Lake of Fire (28 page)

The chant ended and the speaker’s focus returned to Cord. “Tonight, I speak a story—no, not a story—the truth of how the Nez Perce went to war against the United States.”

Bitter Waters knelt beside the wall of the army tent on the parade ground of Fort Lapwai in western Idaho, a loose assemblage of buildings beside meandering Lapwai Creek. It had been less than a week since the settler killed his mother. Though Bitter Waters had reported the murder, the guilty man was yet to be arrested.

Though his legs ached from squatting, Bitter Waters remained motionless. Many people’s future turned on this meeting between the United States government
and the Nez Perce chiefs.

Major General Oliver Otis Howard, commander of the Department of the Columbia, stood at attention. The canvas tent walls billowed in the breeze, while he addressed the four Nez Perce chiefs who had come to council. “I have been talking with you for days, but your time is running out.”

Toohoolhoolzote, the oldest of the Nez Perce leaders, answered Howard. “Your fort stands within the nation of the Nimiipuu, the Nez Perce People.” He crossed his arms over his heavy bronzed chest, a hard look on his deeply lined face. His hair, streaked with gray, hung past his thick neck, down to the waist of his breechclout and leather leggings.

“I know that your bands did not sign the treaty of 1863.” Howard appeared to agree. “Nonetheless, you must go onto the reservation that the rest of the Nez Perce agreed to.”

The treaty of 1855 had granted the Nez Perce seven million acres in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, but in 1863, the government had reneged and shrunk their lands to a paltry seven hundred thousand.

“We did not agree,” Toohoolhoolzote insisted.

Behind him, three other chiefs of the non-treaty Nez Perce—Heinmot Tooyalakekt, known as Joseph; Allalimya Takanin, or Looking Glass; and Peopeo Hihhih, or White Bird—sat on the grass beneath the open canvas tent.

General Howard rose from the table where he sat with five other representatives of the army. The imposing
presence of the barrel-chested, bearded officer seemed enhanced by the empty blue sleeve pinned up below an epaulet with a single gold star; his right arm had been lost in the Civil War.

“Your non-treaty bands are the smallest number,” General Howard continued. “There cannot be more than eight hundred people in all your lodges.”

Howard’s manner had no effect upon the impassive expressions of the chiefs, except for Joseph. He was the youngest and largest of the men, and his strong face beneath his wing of upswept dark hair looked deeply sad. “You would not want to leave your home.” Joseph looked up at Howard, who loomed over the seated chiefs.

“You must abide by the will of the majority,” Howard told him.

Bitter Waters thought that Chief Hallalhotsoot,

known to the whites as Lawyer, had signed the treaty on behalf of the Presbyterian Nez Perce only because his lands were already inside the proposed reservation.

Pushing to his feet, Joseph gathered his blanket around him, despite the springlike day.

“Suppose a white man come and say he likes my horses and wants to buy them. I say, ‘No, they please me. I will not sell.’ He goes to Lawyer, who says, ‘I will sell Joseph’s horses to you.’ If we sold our land to you, it was in this way.”

Perhaps it had happened because the people of Lawyer’s lodge abhorred the horse racing, dancing, and wagering Bitter Waters and his friends embraced
so enthusiastically.

Howard pointed at Joseph. “I have a petition given me this day by fifty-six settlers of Salmon River County. They tell of Nez Perce tearing down and burning their fences, stealing livestock, and firing pistols for sport.”

“These settlers are squatting on our land,” Toohoolhoolzote said. “My father and his father before him sleep beneath the land that is our Mother.”

General Howard placed a flat hand on top of a Bible that lay near him on the table. His voice rang out, “I am not going to listen to any more Dreamer nonsense or talk of Earth Mothers.”

Bitter Waters got to his feet, his head brushing the sloping canvas. Looking down upon General Howard, he pointed in turn. “We have kept the peace for many years, while the settlers have killed thirty of our People.” He spoke in Nez Perce, too angry for English. “Only last week my mother was killed like an animal.” He spat on the grass before Howard’s highly polished boots.

Howard turned to Toohoolhoolzote for translation.

Bitter Waters listened to see if Toohoolhoolzote would translate faithfully or decide with the wisdom of his seventy snows to temper the message. He braced himself to step in and correct the older man in defiance of etiquette.

Toohoolhoolzote repeated it precisely.

The rest of the chiefs rose with a clicking of bone breastplates. The Nez Perce, inside and outside the
tent, even the women with babies in arms, also got up. Bitter Waters caught Kamiah’s eye, as she struggled to reach him through the colorfully dressed crowd.

The five officers with Howard closed ranks about the general.

“Take these men to the guardhouse,” Howard called.

Other soldiers surrounded Bitter Waters and Toohoolhoolzote.

A murmur ran through the crowd like a rising wind. Bitter Waters looked at the pile of stacked arms where the Nez Perce had laid down their weapons.

Toohoolhoolzote faced his captors; his lined face might have been carved from stone. “You may lock me up,” his voice dripped disdain, “but behind me are always more of the People.”

