Cries from the Earth (22 page)

“Go,” he repeated and turned slightly, pointing at the door. “You go nah.”

Gulping, Isabella nodded dumbly. “We'll g-go.”

She started toward the door, stepping over the blood smeared on the floor, smelling the dead Frenchman's bowel stench, the hem of her long skirt slurring through the long, gleaming patch of crimson.

“Go Man-well huss,” the warrior said, his strange words catching her at the door.

“Man-well?” she asked as she turned back to the Indian. “Oh, Manuel. Yes.”

“Man-well huss.”

“Huss?” she repeated that word, too. “H-house?”

“Yesss, huss. Uh-ther woe-man at Man-well huss.”

Must be he was referring to Jennet, she thought. Another woman was already there. So, was he saying that woman was safe there?

“Thank you—I'll go now,” she said quietly, sensing deep-felt gratitude for this savage who was freeing her. Isabella Benedict folded her children against the billows of her bloody dress and pushed a path for them through the two dozen warriors, saying, “I'll take my children to the Manuel house.”

*   *   *

“General, sir?”

Howard turned, finding his former aide-de-camp, the post's officer of the day, saluting at the open doorway. “Major.”

Then the officer turned to Captain Perry and clicked his heels together, saluting again. “Colonel?”

“Something urgent, Major Boyle?” Perry asked as he returned the officer's salute and used the man's brevet rank.

“A message addressed to you from Mount Idaho, sir. Brought in by a civilian courier.” Captain William H. Boyle held out the twice-folded paper between them.

“Thank you for your prompt attention to this, Captain,” Perry replied, beginning to open the message.

“Do you wish me to wait while you read it, Colonel?”

“By all means,” and Perry's voice trailed off as his eyes danced over the scrawl.

Howard watched the first deep furrow crease Perry's brow but waited until the post commander finished reading what plainly was important enough that it was carried here by courier across some sixty-two miles of all-but-uninhabited frontier.

With the growing warmth of that late afternoon, Howard slowly removed his heavy coat, folded it neatly, and laid it over the back of the chair here in Perry's office at Fort Lapwai that fourteenth day of June. That morning the post commander had managed to prevail upon Howard not to remain in Lewiston while Watkins went about his business of securing supplies for the next six months. With the captain's insistence, Howard finally agreed that he would be more comfortable out at the fort while they awaited the arrival of the Non-Treaty bands. The two of them had no more than made that twelve-mile ride from Lewiston to reach Perry's office when the Fort Lapwai quartermaster and officer of the day showed up with the message.

“The citizens of Mount Idaho are in an uproar,” Perry began his explanation. “This comes from their spokesman, L. P. Brown. He owns an inn and a store there as I recall.”

“An uproar?” Howard repeated, settling in the chair against his folded coat.

“Brown writes that many of the settlers in the area are very concerned with the large gathering of the Non-Treaty bands near Rocky Canyon.”

“What have these citizens got to be concerned about?” Howard felt himself bristling. “Isn't the Nez Perce gathering on the Camas Prairie less than a day from the reservation? This message from Brown only confirms that the Non-Treaty bands are but a matter of miles from surrendering tomorrow, right on schedule.”

“Brown says it's been reported to him that the bands camped at the lake have become insolent and their actions indicate trouble from them.”

“Trouble?”

“The warriors have been parading around full of bluster, and they're boasting that they will fight any soldiers sent to put them onto the reservation. They've come into town to buy ammunition and powder too.”

“So it sounds as if this Brown fellow is duly alarmed?”

Perry shook his head. “That's the strangest thing, General. He says he isn't alarmed—just thought it well to inform me of what was going on among the bands. He says they are on the lookout for the soldiers coming. So, he nonetheless ended his letter by requesting that I send troops. Hmmm, here it is—‘as soon as you can, a sufficient force to handle them without gloves, should they be disposed to resist.'”

The general waited a moment for Perry to continue reading, but when the captain did not, Howard asked, “So what are you disposed to do in this situation, Colonel?”

Perry's face relaxed. “I trust Brown's assessment of things, General. Come morning, I think I'll send a couple of men with an interpreter down to Mount Idaho to see for ourselves what the state of things is.”

