Lay the Mountains Low (32 page)

For his part, over the last three days Lew Wilmot had stewed in his own juices, growing all the angrier, and resolved to confront General Oliver Otis Howard with the cowardice and dereliction of duty perpetrated by his subordinate Captain David Perry. Especially after Lew and his friends had laid poor Ben Evans in the ground, then held a burial for D. B. Randall with full Masonic rites in Mount Idaho's little cemetery—a quiet, shady place tucked back among some peaceful pines. Just the sort of place where Lew could get to brooding on his dead friends, all the while nursing his loathing for the man who had delayed and deliberated before sending the civilians any assistance.

As for David Perry, the captain went on with his prosecution of the war: loading up those supplies he had transported down from Fort Lapwai, then led his entire command out of their Cottonwood bivouac on the night of 8 July, after a courier brought word that Howard's advance was approaching Grangeville, exactly where the army had started out on their merry chase thirteen days before!

Earlier that Sunday, McConville had come looking for Lew at Wilmot's tiny home in Mount Idaho. “We're leaving, Lew. Give the family your farewell.”

After warmly embracing Louisa and his four children, Wilmot followed his friend into the shadows between some ramshackle buildings.

“There's much afoot, Lew,” Ed McConville said as they stood watching three soldiers slowly walk past the nearby barricades. “I've been doing a lot of thinking and talking with some of the men while you been to see your family, Lew.”

“What's this got to do with?”

McConville took a deep breath. “I don't figger the army means to do much fighting.”

Wilmot snorted, his gall rising again just to think about how the soldiers were far, far better at sitting on their hands
than they ever were at fighting, “Howard or Perry, they're the same when it comes to catching the Nez Perce: always a day late and a dollar short.”

McConville nodded. “These officers can bumfuggle all they want, but they're never gonna catch up to the Injuns. Why, Frank Fenn and I went to talk with Howard himself when he was sitting on his thumbs at Craig Billy Crossing.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“It's what I showed him,” McConville explained. “That's a narrow ford, Lew. A few of his men could've defended that crossing if he'd sent some cavalry ahead—or sent word to Whipple for him to get soldiers over from Cottonwood to block the road.“

“I don't figger Howard listened to you.”

“Oh, he listened to our suggestions politely enough,” McConville replied. “Then told us that he believed himself fully competent to manage his own campaign!”

“So what you figure to do now on your own?”

“We've rode down to the mouth of the White Bird late yesterday, where Howard gave our battalion some ammunition since I told him we was going to find out where them hostiles are for him. You wanna come on a little ride with me?”

“Ride? Where?”

“We're gonna cover some ground before nightfall and maybe do a little fighting on our own by morning. It's for certain this army doesn't wanna rub up against the Injuns.” Then McConville reached out to grab Wilmot's forearm. “That's why I wanted you to get said what needed saying to Louisa and the young'uns now.”

“Just you and me going on this ride?”

“The whole outfit,” McConville declared. “Now we got seventy-five ready to ride out tonight, my boys from Lewis-ton, your bunch from Mount Idaho, along with Hunter's men from over at Dayton—they throwed in with us at Rocky Canyon for the rest of the war. Hunter and Jim Cearly just come back in. From the sounds of things,
Joseph's can muster more'n three hundred fighting men. We gotta go find that camp.”

“Where you figger on looking?”

McConville said, “Forks of the Clearwater. Wanna get that far north before first light.”

Wilmot grinned in the shadows. “Sounds like a fine plan, Captain McConville.”

“That's another thing, Lieutenant Wilmot.” McConville cleared his throat self-consciously. “I ain't a captain no more.”

“Shit—don't tell me someone else is boss of this outfit now!” Wilmot groaned, his belly turning a flop with disappointment. “Not that goddamned Cearly who wanted to take over Randall's bunch when D. B. was killed?”

“Naw,” and McConville shook his head. “Way things turned out when we was planning our scout this afternoon, the whole bunch elected Hunter as their lieutenant colonel, and voted me to serve as their colonel.”

”C-colonel
are you now?” Wilmot shrieked with joy, slapping McConville on the back as they turned and stomped away, past the tangle of barricades erected at the end of the street, approaching that large cluster of horsemen gathered back near the shadows cast by a grove of pines.

As they stopped among the others and George Shearer handed them both the reins to their horses, Lew looked over the more than seventy men who stood at the ready beside their fresh mounts selected from that herd taken from Looking Glass's band seven days before, every grim-faced volunteer bristling with weapons and eager for this scout to find the enemy village.

Wilmot smiled in the morning light as he turned to their leader just then swinging into the saddle and said, “All right,
Colonel
McConville. Let's go put our noses on the scent and scare us up some Nez Perce.”

As they had crossed the Camas Prairie, war parties from the Non-Treaty bands fanned out to search each settler's homestead. Knowing full well that every Shadow family had already
scurried toward the towns where they had erected their barricades, the warriors tore through every room in every building, looking for anything of value to them or in trade with the white men for ammunition. The rest they destroyed or burned. Shore Crossing's party left each structure they came across no more than a smoking ruin when they mounted up and rode on to find the next farm dotting the lonely prairie.

