Lay the Mountains Low (72 page)

“We have only arrived at this place,” Looking Glass's tone softened, became more fatherly. Better that the Non-Treaty bands see him as a benevolent leader rather than
despotic over the other chiefs. “Can't you see that we have left behind the war and the soldiers? Far behind us are the Shadows who wanted to do us great harm. All of that—left behind in Idaho country. There is no cause for alarm. Cut-Off Arm sits on his rump and does nothing. The white men who wished us evil are back there in Idaho country with his army, too.”

“We can't wait!” Pile of Clouds repeated. “We must hurry away—”

“No,” Looking Glass snapped. “We will stay here so the women can cut poles for the lodges. I will not have us arrive in the land of the
E-sue-gha
looking as if we are some poor relations without lodges!”

Many of the older women murmured their agreement with that on the fringes of that crowd gathering around the headmen.

“Here we will begin to regain our greatness.” Looking Glass warmed to his oratory and the support of his people. “Here we will eat from the fat of the land and drink this good water. And here tomorrow night we will celebrate, dance and sing … for we have left the war far, far behind us.”

Both upstream and down-, the slopes west of camp were thickly timbered. Only the hillside immediately across from the village stood barren of evergreens, covered only by sage and tall grass—except for a pair of immense fir trees that seemed to stand as sentinels near the base of the hillside. It was there the boys herded most of the more than two thousand horses.

Stopping at this traditional camping ground located in the southwestern edge of a narrow valley nestled between high mountain ranges, they did indeed have here everything they needed in a camp while they laid over for a few days to rest and recruit themselves before continuing on to the
E-sue-gha
country. Besides sweet, cool water of both the creek they had followed from the pass down to the valley,
*
as well as the bigger stream it joined at the bottom of the hillside,
*
both of which were lined with dense thickets of head-high willow, the People had an abundance of good grass for the horses they had harried through the rigors of that mountain passage. What with the short marches they had been making ever since leaving those recuperative hot springs on this side of the pass, the spirit of every man, woman, and child had been soaring. Couldn't the other chiefs and
tewats
see what the leisurely pace had accomplished? Everyone but those complainers realized in their bones that they had left the fighting behind in Idaho country.

Sensing no threat from those Shadows and
suapies
they had tricked on Lolo Creek, Looking Glass and his leaders did not feel as if they should ring sentries around their camp, especially at night. Oh, they did know that the little soldier chief had spies following them and that some of the Bitterroot settlers were surely keeping an eye on the People's movements from site to site. But no one would be sneaking up on them, because the only Shadows who had worked for the
Nee-Me-Poo
's destruction were a long, long way behind, back over a tall string of rugged mountains!

Not that they hadn't spotted a white man or two lurking on the hillside, and even the outskirts, of this new camp—spying on the
Nee-Me-Poo,
keeping the little soldier chief informed of everything. Those men seen prowling the fringes of the hills were of little consequence, Looking Glass told the other chiefs. The very fact that there were spies keeping an eye on their village was as good an argument as any that the Shadows did not intend to attack. Only to follow and watch.

So the camp making continued with renewed enthusiasm. Spread out along the east bank of the little river, eighty-nine lodges were eventually raised, their brown cones stark against the blue of that late-summer sky, arrayed in an irregular V formation, its apex pointed downstream,
toward the north. Between the camp and the base of that timbered mountainside flowed the wide, deep, gurgling creek where the children went to play, where the women bathed the tiny infants newly born during this difficult passage out of a troubled land, on to a life that now held nothing but promise for the
Nee-Me-Poo.

With a breast-swelling pride, Looking Glass realized that as the women cut and dried new poles from those forests on the surrounding slopes, this would be one of the largest, happiest gatherings the Non-Treaty bands had experienced in the recent past. As a shaft of bright light suddenly burst upon the meadow, he was forced to squint. The high, thin rain clouds were breaking up. Then he remembered: Over here on this eastern side of the mountains, the sun always shone a little more strongly. There were fewer clouds to mar its intensity than there were on the west side of the Bitterroot range. It gave his heart a strong feeling to look over these seventy-seven lodges who had followed him over from Idaho country, good, too, in gazing upon those twelve lodges under Eagle-from-the-Light who had joined up in the Bitterroot valley.