“If nothing else,” Howard agreed, “I figure you'll placate the settlers that you're doing
some
thing about their complaints, Colonel.”

“Then you agree with my response to this message, sir?”

“By all means, Colonel,” the general answered. “Send out your party in the morning and we'll find out for ourselves just what in God's name has got those civilians so stirred up down there.”

*   *   *

Lew Wilmot and Pete Ready got their cool drink from the spring while Lew Day walked off with Ben Norton to have his pick of the horse breeder's finest for the final leg of that ride of his to Fort Lapwai.

In a matter of minutes, Day was re-saddled and heading north, disappearing around a bend in the trail, as the teamsters were climbing back onto their wagon seats, intending to cover a few more miles before darkness forced them to stop for the night. Just about the time they were ready to slap leather down on the backs of those twelve freight horses, a small wagon rumbled into sight, rattling off the road and into the Norton yard, a high wheel spinning until it clattered back onto the ground.

John Chamberlin sat perched on the springless seat; behind him his pregnant wife and their two young children huddled in the wagon bed. Hungry for any news after two days of rumors had compelled them to make for Cottonwood House, Chamberlin hung on every word as Norton, Wilmot, and Ready related the latest rumors of Indian trouble brewing over at the Rocky Canyon lake. With the way his missus was latched onto her husband's arm, it was no small wonder that Chamberlin begged Wilmot and Ready to stay the night.

“I already asked 'em to, John,” Ben Norton grumped.

Chamberlin looked squarely at Wilmot. “You're the best shot in these parts, Lew. Case there's trouble, my family would be much obliged to have you and your rifle with us.”

“Everything's gonna be fine,” Wilmot soothed. He heaved the brake forward and slapped the reins down again. “Hep! Hep!”

As the two freighters rolled out of the yard, Norton stepped back and rested an elbow on one of Chamberlin's iron tires, watching the teamsters disappear down the road for Mount Idaho. “You figure on staying here for the night?”

“Was hoping we could,” John Chamberlin admitted.

“I think Jennie would feel a whole lot better if I packed her and the others up and we headed for Grangeville,” Norton explained.

“Head out in the morning?”

“No. She's wanting to go right now,” Norton admitted.

After glancing at his pregnant wife a moment, Chamberlin nodded. “I think that'd be for the best, Ben. If you don't mind, we can unload these sacks of flour and make room for you folks in the back here. That way you don't need to take the time to hitch up another wagon.”

Nodding in agreement, Norton pushed away from the wagon, heading for the porch. “I'll get Jennie to make up a bag of what she needs for a few days and we'll get started—”

At the sound of approaching hooves, Chamberlin suddenly twisted sideways on the wagon seat and Norton turned on his heels, starting for the back of the wagon. Out of the trees burst Lew Day on that racehorse of Norton's, its magnificent head held low, those four white socks flashing in the last of the afternoon's light with every eight-yard lunge the legs took. Instead of gripping the reins, Day had his white knuckles locked around the saddle horn.

Ben Norton found his heart hammering as loudly as those oncoming hooves, his mouth instantly gone dry: Day couldn't have been gone more than fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.

Ben's hired man, F. Joseph Moore—who had originally sold Cottonwood House to the Nortons, then promptly went to work for the new owners—stepped out of the barn as the lathered horse sprinted into the yard with Day dragging back on the reins, grunting with painful gusts each time the highbred racer sidestepped, hoof-chattering, to a halt.

Norton bounded up. “Lew! What the devil you doing b—”

“Injuns!” Day cried in interruption, his eyes wild with fear.

“Damn, but you're shot!” Joe Moore exclaimed as he trotted up from behind.

“Bastards got me,” Day gritted out the words as he peered back over his right shoulder at the damp stain.

Moore and Norton held up their hands, helping the horseman out of the saddle.

“What in blazes happened?” Chamberlin asked as the other two men sat Day down right there in the middle of the yard.

“I spotted three or four of 'em on up the road some,” Day began. “Near the Old Board House, up against Craig's Mountain.”

