Cries from the Earth (55 page)

Just about the time Patrick Brice had hoisted six-year-old Maggie onto his back and was preparing to set off up White Bird Canyon toward Mount Idaho, the bottomground all around them came alive with Indians: warriors and women, children and ponies, everyone chattering as the Non-Treaty bands halted their march just south of the Manuel place and raised their buffalo-hide lodges beside the creek.

No longer were the two of them in danger of being spotted by any roving war parties. Now they were as good as surrounded by every Nez Perce who had sworn vengeance on the white man.

Over the last two days the camp had been consumed with celebration and singing, thumping on their drums and rejoicing in their victories—all of those revels lathered with a generous soak of whiskey. As he sat in the dark through each long night, clutching Maggie to his breast, Brice found it easy to vividly imagine that the Indians were jumping and cavorting around the scalps of those who had fallen to these blood-crazed warriors.

Maybe … the bastards had even discovered old man Popham and done him in. Patrick hadn't seen George since early that first night he heard Maggie's whimpers.

Brice's stomach had been snarling at him for the longest time, and the little girl had been sobbing continuously—still, she refrained from whining noisily with her agonized hunger. They had to stay quiet, he periodically reminded her. If the Nez Perce heard her and discovered them … they never would escape to the settlements, where Maggie could tell her story of how Joseph had killed her mother and baby brother.

But after so many days in hiding, with the unremitting strain of having the enemy camped all around them, made constantly aware that help was still more than fifteen agonizing miles away, the Irish immigrant realized his hunger had grown stronger than his immobilizing fear. Little Maggie required sustenance too. Over the hours the conviction grew stronger that he needed to take her somewhere she could begin to heal her heart and mind from all that she had seen happen to those loved ones murdered right before her eyes.

By dawn that Sunday he had steeled himself and prepared Maggie for their arduous ascent of the canyon, at the top of which they would cross over to the Camas Prairie. If they could only keep to the brush, Brice figured, the two of them would make their escape. But if they didn't find enough brush crawling up the ridge or if the warriors were constantly combing the countryside … then he'd have to convince Maggie they needed to spend another day lying in wait, hiding until the stars came out, when they could creep away and resume their climb under cover of darkness.

About the time the sky had begun to gray that morning of the seventeenth and he was preparing to set off from the Manuel place … the shooting and screaming began. Maggie had started shrieking too, so bad there at first that Patrick had to clamp his hand over the child's mouth, explaining to her sharply that if she kept up the caterwauling they'd be discovered and killed.

It felt like an eternity in limbo waiting for the gunfire to die off. Long hours they spent huddled together in the brush, listening as the gunfire eventually receded across the creek bottom, then reverberated up the canyon in waves, and ultimately fell silent. For the longest time Brice had struggled with himself over attempting the climb—fearing that his extreme hunger combined with his aching compassion for the little girl would compel him to expose them both to danger.

Just past midday more than twenty warriors rode right past their hiding place and dismounted in the Manuel yard nearby. A few of the horsemen went inside the house, and others entered the store. He figured they were probably searching for something overlooked by previous raiders. But after turning their ponies out to graze in the knee-high grass, most of the Nez Perce settled near the porch, where they cleaned their firearms, smoked their pipes, and talked.

Patrick was sure they were boasting about the white folks they had killed or raped—

Suddenly he saw a face he recognized. Brice wanted desperately to make sure before he did anything stupid, like allowing his immeasurable hunger to overtake his well-honed horse sense. But the more he studied that middle-aged warrior, the more the Irishman was sure he had run across the man before, perhaps up to Grangeville or Mount Idaho—maybe even as far away as the mountain mining camps of Florence or Elk City.

And if he recognized the Indian … maybe his luck would rally and the Indian would remember him too.

“Maggie,” he whispered into the girl's ear, cupping his hand around his mouth at the side of her head, “I know that Injun. Gonna give something a try. Ask 'im to let us go for help—so we can get you some food, someone to look after that broke arm.”