Besides the women and children who waded across the stream and started up the slopes with their axes to chop down new lodgepoles, other women walked east from camp toward a half-mile of open ground fringed on the east by a low plateau, carrying their fire-hardened digging sticks—there to jab into the earth for the tasty camas roots in that
tegpeem,
an open meadow the
Nee-Me-Poo
called “a flat place of good grass.” Riding north and south from camp, small hunting parties of men went in search of deer, elk, and especially antelope that would sizzle over the fires this first night at
Iskumtselalik Pah.
The People did not find antelope west in their old homeland.

Yes—Looking Glass thought—he would have to announce the dance he would hold tomorrow evening after everyone was settled in at this peaceful place. Such festivities would make his people even happier because it would
be the first celebration of any kind since the war began and they started on their flight away from their old homeland.

It was about time that the Non-Treaty bands began their new life here in the buffalo country with a grand feast, Looking Glass decided—singing and dancing into the night!

It was here that the
Nee-Me-Poo
could begin to celebrate their victory over the white man!

BY TELEGRAPH

—

A Thrilling Chapter of Secret
Political History.

—

A Chicago Free Love Murderer Acquitted.

—

No more Arms to be Sold to
the Indians.

—

MONTANA.

—

Latest from the Indian War.

HELENA, August 7.—Advices from Missoula, up to August 6, say General Gibbon, with 200 regulars
*
—infantry, in wagons—left Missoula post to follow the hostiles at 1 p.m. Saturday. He designed making thirty-five miles a day. The hostiles were at Doolittle's ranch on [Sunday] night, seventy-five miles from Missoula and within ten miles of the trail to Ross Hole. Charlos declined to lend his warriors to General Gibbon, but will find the Nez Perces on his own account. The hostiles were moving with more celerity Friday. Stevensville had
advices Saturday that 100 or 150 men were coming from Bannock to intercept the Indians. Howard has not heard from Lent, the courier. He had not returned on Sunday and anxiety was felt for him, as two Nez Perces had come over the trail. A considerable number of Missoula county volunteers are prepared to advance, but are independent of the regulars.

“I respectfully request the honor of leading this scout, sir,”' asked Lieutenant James H. Bradley, the officer who moments ago had suggested just such a reconnaissance to catch up to the hostile village.

“It is yours to lead, without question,” Colonel John Gibbon replied that twilight of 7 August. “Mounted, of course. Take Lieutenant Jacobs with you, along with sixty picked men—soldiers and volunteers both—and do your best to overhaul the Nez Perce before dawn.”

“Once we've made contact, what are your orders?” Bradley inquired.

“Send word back as quickly as possible.” “Am I to engage the Nez Perce, Colonel?” “By all means. Stampede their horses. Impede their escape.” Gibbon ground a fist into an open palm. “Immobilize their village and hinder their retreat until I can come up with the rest of the outfit.”

Everything they had seen and heard as they hurried up the Bitterroot valley confirmed that the Nez Perce could boast somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 fighting men.
*
In addition, Gibbon's men had come to realize the village was moving slowly, unconcerned and perhaps completely unaware that the army was on their back trail …
and closing fast. The distance from campsite to campsite was extremely short, indicating the village was making only brief migrations each day—perhaps only to find new forage for their horse herd. Gibbon and his officers determined that they could cover twice as much ground as the Nez Perce were each day—perhaps three times more. In that way, the Seventh Infantry and those few Second Cavalry troopers along would catch up to and surprise the enemy in less than half a week.

In fact, right now it appeared the hostiles were no more than a day and a half away! Perhaps as little as one long day's march to bring them to battle.

So now was clearly the time to go in search of the enemy. To account for Joseph's position and his strengths. To determine how best to attack the Non-Treaty stronghold—and send back word to Gibbon once contact had been made.

