Cries from the Earth (14 page)

The first, a young Shadow who Shore Crossing thought could be no older than he himself, emerged from a far building a little while later leading a saddled horse. He began to drive some cows and calves from the corral, keeping them in front of his horse with a long willow switch. That white man was putting those animals on a hillside trail Shore Crossing could see would take them up the side of this plateau to where the three young warriors lay watching.

“That is a nice horse,” Red Moccasin Tops observed. “Better than mine.”

“You can have it,” Shore Crossing said. “Come; we'll stake out the horses.”

Red Moccasin Tops's eyes narrowed with a glint of mischief. “Set a trap?”

He nodded, seeing Swan Necklace nervously lick his dry lips. “These Shadows are a curious sort. Our horses will draw them to their death.”

By the time that first white man was halfway up the plateau trail, Swan Necklace came sprinting over to the patch of wild oats where Shore Crossing and Red Moccasin Tops were setting out the old ponies, announcing that a second Shadow had emerged from the tiny house and was now driving some more cows up the same trail.

“And a third one is busy outside in the corral,” Swan Necklace said breathlessly, “hitching up two giant horses to a funny wagon.”

Shore Crossing smiled, his eyes gleaming. “Not just one. But we can kill all three.”

The young Shadow was first. Shore Crossing knocked him from the saddle with a bullet as the curious white man brought his horse to a halt near the two Nez Perce ponies. Their trap was a good one.

And the older Shadow was next. Evidently he heard the crack of the carbine when Shore Crossing dropped the first man and came hurrying up the last switchback to the top of the plateau, scattering the lumbering cows with their distended udders swaying between their hind legs as the herd reached the grassy pasture. This second Shadow began hollering for the first man in a frantic call.

Shore Crossing stepped out of the brush and shot him from behind with a bullet to the head. The bright red halo exploded in the new day's sunlight as the Shadow pitched onto the ground and his horse took off at a run.

“We'll catch it later,” Shore Crossing told Red Moccasin Tops.

The cousin nodded. “I hear the other one coming.”

It was good, all that noise from the white man's strange two-wheeled wagon.
Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack
 … probably what kept the wagon man from hearing the gunshots.

But the Shadow spotted him stepping boldly from the brush to fire the stolen rifle. Chiding himself for his brashness after that missed shot, Shore Crossing started toward the spot where the white man fell off the two-wheeled wagon the big horses slowly dragged it away,
clack-clack, clack-clack;
then they came to a stop and started eating in that same patch of wild oats with the two camp ponies.

“It's the same Boston Man who said the store man had a right to whip our friends,” Red Moccasin Tops declared as they walked up to the wounded Shadow.

Shore Crossing didn't say anything as he shoved the white man onto his back with the heel of his moccasin. The Shadow gazed up at him and began speaking in that strange Boston Man accent of his. All that
clack-clack
talk like his noisy two-wheeled wagon really irritated Shore Crossing, so he levered another cartridge into the chamber.

This is for all the whippings gone unpunished,
he thought as he pulled the trigger, the crack of the carbine blotting out the Shadow's last word the moment the back of his head exploded against the ground.

Swan Necklace was already digging through the pockets of one of the other men, and Red Moccasin Tops claimed what he could find on the second Shadow. So Shore Crossing knelt beside the quivering body and stuffed his hands into the pockets, feeling for anything of curiosity, if not of value. All he found was a folding knife, which he dropped into the pouch under his left arm where he carried a fire steel, along with his vials of grease and paint.

When Shore Crossing stood, he moved over to the giant horses. They were too big. So he decided to leave them here and instead yelled for his companions to bring over the pair of white man horses. He took the one from Swan Necklace, then instructed his nephew to pick which of the old
Nee-Me-Poo
ponies the youngster wanted.

“But I wanted this one,” Swan Necklace said with a downcast turn to his lips, patting one of the white man's horses. It was a pretty roan, a glowing reddish-brown with spots of gray across its front shoulders.

“All right, you can have it,” Shore Crossing relented. “Besides, I think this Boston Man has far better horses down there.”