If the Shadows had attempted to force the
Nee-Me-Poo
off their ancestral lands, then his warriors were going to see that those Shadows had little to return to once the Non-Treaty bands had cut a swath of destruction through central Idaho. Maybe then, their leaders hoped, the white men would clear out and allow the
Nee-Me-Poo
to live unmolested and in peace once more.

Following the narrow canyon of the Cottonwood east to its junction with the South Fork of the Clearwater—at the traditional camping place called
Pitayiwahwih
^*
—the fighting bands were reunited with Looking Glass's Alpowai, who had at first refused to join with White Bird and
Toohoolhoolzote
at
Tepahlewam.
Now two days
^**
after the fighting bands' skirmish with the Shadows on a low hill, the Non-Treaties set up a large camp erected for the most part on a wide plot of flat ground stretching down the west bank of the narrow river, just upstream from the mouth of the Cottonwood. A handful of families chose to erect their lodges on the narrow strip of ground between the east bank of the Clearwater and the high, steep bluffs that protected the valley. The village numbered a minimum of 750 women and children and boasted of more than two hundred fighting men.

That night, a furious and resentful Looking Glass called a gathering of the leaders so that he could speak to those
men he had disdained and rebuked the last time they gathered.

“Six days ago my camp was attacked by soldiers,” he told those faces lit by leaping flames. “I tried to surrender in every way I could. My horses, lodges, and everything I had was taken away from me by the soldiers we have done so much for. But I know better.”

Looking Glass waited for the grunts of approval to fade, then continued, “Now, my people, as long as I live I will never make peace with the treacherous Shadows. I did everything I knew to preserve their friendship and be friends with the white man. What more could I have done?”

Again he waited while the approval became noisier. His eyes narrowing with menace, Looking Glass said, “It was because I was a good friend of theirs that I was attacked. The soldier chief who came to my camp may say it was a mistake what he did. But that is a lie. He is a dog, and I have been treated worse than a dog by him! He lies if he says he did not know it was
my
camp. I stand before you tonight to say I am ready for war!”

Every war chief and fighting man was suddenly on his feet, for this was a great reunion of the warrior bands who had never buckled under to the treaty.

His strong voice becoming a powerful roar, Looking Glass harangued the crowd, “Come on and let us attack the soldiers at Cottonwood. Many a man dies for his dear native land and we might as well die in battle as any other way!”

The clamor raised from all the war cries and wolf yelping made the hair bristle on Shore Crossing's forearms. Now they had the strength of a man's fist, with all five fingers tightly united into action: White Bird,
Toohoolhool-zote,
Joseph, along with
Huishuishkute,
known as Bald or Shorn Head, the Palouse leader … and finally Looking Glass.

Three of these other chiefs came forward one-by-one to call for an all-out fight against the treacherous Shadows.
Only Joseph did not step into the firelight and add his voice to the call for total resistance.

The following day was one of nothing but relaxation for the warriors who lay about in camp while many of the Non-Treaty people journeyed north to Kamiah to attend Dreamer services that Christian morning.
^*
From this camp a few raiding parties came and went, striking the nearby farms of Lawyer's reservation Indians—driving off their stock of horses and cattle. Scouts, too, rode in and out of camp, slipping onto Camas Prairie to watch for movements of the
suapies
and the civilians venturing out from their fortified settlements. The chiefs needed to know if Cut-Off Arm would come traipsing after them again after they had embarrassed him across the Salmon.

They didn't have long to wait for an answer.

But this time the
Nee-Me-Poo
were completely surprised that it wasn't soldiers who came looking for them.

 

*
Literally meaning “mouth of the canyon,” a few miles above the present-day town of Stites, Idaho. In the historic literature, this Nez Perce term is sometimes rendered
Peeta Auuwa.

**
July 7, 1877.

*
Sunday, July 8, 1877.

J
ULY
9,1877

BY TELEGRAPH

—

Incoherent Accounts of the Indian War.

—

Hard to Tell What the Hostiles are Doing.

—

OREGON.

—

Latest from the Indian War
.

SAN FRANCISCO, July 7.—A special dispatch from Lewiston, July 4, via Walla the 6th, says Colonel Whipple's command, with volunteers under N. B. Randall, came across Looking Glass' band at Clear Creek at 7 a.m. The Indians told the colonel that they were prepared to fight, and opened the ball by the first shot. When the order was given to commence firing the Indians soon broke for the hills and places of shelter. It is not known how many were killed or wounded, as they scampered in all directions. The command captured the Indian camp, burned all their provisions and plunder, and took about a thousand Indian horses, which they brought here. No citizens or soldiers were killed or wounded. The command returned last night …

News received at department headquarters from Gen. Sully, commanding at Lewiston, says Col. Perry with thirty men, on his way to Cottonwood, was attacked by hostiles. Lieut. Rainez and ten soldiers and two civilians were killed. Col. Whipple joined Col. Perry, and drove the Indians off. The fight is still going on. Maj. Jackson's
company of first cavalry, which left Fort Vancouver yesterday morning, will arrive at Lewiston tomorrow at noon. The following dispatch comes from Walluwa. It was probably received by the steamer Tennie, which arrived at headquarters Thursday night. They say that Joseph decoyed Gen. Howard across the Salmon river, and then Joseph recrossed the river and got on the Cottonwood between Howard and Lapwai, within thirty miles of Lewiston …