“I'm going to get Jennie and some bandages,” Mrs. Chamberlin promised as she clutched her swollen belly and climbed down with a rustle of her skirts brushing over the wagon seat.

“They jump you outta ambush?” Norton asked.

“Nawww,” and Day winced as Chamberlin gently probed around the entry wound at the back of his right shoulder. “They did their best to act friendly, and the bastards even rode with me a while—but I had a bad feeling, so I figgered I'd stir the pot and see if the soup come to a boil. Told 'em I was getting cold with the sun going down and wanted to ride faster, so when I got that racer of yours pulled ahead of 'em … the red niggers fired on me.”

“Shot you in the goddamned back!” Chamberlin growled.

“When they did, I kicked that horse for the thick timber a mile on down the road,” Day confessed. “That's where I fell outta the saddle and pulled the horse into the brush with me.”

“The sonsabitches follow you?” Norton asked.

“That they did, Ben. But back in the timber the way I was, I held 'em off till they decided to give up shooting and ride off.”

“Must've thought your scalp wasn't worth the trouble, eh?” Chamberlin asked wryly.

Day watched Jennie Norton coming down the steps, her hands filled, the two Chamberlin youngsters right behind their mother. “Soon as I figured they was gone, I pulled myself into the saddle, held on tight all the way here.”

“God's grace got you here,” Jennie Norton said as she handed Joe Moore the cotton strips, then slipped two of her fingers inside the hole poked in the back of Day's shirt. With one smooth movement she ripped the fabric so she could peer closely at the wound in the fading light. She made a clucking sound; then the woman declared, “Glory be, if it wasn't by God's grace alone got you here, Lew Day!”

Chapter 16

Season of
Hillal
1877

Bewildered, Shore Crossing watched Sun Necklace talk briefly with the white woman; then—like the woman at the last place they raided—he let this one go free with her children too.

Sun Necklace had grown very, very angry when he discovered Red Elk had raped the first woman, so angry the fighting chief struck Red Elk across the cheek with the back of his hand, the way a man would strike an errant woman. To shame him.

Then the chief had ordered his own son, Red Moccasin Tops, and Shore Crossing as well to accompany him out of the trees to the white man's building where the two Shadows had appeared and willingly laid down their firearms. Shore Crossing picked up the shotgun, and Red Moccasin Tops retrieved the rifle before Sun Necklace ordered the war party to abandon the place.

Leave?

Shouldn't they have killed those two Shadows? Shore Crossing brooded. But he had bitten his tongue and ridden away from that house with the others. Red Elk brought up the rear, sullenly licking his pride.

But now as the woman shuffled her children into the growing darkness, Shore Crossing could keep quiet no more.

“Fighting chief,” he said, turning and stepping up before Sun Necklace, “I do not understand why you are letting the woman go. Just as you freed the last woman—”

“We do not make war on women,” Sun Necklace snapped. “The white man's soldiers do … but we do not make war on women.”

“But, Uncle—that one was the bad whiskey man's woman. She had a hand in shooting at your son, and a hand in killing the lame one called
Dakoopin.
”

Instead of throwing his anger back at Shore Crossing, Sun Necklace turned and flicked an angry glance at his son. “Red Moccasin Tops knows that a
Nee-Me-Poo
warrior does not harm the helpless. There is no honor in that, Shore Crossing. Didn't my son kill the whiskey man who shot him?”

Red Moccasin Tops answered for himself, “Yes, Father. Early this morning.”

“Then to kill women and children would be beneath a warrior's standing,” Sun Necklace said, turning to glare at Shore Crossing.

The war chief stepped outside the door to address the rest of the warriors impatiently clamoring at the front of the house after the woman fled. “This is the place that sells guns and bullets to the other Shadows. Look for those guns and bullets, now. And, remember, this is the whiskey man's home—look carefully so you can find his whiskey. I am very thirsty for it!”

*   *   *

Samuel Benedict lay belly-down in a clump of brush some thirty yards from the northwest corner of his house.

The pain in his legs came and went in slowly rising waves so severe that when he finally admitted he could not take any more Sam bit down on a short twig his fingers discovered in the grass after he crawled here in his escape.