At the corral, he and Red Moccasin Tops ducked between the fenceposts and moved among the restive horses, choosing at least ten they wanted to take back to
Tepahlewam
as the spoils of their revenge raid.

“Before we go, we should see if the Shadow woman is in there,” Shore Crossing suggested.

Red Moccasin Tops dragged the back of his bloodied hand across his lips. “You want her?”

He shook his head. “No. She is too fat for my taste. But I think we should look inside to find guns and bullets.”

With a yelp of joy, Red Moccasin Tops clapped in glee. “Now I can have a gun of my own!”

Inside the big wooden house they called out, but no one heeded their calls. The place was empty. Swan Necklace was busy looking at everything, picking up objects, turning them over, then dropping them on the floor. Some broke with a crash; others merely clattered and rolled underfoot. But they discovered a rifle standing near the door. And on a small table nearby Red Moccasin Tops spotted a handful of cartridges.

Stepping back outside, Shore Crossing started toward the corral and the horses. He leaped atop the one he wanted most of all, grabbed its halter, and reined it over close to the gate, where he pulled the pole aside so they could drive the rest of the horses out of the corral.

With Swan Necklace on his own Shadow horse now, the three of them flushed the horses into the yard, whooping with glee.

“
Yi-hell-lis!
”
1
Shore Crossing screamed, his whole body atingle. “None of those sour-talkers in camp will call me a coward now!”

Chapter 9

June 14, 1877

 

 

BY TELEGRAPH

WYOMING.

Starvation Among the Indians.

OMAHA, June 5.—A private telegram from Atlantic City, Wyoming, states that the Shoshone Indians are in almost a starving condition. Their supplies are lying at Green river and Bryan stations by some irresponsible delay. Some fears are entertained by settlers that the Indians will be driven to commit depredations to keep from starvation.

Whitfield listened again as the rifle shot faded just beyond the far hill.

He figured someone else must be out hunting early this morning, same as he was.

It grew quiet for a long time after the echo died, so maybe the hunter had dropped his game. Whitfield started down the long slope toward the bottom where he would have to begin the hard climb up that plateau where the shot had echoed. But if the other hunter hadn't been lucky enough to drop his target, then Whitfield figured the odds were damned good the animal would soon be heading his way.

If he kept his eyes open, chances were good he would be seeing some deer come busting off that brushy hillside in no time.

Whitfield hadn't yet reached the bottom when he heard another crack of the rifle. Certain now that the hunter had been trailing a wounded animal, he stopped among some clumps of brush and waited a few moments—listening, his eyes raking the far hillside that would lead him to the top of the plateau. He was fully expecting to see something moving down his way, some creature driven over the edge toward the brushy bottom where the deer loved to conceal themselves once they had watered of a morning and were heading back to their feeding grounds before the heat of the day.

Early morning like this was the time to be out hunting, because the deer were up and moving from their beds to water—

By damn, a third shot.

Was that fella a poor marksman or just down on his luck this time out?

Leaping across the narrow rushing stream that circled the base of the plateau on its way to the Salmon just past the Elfers place, Whitfield started trudging up the hill, doing his best to keep his eyes moving across the slope above him for anything that might bust on over. But nothing so much as moved on that hillside during his laborious climb, zigzagging his way up to the top, where he finally stopped, collapsed to one knee, and sucked wind like a swaybacked plow horse.

This was good pasture; that much was for sure. The German had done well with this patch of ground, Whitfield grudgingly conceded. Maybe Henry himself was the hunter this morning, because Whitfield spotted Elfers's two matched Belgians way across the meadow … that pair of big brutes still hitched to the new mower Henry had brought out from Portland just last week. Whitfield started toward the draft animals.

“Jesus God!” he gasped when he stumbled across the first body.