Her sunken, hollow eyes lifted to concentrate on his face, yet Maggie said nothing as she studied him. Eventually she snuggled against Brice all the tighter, burying her cheek against his breast. It was all the affirmation Brice needed. She had agreed to put their lives on the line.

Weak and clumsy, Patrick struggled to stand, stumbling sideways a little as he got to his feet with his little burden. He shifted her onto his hipbone, so weary were his arms, then shoved the limbs and branches aside with his right hand as he began inching his way out of hiding.

The moment he emerged from the brush, that crowd of Indians lounging in the grass shot to their feet, scrambling for their weapons so they could train them on him, looks of suspicious bewilderment on their faces as they noticed the muddy, bloodied, half-starved waif he carried on his bony hip. The warriors fell quiet, extremely wary for the longest time as they watched his every move.

“Here we go, Maggie dear,” he whispered and took another two steps toward the Nez Perce, whose dark eyes flicked apprehensively back and forth between the white man and those bushes behind Brice.

Patrick stopped—realizing the warriors feared there were more white men waiting in ambush. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, afraid they would shoot him because they suspected treachery. So the Irishman held up his right arm in what he prayed they would understand as a sign of peace.

Then, staring directly into that familiar warrior's eyes, Patrick Brice wagged his head and explained, “There ain't no more.” He pointed to the brush where he had just emerged and shook his head again. “Just the two of us,” tapping a finger against his chest, then pressing it against Maggie's breast.

After he took another scary step toward the warrior, Brice pleaded with him, “I-I ain't no soldier. Had no part in the f-fighting this morning.”

The warriors spoke among themselves briefly, their eyes constantly on him and the brush, haughty and disbelieving.

Finally, as his heart was sinking and hope seemed all but gone, Patrick swallowed hard, summoning up the last of his courage, and begged, “I-if you're gonna kill me … all I ask you in the name of God's heaven … I-let the little g-girl go.”

*   *   *

Black Feather was the only one on his feet when the white man suddenly appeared out of the brush with a small child in his arms.

Three of the warrior's companions sat on the ground nearby, smoking and talking about the fight they had had with the soldiers that morning. It had been a good fight. They had killed many of the
sua-pies.
Taken many rifles and pistols, a lot of bullets, from the dead men.

And they had chased the Shadows up the heights like they were whipped dogs an old squaw would chase out of camp. That is, until the last of the soldiers reached the Camas Prairie, fleeing for the town they came from, and the war chiefs commanded their young fighting men to stop.

“Let the soldiers go!” they cried to their warriors. “We have done these soldiers enough hurt! No Indian killed! Don't you see? Not one of us killed!”

So all four of them had been sharing this story or that from their fight with the soldiers when that lone Shadow stepped out of the brush at the edge of the meadow—startling them all.

Every one of them immediately jumped to his feet, all four of the warriors training their weapons on the white man, even while their eyes raked the brush behind him. There could be more—probably soldiers who had escaped the battlefield and would now take their revenge …

But a moment later, as his companions began to argue among themselves in anger, perhaps in fear, Black Feather began to think differently. This man was not dressed as a soldier. Instead, from the poor condition of the Shadow's clothing Black Feather took the white man to be one of those who scratched in the holes they dug in the mountains or perhaps even one of those who grew crops on a Camas Prairie farm.

Black Feather did not recognize this man as one of those well-known Shadows who missed no opportunity to cheat, beat, or kill any of the
Nee-Me-Poo.
Word was that Sun Necklace's war party had taken care of all of those treacherous Shadows—they had paid with their lives for their cruelty and thievery.

Besides, this shabby white man did not even carry a gun. And that poor little child—a girl just like Black Feather's own daughter—she wore only the thinnest of garments, was barefoot too … Black Feather remembered his daughter back in camp, and his heart ached for this little one. She had to be about the same age as his child.

“… Camas Prairie…,” the Shadow said.

