The Coming Storm (4 page)

The man came to Zane, the expression on his face appearing to match the same confusion in Zane’s mind. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“They’ve got smallpox.” Zane motioned to the woman, who once again revealed her child. Several other Pikuni opened their blankets to reveal they, too, bore the disease.

Doane swore softly. “Round them up anyway. I’ll go to the major and explain.”

Zane motioned the women to bring their children and move back to the village. He hated that they were forced to march back past the bodies of their dead loved ones. He hated that they were sick and probably hungry as well. He hated that the obliteration of this people seemed the only sacrifice acceptable to appease the leaders of the army.

As dozens of survivors gathered at the edge of the camp, soldiers set fire to the tepees that were still standing. Zane noted the body of the old man who’d come out to them shouting the word
friend
and waving his piece of paper. Stooping down, Zane closed the old man’s eyes and breathed a prayer. Blood from the chief ’s wounds stained Zane’s palm and the cuff of his uniform.

“What’s he got in his hands?”

Zane looked up to find Major Baker and Lieutenant Doane standing only a foot away. Taking the paper from the old man’s stiff fingers, Zane glanced at it quickly, then stood. He had no interest in the formalities of greeting his superiors in proper order. Instead he shoved the paper at them.

“It says he and his people are not to be considered hostile,” Zane relayed evenly. “They are a friend to the whites and are to be treated as such. It’s from our government.”

Zane didn’t wait for either one to comment. Instead, he stalked away, rage threatening to overcome him and cause him to do something he’d regret.

There were over two hundred dead. Two hundred innocent souls whose only crime was the fact they were Blackfoot. The sight of all those dead and dying was difficult to comprehend. Zane tried to put it into perspective, but he couldn’t. How could there possibly be a perspective that could offer reason and justification for this massacre?

Zane looked around the camp, wondering if he’d find Koko’s brother. He knew the man sometimes lived among Heavy Runner’s people, but there was no sign of Takes Many Horses. Something akin to relief washed over him. At least he wouldn’t have to tell Aunt Koko that he’d been party to the killing of her brother.

Of course, Zane was the only one who knew the truth of the matter when it came to the killing that day—at least concerning his own involvement. He’d not killed anyone. He’d refused to, but it was small comfort. He’d still managed to be a part of it. He still had blood on his hands.

Two hours later Major Baker led all but Company F downstream to where scouts assured him they would find the hostile village of Mountain Chief. He wanted nothing to do with the remaining people and their sickness. Lieutenant Doane and his men were left to finish destroying the village, burning to the ground anything that might prove useful to the remaining Pikuni.

They burned the bodies of the dead as well, something that didn’t settle well with the living tribal members. They wanted to prepare their own dead—to hold their ceremonies, even in this bitter cold. The women howled and cried out in their misery, while the few old men who remained stared at soldiers with looks that still registered disbelief.

Many of the soldiers began looting, stripping the dead of anything valuable. Zane ordered his men to cease and desist, and while some did, he caught others continuing.

“Sergeant, take your men and go round up the Indian ponies,” Doane said as he caught up with Zane.

“Yes, sir.” His lack of enthusiasm was well noted.

“Sergeant, wait.” Doane pulled Zane aside. “I’m no happier than you are about this. It wasn’t my desire that these Indians be butchered. This is by far and away the greatest slaughter of Indians ever made by U.S. troops, but it’s over now.”

“Is it?”

The man eyed Zane momentarily, then dropped his hold. “Round up those ponies.”

For a moment Zane had actually thought Doane might break away from his role as commander and bare his soul. But instead, the man quickly recovered from his moment of weakness and moved away, shouting commands to some of the others.

“It isn’t over,” Zane murmured, glancing from the huddled, crying survivors to the funeral fires of the dead. “It’s just begun.”

That night, after trying without luck to fall asleep, Zane wrestled with his choices. He could stay and try against the odds to make a difference, or he could leave. Desertion seemed far more honorable than continuing with a man like Major Baker. After all, Baker had turned the remaining Pikuni people loose without food or proper clothing. Certainly, without shelter in forty-below temperatures, they would all be dead by morning. The man’s cruelty was more than Zane could comprehend, and it didn’t matter that some suggested Baker’s thinking had been clouded by liquor. If anything, that only made it worse. If Baker had to drink to forget who he was and what he’d done, then maybe he should reevaluate his choices.

And that’s exactly what Zane was doing for himself. Reevaluating. He could still smell death everywhere, and it made him half crazy to leave. Pulling on his boots, Zane ignored the reality of the moment. Yes, he would probably be caught and courtmartialed for what he was about to do, but it didn’t matter.

“Something wrong?” one of the men in the tent muttered, rising up on his elbow.

Zane felt his heart skip a beat. He steadied his voice and tried to sound authoritative. “Go to sleep, Carson. It’s at least two hours until first call.”

“That’s a relief,” the man said, then yawned and fell back against his makeshift bed. “Night, Sarg.”

Zane waited a couple of minutes before gathering his things. It wouldn’t be easy under any circumstances to slip past the guards nor to get to his horse without detection. If Private Mueller was on guard duty, Zane knew he could be bribed to look the other way. There seemed to be nothing sacred to that man. But if one of the by-the-book soldiers were on the line, then Zane knew he very well might have to hurt someone before it was all said and done. Either way, he was leaving this valley of the shadow of death and going home.

CHAPTER 3

A
S THE END OF
F
EBRUARY DREW NEAR,
D
IANNE AND THE
rest of the household fell into a routine that seemed to serve everyone quite well. Koko was on the mend, although she was still very weak. She coughed less frequently but still required a great deal of bed rest. Susannah thrived under Faith’s tender love, and in turn Faith seemed blessed by the child’s need of her care.

