Lay the Mountains Low (93 page)

Of those one-hundred-eighty-three men who had pitched into the Nez Perce at dawn that morning, seven of Gibbon's seventeen officers were either dead or wounded … twenty-nine of the rank and file were dead, and forty more had suffered wounds—two of them mortal.

From time to time when the quiet of that night grew heavy, Woodruff even heard a man digging his fingernails across the bottom of his haversack, doing his best to peel free every last pasty residue of the hardtack he had packed into battle, his ration of tasteless crackers having suffered two unavoidable soakings. It was that or the flesh of the lieutenant's horse. Without the benefit of fire to roast a stringy strip he hacked from a rear flank, the lieutenant found he couldn't choke down the raw meat. One of the old files suggested they pry the bullets off their cartridges, the way some had done to cauterize a few of the most terrible wounds, using the powder now to season the uncooked raw meat … but Gibbon promptly issued an order against the wasting of even one of those precious cartridges.

Shortly before midnight three of the men, all recruits from G Company, came to the colonel and declared their willingness to make an attempt at bringing back some water from the creek below their plateau. As soon as they began to
crawl out from the lines, each of them dragging four canteens strapped over his shoulders, the Nez Perce hollered their warnings to one another. Gibbon ordered a half-dozen volleys fired in the direction of the stream, in hopes of clearing a way for the water carriers. As the echo of those army guns faded, a few random Nez Perce carbines began to make some scattered noise. For those left behind in the compound to wait and wonder, intent upon every distinct sound the darkness brought to them, it was an eternity until they heard a lone white man cry out to the others that he was hit, but could still crawl.

By the time all three had slithered back in with one minor wound and their canteens refilled, one of the astonished trio announced that he had been so scared he forgot to get himself a drink at the stream while he was filling the canteens hung around his neck!

“I know it was only a hunnert yards, Lieutenant,” exclaimed Private Homer Coon, “but it sure as hell seemed like a hunnert miles to me! An' lemme tell you—I never had no idea how much a canteen can hold while you're waiting on ever' one. Why, I thought them four'd never fill up!”

Woodruff figured it would have been a merciful death if any of the Nez Perce had caught those water carriers down by the stream in the dark: a bullet ending things quickly—before the warriors, or their squaws, scrounged through the brush to find him where he lay wounded and helpless. Better to go fast without any pain …

Not the way First Lieutenant William L. English was suffering with increasing agony from his numerous wounds to the wrist, the ear, the scalp, and a major penetration of his bowel. He was the worst of any, and Woodruff feared his fellow officer would not last out the night.

Not long after the water carriers returned, Gibbon called his officers together to assess their situation. Accounting for the expenditure or loss of more than nine thousand rounds, their desperate need for ammunition rested alone at the top of the list.

“One of the civilians, a half-breed named Matte,” the
colonel explained, “came up to report he knows the enemy's language. Said he overheard some of the Nez Perce talking out there in the dark. One of the chiefs was urging their men to be ready for a morning attack—because the white man's ammunition had to be nearly done for.”

“We don't get more cartridges soon,” Captain Rawn said, “they'll overrun us in one swift rush, sir. What can we do to assure the survival of the command?”

Reminding his officers that this very day, the ninth of August, commemorated his thirtieth year in the army, the colonel prepared to dispatch a runner, who would slip off through the dark, ordered to find the supply train and bring through the much-needed cartridges before their tiny compound ran out, making them helpless before a concerted charge by the Nez Perce come morning. Once he had started the train on its way, that courier was to continue on his way to next find General Oliver O. Howard—likely somewhere between them and the end of the Lolo Trail.

By pale starlight Gibbon wrote a brief message to Howard, penciling his words on a square piece of paper no bigger than a calling card:

 

GENERAL: We surprised the Nez Perce camp at daylight this morning, whipped them out of it, killing a considerable number. But they turned on us, forced us out of it, and compelled us to take the defensive. We are here near the mouth of Big Hole pass, with a number of wounded, and need medical assistance and assistance of all kinds, and hope you will hurry to our relief.

GIBBON,
COMM'DG
Aug. 9, '77

 

In addition, the colonel readied another two men—civilians both—to sneak off for the settlements, striking out to the east for Deer Lodge via Frenchman's Gulch, both to carry messages requesting food, ammunition, and medical supplies.

“My boots ain't worth a damn no more, Lieutenant,”
grumped William H. Edwards as he prepared to slip away in the darkness.

Woodruff looked down at the man's footwear. “You think we're about the same size?”

Edwards nodded. “Worth a try, Officer. If you don't mind, I got more'n sixty miles to walk to French Gulch, and these ol' boots of mine won't make it all that way.”

“A noble donation to the cause,” Woodruff announced, painfully dragging off one boot at a time to make the exchange with the civilian. “Besides, with these holes in my legs, I'm not fit to do much walking for the next few days anyway. Part of that leather heel got shot off.”

Peering closely at the back of the fractured heel, Edwards said, “There's still enough here to hold me up till I get to Deer Lodge.”

The civilian had stood, working his toes around in the unfamiliar boots, when Gibbon came up to stop in front of Edwards.

“I want you to remember, we need an escort sufficient to protect the wagons they'll send to relieve us,” the colonel impressed upon his messenger. “Load the wagons as light as possible—for speed, you understand. Tell them how the Indians have cut us off from our own supply train. And take this message with you.” He handed Edwards a folded paper.

The civilian said, “General?”

“At the first telegraph key you reach, it's to be wired to my commander, General Alfred Terry, headquarters in Minneapolis.”