In the midst of all the words this white man was speaking to the warriors, the Shadow said a couple that Black Feather recognized of the foreign tongue.

“He wants to go to the Camas Prairie,” Black Feather translated to the other three without taking his eyes off that little girl.

“What?” snorted Two Mornings, an older warrior. “We should kill him right now and check his pockets. Maybe he has some bullets, or whiskey—maybe some money in his pockets!”

“Yes!” Red Raven cried in agreement. “I will kill the Shadow myself!”

Whirling in angry desperation, Black Feather slammed down the muzzle of Red Raven's soldier carbine before he could shoot. “Don't!” he growled.

Red Raven wrenched his rifle away from Black Feather as the other two warriors crowded in on either side of Black Feather threateningly.

Confused, Two Mornings grumbled, “You must be fooling with my head, Black Feather! You don't want Red Raven to shoot the enemy?”

“No,” he growled, his eyes narrowing on the others. “If you kill him, which of you is going to take care of that little girl?”

Black Feather waited for an answer from any of them, looking long into the eyes of each of his companions.

“Which one of you will take the little girl into your home?” he demanded, beginning to feel as if he had drained most of their anger, like an empty buffalo paunch they would slice open and empty on the prairie.

“Will you take her into your lodge, Two Mornings?” he asked. “If you kill the man, you will have to care for the little girl.” Then Black Feather whirled on Red Raven. “And if you kill him, the child will be yours to keep. Do any of you want that?”

Two Mornings shrugged and said, “We can just leave her here—”

“No,” Black Feather interrupted. “What is one Shadow to us? Aren't we better than the white men because we will let this one man go so he can take care of his little daughter? Aren't we better men that we don't make war on women and children like the Shadows do?”

“But I will only kill the man—”

Black Feather instantly wheeled on Red Raven and shoved him back a step, knocking aside the warrior's carbine again. “So if you kill the man, you will just as surely kill the little girl. Look at her arm! Look at her face to see how she hasn't eaten in many days! Yes, Red Raven: If you kill the man, you will surely murder this little girl. For all the rest of your days, I will heap the shame of that upon your shoulders!”

Red Raven quickly averted his eyes and a moment later turned aside. With his back to Black Feather, the warrior took his seat on the ground again and began to reload his pipe. Then Two Mornings and the third warrior sat to rejoin him.

“Let the Shadow go,” Two Mornings sneered, with a wave of his hand, dismissing Black Feather without even looking up from his tobacco pouch. “Get both of them out of here now, before someone else shows up who will kill them for us.”

Stepping right up to the white man, Black Feather stared a long moment into the Shadow's eyes. He tapped his hand against the man's chest, then gestured up the creek with that hand. Twice more he made the same sign to indicate the Shadow was to go, to make his escape up the canyon.

Finally Black Feather remembered the words. “Cah-mass. Go you Cah-mass.”

“Camas Prairie,” the Shadow gasped, his eyes beginning to flood with tears. The white man patted the little girl in his arms, looking into her face and spilling out a lot of words Black Feather could not understand.

But he nonetheless did comprehend the meaning of the look on the Shadow's face before the white man turned away and skirted around the ranch buildings, trudging wearily toward the canyon that would lead him over to the white settlements.

Black Feather watched them go, watched the Shadow's back grow smaller and smaller. And he watched the dirty, smudged face of that little girl as she peered back at him from over the white man's shoulder.

From the look in those sad eyes Black Feather knew she was showing him her gratitude the only way she could.

Chapter 44

June 17, 1877

The animal beneath him wasn't near as strong as the mount he'd ridden into the valley of the White Bird early that morning, but Lieutenant William Parnell wasn't complaining one whit as he and his five rescuers caught up with those at the rear of Perry's ragged retreat.

When he saw the captain rein around and head back his way, Parnell considered telling Perry he had all but abandoned him … then thought better of it.

“Mr. Parnell!” Perry shouted when he brought his horse up there at the rear of those two dozen soldiers. “The Nez Perce are hard on our tails, aren't they?”