Koko had alternated with Faith in nursing Susannah so that her milk wouldn’t completely dry up, and now that the feedings were more routine and her milk more established, Koko was able to take over the task altogether. Dianne saw Faith withdraw and grow silent as the baby’s care returned to her mother. It was hard for Dianne to see Faith this way; the woman had been so encouraging and vibrant on the wagon train west, and Dianne knew in her heart she might never have survived the journey had it not been for Faith.

As Dianne stood outside the open door to the bedroom she’d given over to Faith and Malachi, she prayed for the wisdom to deal with Faith’s sadness.
Lord, I don’t know what it is to lose my own child, but I know what it is to suffer loss. Maybe I even endured
those ordeals for such a time as this—a time when I can minister hope to my friend
.

Knocking lightly on the door, Dianne entered. “I’m not going to let you hide away and be sad,” she announced. “I know you’re hurting, but you can’t shut out the world and hope that the pain will ease. It doesn’t work that way.”

Faith looked up from where she sat rocking silently. Her complexion had still not regained its rich coffee-and-cream color.

“I know.”

Her face lacked the sparkle Dianne had seen on the trail. Back then, Faith had been enthusiastic and alive with a passion born of new freedom from slavery. She and Malachi were just starting their life together, and nothing was too big or too frightening to stare in the face and deal with head on.

Dianne sat on the edge of the bed and leaned against the foot post. “It’s really hard on you, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Giving Susannah back to Koko.”

Faith bowed her head and gripped her hands together. “Hurts almost like losing my babies. I don’t know why. I know that Susannah belongs to Koko. I’m rejoicing, truly I am, that Koko is recovering. I wanted nothing more.” She paused. “Well . . . maybe there were other things I wanted more.”

Dianne wanted so much to say the right words of comfort, but instead she said, “Tell me about the babies, Faith. Tell me everything.”

“Not all that much to tell. Life up here is just hard, plain and simple. I lost my first baby shortly after we left Virginia City. Just came on me one day. I hurt something fierce and next thing I knew I’d lost my child.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she refused to look Dianne in the eye.

“That must have been terrifying,” Dianne whispered. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help you through it. You were so good to help me when my sisters died . . . and my mother. Your words to me were the main reason I was able to have an understanding of who God is and why my ways were wrong. I don’t think I would have come to that knowledge quite so soon had you not offered me such wise counsel.”

“Words are easy,” Faith said, finally looking up. Her eyes spoke of pain so deep and raw that Dianne actually winced.

“What happened after you lost the baby?”

Faith shrugged. “We went about our business like nothing had happened. I knew Malachi grieved, but it was impossible to offer him comfort when I had none for myself. A year later I was expecting again. I thought this time nothing would go wrong. We were settled up near Fort Benton. Malachi was working fairly steady doing odd jobs for one of the liveries.

“I was sure everything would be different, but it wasn’t. One night I woke up and knew it was happening all over again. I lost the baby by morning. Shortly after that we moved on. Malachi heard about another gold strike, and the fever was upon him again. I didn’t want to move, but I figured it might help us both to get to new scenery, so we left.”

Faith went silent and began rocking. She stared past Dianne to the window on the opposite side of the room. “When I found out I was expecting again, I just wanted to die. I was terrified that it would all just be the same. I prayed and prayed and watched every step I took. I didn’t raise my hands above my head or carry anything at all. I didn’t walk any faster than a funeral procession would go—no matter how much of a hurry I was in.

“When I passed the time where I’d lost the other babies and this one kept on growing strong, I figured the worst was behind me.” She looked again to Dianne and shook her head. “But I was wrong. The baby was due the middle part of January. I felt strong and healthy as an ox. I just knew everything would be good.”

“What happened, Faith? Why did the baby die?” Dianne felt close to tears but held them back. She didn’t want to add to Faith’s burden.

“The cord was wrapped around his neck just as tight as it could be. He came too fast to get it cut or taken off before it strangled him. I just stared at the midwife and screamed. I couldn’t understand why she’d let this happen—why she’d let my baby die. I said horrible things—things I had to repent of.” Faith closed her eyes and leaned back to rest her head. “I was so angry.”

“You were lost in your sorrow,” Dianne said softly. “Just as you are now.”

“I can’t take any more pain,” Faith said matter-of-factly. “I can’t go on hurting like this. It’s killing me. I don’t even want to be with Malachi.”

Dianne shook her head and reached out to touch Faith’s knee. This caused the woman to stop rocking, but she didn’t open her eyes.

“I can’t be a wife to him—not again. I can’t risk going through all this again. I can’t, Dianne.”

“Faith, you have to give yourself time. You have to let God heal your hurts.” She fell silent, unsure of what to say next. She imagined a tiny boy who looked like Faith, and the pain was acute. How—or even more, why—did God let this happen? He could have stopped it. He knew how much Faith would love this child.

“What did you name him?”

Faith looked at Dianne and offered just a hint of a sad smile. “John. John Michael Montgomery. Malachi made him a little wooden headpiece. There just wasn’t money for anything else.”

“If you’d like, we could order a stone. I’d be happy to pay for one.”

Faith shook her head. “No. It’d just be a waste. Malachi said we had to leave it behind . . . forget. I know he means well, but he doesn’t understand my grief.”

Dianne moved to where Faith sat in the rocker and got to her knees. “Faith, no one but God knows how much you hurt. As much as I care about you, and even though I’ve suffered the loss of my mama and sisters, I can’t know what it is to bury a child. I pray I’ll never know.” She drew a deep breath and continued. “But even so, you can’t push God away. He’ll just keep coming back. Remember, you’re the one who first showed me verses in the Bible about His faithfulness.”