One thing was for sure as Bradley and First Lieutenant Joshua W. Jacobs led their sixty men into the dim light of dusk, clambering over a maze of downed timber for that two miles up to the summit: the Nez Perce hadn't turned aside with designs on doubling back for Idaho and their old haunts in the Salmon River country. They had clearly bypassed the route they would have taken if they had intended to return to their homeland.
*
It was abundantly clear that Joseph's warriors and their families had no intention of reclaiming their ancient homes. If Gibbon didn't stop them here and now, the Nez Perce could well be free to scatter, roaming and pillaging at will across Montana Territory—igniting a much farther-reaching war than General O. O. Howard had failed to put out back in Idaho.

Through the night of the seventh and into dawn's earliest light on the eighth of August, Bradley and Jacobs struggled ahead on horseback, a little quicker now that their scouting force could begin to see just where it was going. From the summit of the divide the trail angled down a gentle incline
for about a mile, where it finally reached the headwaters of Trail Creek. From there trail guide Blodgett led them through some increasingly rough country, staying with the banks of that stream, forced to slog through boggy mires where Trail Creek meandered and cross from bank to bank more than fifty times in their descent.

Down, down, down now, accompanied by the first telltale indication of a coming sunrise—descending toward that high mountain valley a few of the Bitterroot civilians along were calling the Big Hole. Still no sign of the village. Not a sound or a smell, much less a sighting of fire smoke or smudge of trail dust rising from the plain below.

“They aren't where we figured we'd discover them,” Bradley grumbled in dismay as he threw up his arm and ordered a halt to those soldiers and Catlin's civilians following the two of them.

“We've got to press on till we find them,” Jacobs suggested.

“There never was any question of that!” Bradley replied peevishly, then instantly felt bad for snapping. “I figured we'd spot their camp right down there, where you can see the head of that valley. But,” and he sighed, “their trail leads around the brow of these heights, angling left instead of dropping directly onto the valley floor. Damn, Jacobs—if we don't find that village soon, it's going to take even longer than we calculated for the rest of Colonel Gibbon's forces to catch up.”

Jacobs spoke softly, “Do you think we should give the mounts a brief rest here?”

“No,” and Bradley shook his head emphatically. “They'll have plenty of time to rest after we've caught up to the village and run off their horses—”

“L-Lieutenant! Lieutenant Bradley!”

He whirled on his heels, finding John B. Catlin, Joe Blodgett, and a handful of Bitterroot volunteers weaving their horses through the timber in their direction. Bradley brought up his long Springfield rifle, half-expecting there to
be bullets accompanying the harried civilians, what with the dire expressions on their flushed and mottled faces.

“The hostiles?” he asked Catlin, lunging out to grab the bridle on the leader's horse.

Catlin gulped breathlessly, “We saw 'em.”

A lump of apprehension rose in Bradley's throat. “They see you?”

“Don't think so,” Catlin said too quickly. Then his eyes flicked away. “I … I dunno. Maybeso.”

Letting go of Catlin's bridle, Bradley asked, “You were shot at?”

“No.”

“They follow you?”

With a shake of his head, the civilian again answered, “No. If they saw us, they let us go 'thout any trouble.”

“How far are they?”

“Not far at all, Lieutenant,” Catlin replied with a swallow. Then the Civil War veteran said, “On round the gentle side of this hill, you'll hear voices, laughing, too. And the sound of chopping wood.”

“Sergeant Wilson, you and Mr. Catlin see the men have their breakfast now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Bradley looked at Jacobs and Corporal Socrates Drummond. “The two of you, come with me on foot. We'll go see for ourselves.”

When they reached the last of the thick timber, the lieutenant halted the pair. Quickly his eyes searched the trees at the edge of the grassy slope.

“Wait right here with our horses and guns, Corporal. The lieutenant and I are going for a climb.”

Stripping off his blue wool tunic, the lieutenant then rebuckled his gun belt around his waist, and they started up the tree, hand and foot, slowly working this way and that around the thick trunk until their heads popped above the uppermost branches. It provided a perfect view, placing them atop the emerald evergreen canopy—giving the lieutenants
a chance to gaze unimpeded over the entire vista as the narrow valley of the Big Hole stretched away from them some ten miles to the east.