 

Big Hole Pass, August ninth

Surprised the Nez Perces camp here this morning, got possession of it after a hard fight in which both myself Captain Williams and Lieuts Coolidge, Woodruff and English wounded, the last severely.

Gibbon,
Comm 'dg
Aug 9, 77

 

For a long time after the two couriers melted away into the dark, each taking his separate direction, those left behind listened to the night for some idea as to the success of their escape. Only an occasional shot whined into their dark compound. Just enough gunfire to keep Woodruff rattled, even more jealous of a civilian who continued to sleep nearby. The young volunteer lay on his back, hip-to-hip beside another citizen in their shallow rifle pit. His mouth had gone slack, and he began snoring loud enough that it eventually attracted the attention of an Indian sniper.

Just about the time Woodruff was finding himself in awe that anyone could sleep in such conditions, a bullet smacked the dirt piled up beside the rifle pit, filling the snoring man's mouth with soil and pine needles. Sputtering and choking, he flopped awake, spit, and wiped his tongue clean, then promptly rolled onto his side and fell right to sleep again.

Sometime in the middle of the night he heard two of the civilians whispering in a nearby rifle pit.
^*

“You wanna get out of this, Tom?”

“Why, what the hell do you mean?”

“Well, there's several of us going tonight.”

Tom asked, “All of you?”

“No, just a few, it appears.”

Then Tom prodded in a softer whisper, “What about the wounded? What's to become of them?”

After a long pause, grave with silence, the other man answered, “We'll just have to let them go, Tom.”

“That don't set right with me. Them wounded have to be took care of. I ain't going unless ever'body's pulling out together.”

“Suit yourself, Tom. I just wanted you to know we was goin'.”

Later that dark night, Woodruff overheard the scuffing of
boots as the unnamed civilian crawled out of his rifle pit to join the half-dozen who were intending to make their escape through the Nez Perce lines. For a time after they had gone, he was jealous of them and their freedom to make the attempt—while his would be a soldier's fate.

Woodruff would wait for dawn and see what the morrow held in store for the stalwart and steadfast who had remained behind.

 

*
This documented conversation took place at marker No. 7, hillside siege site.

A
UGUST
9, 1877

“R
IDER! LOOKEE—IT'S A GODDAMNED RIDER COMIN' IN!“

Henry Buck shook himself out of a fitful sleep with that yelp, instantly awake with the horseman's whooping and hoofbeats, accompanied by a few scattered shots from the Nez Perce who still had them surrounded this gray morning.

Buck got his knuckles out of his gritty eyes in time to watch the civilian's horse skidding to a halt in the middle of their rectangle of rifle pits. Dawn was coming.

“By God—is that you, McGilliam?” John Catlin roared as he leaped up to the side of the barely restrained horse.

Around them, the survivors in the compound were cheering lustily, many of them barking their own questions at the newcomer.

In the hubbub that lone rider held his hand down to Catlin and said, “Good to see you still standing on your pins, Cap'n Catlin. Where's your general?”

“Right over here,” Gibbon announced from the spot where he was dragging his good leg under him and struggling onto his feet. “Where the hell did you come from and just how in blazes did you get through?”

“This is Nelse McGilliam, General,” Catlin introduced the civilian who had just dropped to the ground.

“You come from Howard?”

“Yes, General—”

“So what do you know of our wagon train?”

McGilliam shrugged. “Nothing. Never saw it comin' through on my own.”

“You're alone?”

“Yep.”

“How do you come to be here?” Gibbon prodded.

“I slept back up the trail last night, in my saddle blanket—no more'n a mile from here, out in the black of night,”
the civilian explained as he swung out of the saddle. “I heard shooting now and again, so I didn't dare come any closer till I had enough light to see my way on in here.”

“Can't believe the Injuns let you waltz on through 'em the way you did!” Catlin cheered, slapping McGilliam on the shoulder.

“I didn't see a damned Injun. Not one!”

“But they're out there,” Catlin argued. “You heard 'em shooting as you rode in?”

“But I didn't see a one—”

“What's Howard got to say?” Gibbon demanded the courier's attention again. “When's he going to be here?”

“He's on his way behind me, bringing more'n two dozen riders on their best horses.”

“T-two dozen?” Gibbon echoed. “That's all?”

“There's more coming up behind him, General,” McGilliam explained. “With them first soldiers Howard's got some Bannock scouts, too. All of 'em riding hard. Should be here afore tomorrow morning.”

It was easy for Henry Buck to see the disappointment from that register on Gibbon's face.

“Very well. We don't have much to offer you in the way of anything to eat—except for some half-rancid horse.” Gibbon pointed out Woodruff's partially skinned horse, the flies not yet buzzing in the chill dawn air. The decomposing carcass had stewed and bloated with gases to a point where all four of its legs stuck straight out grotesquely.

“N-no thanks, General,” McGilliam responded with a shake of his head. “I'll be fine—”

A sudden volley exploded outside their lines, bullets smacking the trees and whining through the men. Luckily, no one was hit as they dived in all directions, flopping to their bellies. McGilliam struggled to hold onto the reins from where he lay, his horse fighting to break free.

“May be some fresh horse meat soon, General!” the courier hollered.

“Do what you can to protect that animal, mister!” Gibbon
ordered. “We're damn well gonna need it to ride out on before the day is out.”

As that short summer night had worn on, more and more of
Ollokot's
warriors had slipped away. But … their leaving was not a reflection upon their bravery.