“You tell your people,” Howard ordered, his face flushing, “that you will go onto the reservation within thirty days, or the soldiers will shoot you down!”

Around the Wylie campfire, the crowd erupted with a variety of reactions conveying everything from indignation at the tribe’s fate to approval of the Nez Perce being hunted. Through it all, Cord heard Laura’s gasp from perhaps fifteen feet away.

He turned and saw she stood transfixed, one hand at her throat. Unaccountably, anger swelled his chest.

What did she know of suffering? Of watching one’s parents die, of being taken virtual prisoner by his
own uncle … of going through the difficult rite of seeking a guardian spirit, then finding a way of escaping it all?

Yet, as Laura’s tear-filled eyes met his, he felt a tightness in his chest and wanted to go to her.

Before he could, Bitter Waters continued, “Toohoolhoolzote and I were held prisoner for eight days while the council went on. Then we were released.”

Weeks passed, and the men and women of the non-treaty groups pretended the summer sun would continue to shine without incident. Berries ripened, and the young men took advantage of long twilights to spend time with the equally ripening girls coming to womanhood.

Then the chiefs decided their people should move to summer camping grounds to enjoy the balmy June weather. Some reacted with joy, for the annual pilgrimage lifted everyone’s spirits. But when Bitter Waters and his wife, Kamiah, left his fine farm near the Wallowa River, he felt they were abandoning it for the last time.

On the river crossing at Dug Bar, deep in the desolate heat of Hell’s Canyon, with the Snake running high, even the bravest wondered if they would cross safely. They were right to worry, for hundreds of struggling cattle and horses were swept away downstream into a narrow-walled canyon.

Once encamped in the highlands, far from the reservation lands the United States had decreed as their destination, Bitter Waters went to the council lodge and confronted the elders. “There are only a few suns remaining in Howard’s ultimatum.”

Joseph responded to his challenge with a long speech. He reminded everyone that their camping grounds were pleasant, and that there was still time for the chiefs to parlay their way to consensus. Bitter Waters had learned to expect Joseph to seek the peaceful solution, but since Seeyakoon’s death, he could no longer see the wisdom of turning the other cheek.

“My mother is not yet cold,” he declared. “I say that if it is war they want, let us give it to them.”

The elders, as had happened so many times before, remained divided.

Bitter Waters marched away from the council lodge, trembling with rage.

Outside, it was pleasant beside a lake in the sun, young men racing their horses on the meadow, and women spreading camas with wilting blue flowers to dry in the sun. He wished that this were like any other year, when the wind would soothe his brow and he would find his wife, Kamiah, take her from her work, and walk with her in the forest.

It had been her sweet strength and the new life that grew within her that had persuaded him not to go after Harding the night he murdered Seeyakoon. “The settlers will lynch you if you kill a white man. You must wait for justice.”

Looking around for her, he saw his friend Tarpas Illipt approach, leading a spotted gray. Still in high spirits from racing, Tarpas headed his mount toward the lake for a drink.

“Mind your horse!” A man called Walks Alone waved his arms at Tarpas, but it was too late. The horse had trampled his drying rack, collapsing it upon the shore.

“I have worked hard with my wife, gathering so much camas.” Walks Alone gestured angrily.

Bitter Waters had never liked thick-waisted Walks Alone, not since he had set his dogs on him and Tarpas when they were youths stealing apples with Sarah. Smiling at Tarpas, Bitter Waters spoke slyly to Walks Alone, “My wife, Kamiah, is pregnant, but still you do not see me do woman’s work.”

Walks Alone threw aside the broken pieces of his drying rack. An ugly look took over his features. “Bitter Waters, if you’re so brave, why have you not avenged your mother’s death?”

Without hesitation, as though this new insult on top of General Howard’s ultimatum had torn the shackles of civilization from him, he leaped astride Tarpas’s horse, wheeled the animal, and drew his friend up behind him.

At the communal paddock, they picked up another horse. And though he wanted to see Kamiah before they rode out, she would only try to stop them.

By the time they reached their goal, night was overtaking them.

Rifles at the ready, Bitter Waters and Tarpas reined in their horses before the settler’s cabin beside the Wallowa. Around the log building, a fence enclosed a plowed square with melons, corn, and potatoes beginning to come up. Beyond was the cleared land awaiting the apple trees Harding had spoken of, enclosed by the rail fence that had cost Seeyakoon her life. Half a dozen hounds lay on the packed earth of the yard, settling in for the night.

“Harding!” Tarpas shouted.

Bitter Waters was glad his friend had called out, for his own throat felt thick.

In the bluish shadows of the porch, the rough wooden door swung wide to reveal Harding with his thick head of graying hair. He carried a pistol, poorly camouflaged at his side.

Tarpas and Bitter Waters slid to the ground.

With a barely perceptible motion, Harding gestured to his dogs. In spite of their apparent somnolence, in a single surge, the pack leaped to attention. They charged, baying.

Bitter Waters stood his ground while Tarpas aimed and fired, picking off two of the dogs. Bitter Waters shouldered his own weapon and took out two more. The remaining animals hesitated and stood in confusion, sniffing at the bodies of their fallen comrades.