke next morning the settlement was three parts empty. He could see wagons at staggered intervals spread out along the trail heading for Spokane. He went to the general store where the owner was clearly one of the last to
leave, having three wagons to load.
‘Is everyone running ?’ Seth challenged in frustration.
‘You’re damn right we are. We’re all getting the hell out of here. The Yakimas have lit the fuse and we’re sitting on the powder keg. As yet there are no forces here, no law authorities or army to protect us.’ He went to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered up the snow-covered slopes. ‘The red varmints will be down here next––looting and out to kill. Oh yes, the government will eventually send troops. But, mister, till then and from this point on it’s gonna be one hell of a bloodbath.’
‘You don’t understand. They’ve got my wife, my Kate. I can’t do nothing! Maybe the Indians will listen to me. Maybe I can strike some kind of bargain with them.’
The man scuttled about his store gathering items. ‘You’re crazy. You’re not from these parts––so you don’t know the region. The winter looks as though it’s setting in early. You can die up there in half a day if the weather takes a bad turn. And it’s plain the Yakimas are ripping up any white man they come across. Crazy––that’s what you are. Now, me ? I’m getting my wagons loaded up and making tracks––before the weather really breaks.’
Seth caught his arm as he brushed past. ‘You got a gun I can have ?’
The storekeeper may have been in a rush, but not rushed enough to ignore money. ‘You got twenty dollars ?’
‘Less than ten.’
The storekeeper paused. He could feel the determination in the hand gripping his forearm. He looked at the whitened knuckles and then at Seth’s distressed features . ‘There’s one in back––with shells. Take what you need by way of provisions, too. I can’t get it all on the wagons. What’s left behind will go to the redskins anyways. But, mister, you’re plumb crazy.’
The hardness suddenly disappeared from his eyes. Who was he to cut the last thread of hope? ‘Ah, what the hell. Take all you need. There’s even a spare horse you can have. And keep your money.’
When Seth left later in the morning Wenatchee was derelict. At least he was well equipped. At the storekeeper’s invitation he’d helped himself to clean, dry clothes, a leather jacket, a fur overcoat, some clothing for his dear Kate, a rifle, two handguns and a war-bag full of provisions.
Seemingly in little time he reached the site of the massacre. There had been no more snow so the tracks left by the large group of Indians were still clear. From this point on the horse would be more hindrance than help so he pointed it in the direction of Wenatchee and slapped its rump.
He ascended non-stop until dusk. With the night wind coming down harsh there was no option other than get shelter; and, before light disappeared, he found himself a small cave and took a supper of hardtack.
Early next morning he pulled himself stiffly out of his bivouac and surveyed the terrain. During the night there had been a. considerable fall of snow. The Indians’ tracks had been obliterated. He set off in the direction that he remembered from the night before.
As the morning progressed he caught sight of a whole range of wild life from marmots to elk but nothing of consequence until mid-day. His eyes were tiring with snow glare when he saw two figures moving across the top of a ridge before him. He couldn’t make out details but he had to assume they were Indians.
It was Indians that he wanted to see––but he had no desire to be picked off by a couple of sentries before he’d had the chance to reach the main encampment and state his piece. He glanced over his shoulder at his backtrail. The line of churned snow stood out against the virgin whiteness. No way could they avoi
d seeing it. Worse, whichever direction he took in search of cover would be signposted in a most obvious fashion.
He would just have to accept the inevitable. He swung hard right and made for a clump of Douglas fir. Beneath the umbrella of trees there was less snow on the ground and he could make better headway. After a few minutes running he heard a shout. They had seen his tracks. He maintained his pace for another fifty yards then paused, breathing headily, and looked back. He could just see them. They had reached the marks of his passage and were looking into the forest. Looking his way!
With the snow clearly indicating his every move he reckoned there was to be no escape. His only chance was surprise. He leaned against a tree to steady himself and levered the rifle in readiness for a last-ditch shootout. As he waited for his pursuers to make sizable targets he glanced behind him. Nothing but trees and virgin snow. Trees and virgin snow! There was a way to use them to advantage; he’d give the Yakima some tracks!
He took to running again, further into the temporary refuge of the forest. Making sure he was out of view he started to run more erratically but gradually he curved round. After about ten minutes he’d completed the circle and reached the tracks of his pursuers. He deliberately overshot them for a dozen yards or so, and then ran backwards to the crossing point. Still moving backwards so his prints pointed in a false direction he went down their common trail. Clearing the trees he turned about, keeping within the tracks. It wouldn’t fool them indefinitely but it could give him some headway.
Eventually he reached the spot where the Indians had met up with his tracks and retraced those of his pursuers to the top of the ridge. He crested the summit and before dropping entirely from view he glanced back. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The Yakimas were still in the forest. His subterfuge had worked, at least for the time being.
An hour later, tired and cold, he spotted smoke curling up from the trees further up the mountain. It had to be the Indian encampment. He fell against a tree, exhausted, and closed his eyes for a few seconds’ respite. It was the first time his vigilance had slackened since he’d set out from Wenatchee. But in such conditions, vigilance needs to be absolute. Hardly had his lids fallen when he heard a strange swishing sound behind him and before he realized what was happening he felt a hot searing pain at the back of his neck.