It was the youngster, Henry's nephew: lying on his back, his pockets pulled out of his pants like they were droopy mule ears. A black smear across his chest—so dark in contrast to the pasty white of the young man's cheeks. And those lifeless eyes glazing over just the way a deer's eyes would by the time you had it split open from brisket to bunghole—

“Jesus God!” Whitfield exclaimed again, this time cursing himself for standing there, thinking of such stupid, ghastly things when Henry Elfers's nephew lay dead in the hayfield—

Did Henry kill the boy? No, couldn't have, Whitfield thought as he started off toward those Belgians again, this time at a trot, loping along fast enough that he didn't see the second body until he had tripped right over it.

Sprawling into the short grass, Whitfield rolled onto his side and looked back. Just a yard beyond the soles of his dusty boots lay the hired man. The back of his head was a shiny, black, pulpy lump of gore where the flies were already buzzing a swarming clot. Staring dumbfounded at that, Whitfield wanted to curse again … but discovered his mouth was too dry to utter a goddamned thing.

He realized he had to tell Henry, had to find Henry. Jesus God.

Dragging himself out of the bloody, dusty grass, he wheeled clumsily, then stumbled forward to scoop up his rifle—

And that's when he spotted Jurden Henry Elfers.

Lying there on his back, a boot missing and his dirty stocking halfway off his foot. A patch of blood on his upper arm and more staining his armpit. Despite the hole in the middle of Henry's face, Whitfield was certain it was Elfers. The graying beard and that big waxed mustache. He'd know that German anywhere.

All three of 'em. Jesus G—Who was there to tell now?

Likely Injuns. Goddamned red-bellies. Probably got to Catherine and had their way with her, too. Cut the throats of the little ones …

Whitfield did the best he could to squeeze that image out of his mind as he lunged onto the trail where the milk cows were bunched, chewing away at the grass as if hell weren't falling in all around them—then caught himself, stopping suddenly. Better that he don't go down the trail to the yard and the house. If the bastards were still about their savage business—

Turning slightly, Whitfield dropped over the side of the plateau, plunging almost straight downhill. He figured he could strike the John Day just above the milk house, maybe hide there beside the creek if he caught sight of any skulking redskins in the Elfers yard.

Breathless by the time he reached the creek bank, he peered back through the trees, squinting through the salty drops that dribbled into his eyes, spying the stone wall of the milk house in the midst of the verdant brush. Wheeling, he dropped to one knee, clutching the rifle in his sweaty hands, and peered through the trees in the opposite direction at the distant yard. Nothing moved around the house; no one he could see at the barn or the corral. In fact, he spotted none of the critters at all.

Then Whitfield got back on his feet and turned away from the buildings, this time starting upstream. Realizing his mind had become all the more numb as his breath came short and hard.

Gould. He had to find Gould. Norman would know what to do.

Whitfield was near done in by the time he had loped those two miles between the Elfers place and the sawmill that Norman Gould operated for Henry up at a wide spot in John Day Creek.

“Nor—Norman!” he cried out, pasty-mouthed, as he lurched into the yard between Gould's small cabin and the large shed that housed the steam-driven sawmill that was sitting quiet for the moment.

“What's the bee under your bonnet?”

Whitfield whirled around, finding Gould stepping out the cabin door, George Greer at his elbow. A settler from farther up the Salmon, Greer was there getting some planks sawed for an addition he was nailing onto the side of his barn.

“Henry!” Whitfield gasped, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Good God, man,” Greer said as he stepped up. “What's the lather?”

“They killed 'em!” Whitfield gushed. “Injuns killed 'em all!”

“Killed who?”

“Henry. Saw him: shot in the face,” he continued, struggling to work up enough saliva so he could get more words out. “The other two. That nephew Harry and the hired fella. All.”

“Catherine and the babies?”

Whitfield nodded, even though he admitted, “Didn't see 'em myself. Dared not go to the house. But there wasn't a soul stirring. I'm feared they butchered the whole lot.”

Greer and Gould looked at each other for a long moment. Then Norman Gould asked, “You brung you a gun, didn't you, George?”

“Only this,” and the settler tapped the pistol stuffed in the front of his belt. “But I got a dozen more bullets on me, too.” He patted a britches pocket.