Song Of The Warrior (33 page)

She wasn't sure now whether she was reassuring him or herself, she only knew that hell was exploding behind her as the soldiers renewed their attack. She had a slim chance to save the little boy, her own unborn child, and the man she loved. She steeled herself and kept riding until she was away from the camp, moving through the cold night behind White Bird and his little bunch of survivors. Only once did she look back and Raven paused in the midst of the noise and gunshots to nod to her, wave goodbye. Somehow she knew she was seeing him for the very last time.
“Kaizi-yeu-yeu,
thank you, Raven,” she whispered, “thank you.”

 

 

Raven looked after Willow as she disappeared with her travois into the swirling mist of the moonless night.
“Kuse timine,”
he whispered, go with a good heart.

Even after she had disappeared, he stared at the spot as if to imprint her lovely face on his mind for all eternity. Now he settled himself for a long night, checking to see how many remaining cartridges he had. He intended to sell his life dearly, buy time for those escaping. He reached for the book, wishing he could see the print, but he had memorized the scene so he knew it by heart. In his mind's eye, he saw Sydney Carton mounting the scaffold, preparing to meet his death. The one who had no honor had redeemed himself because of his love for a girl. Raven smiled in satisfaction. Yes, now he knew that feeling and it was good.

With his attention centered on Willow and her travois fading into the distant night, he barely heard a movement in the brush nearby. Too late, he whirled around as Lieutenant Warton topped the dirt and scrambled into the ravine beside him, rammed a pistol in Raven's side. “You damned redskin! What you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Raven muttered, reaching stealthily for his knife, praying to the great god
Hunyewat
that the bluecoat wouldn't realize some were fleeing into the night, sound an alarm.

“Hey!” The lieutenant stared into the dark as if suddenly aware of what was happening.

He must not let the officer stop them; Willow and the others must escape; nothing mattered but that, not even his own life. Abruptly, Raven grabbed the officer and they struggled. He had his hand over the bluecoat's mouth; he must not let him cry out. Even as the soldier's pistol exploded into his side, Raven cut his throat.

The soldier attempted to scream, but it was only a soft gurgle through a sudden rush of scarlet blood. He looked up at Raven, a lock of hair hanging down over his boyish face as if he couldn't believe what was happening, then slowly crumpled to the ground.

His own pain didn't matter though it tore like a molten flame into his side. Raven bit his lip bloody to keep from crying out, reached to touch there. His hand came away wet and sticky. He had seen enough wounds to know this one would kill him before morning. The soldiers had retreated again and the echoing gunfire faded.

Hands shaking with pain, Raven took a piece of cloth, stuffed it in the wound so it would bleed more slowly. The soldiers would have doctors. If he would crawl out toward them, they might help him, save his life.

No, he would not do that, despite his agony. He would stay here and fight until his rifle dropped from his unconscious hands, until his last cartridge was gone. The others must have time to escape and there was only one way to give them that time. Raven had stopped the lieutenant from pursuing Willow and his brother; it was important that Raven's son grow up in freedom....
it is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done. It is a far, far, better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

Very softly now, Raven began to sing his warrior's song.

 

 

In the pale light between darkness and dawn, Chief Joseph looked around him at the destruction. His warriors had held out as long as they could. “It is time then?”

The few men who still lived, nodded. “With One-Arm's troops and the colonel of the pony soldiers arriving, there is no hope.”

Hadn't he known that? Fair Land was dead and here at the Bear Paws, his beloved younger brother, Ollokot, had been killed. His own wife and daughter had gone with White Bird. Vainly, the Nez Perce had waited, praying that the Sioux would be coming to help them, but now they must face reality. All Joseph could hope was that White Bird's brave group and some of the others who had slipped away had reached safety. “Let us make ready for the surrender then.”

“Wait!” Looking Glass jumped to his feet. “I see a rider coming from the north! Maybe he is a messenger from Sitting Bull!” He jumped up and began waving a red blanket, the well-known signal of the Nez Perce.

 

 

Two Arrows, the Cheyenne scout, had been checking the trail to the north before dawn. Yes, some of them had escaped, the tracks proved it. Bear Coat Miles would be angry. Two Arrows turned back toward the camp, thinking how the Nez Perce had suffered. Like his own people both at Sand Creek and the Washita River, these people had been surprised at dawn and slaughtered. They had held out valiantly, but it was useless; didn't they understand that?

Two Arrows hunched his weary shoulders against the cold. He wished these stubborn people would surrender so Two Arrows could get out of the cold and return to the fort. The other scouts would have card games going; there would be a warm fire, hot coffee, and a nice amount of gold coins for him. He ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation. Nothing mattered to him much now that his own family was dead. No one could win against the army and the great white tide sweeping across the West.

Puzzled, he reined in and stared at the distant figure waving a red blanket. Had that warrior gone loco? Why would he be signaling an enemy scout? Well, Two Arrows would soon put him out of his misery. He reached for his rifle. The sooner all these wild ones were dead or captured, the sooner Two Arrows could return to the fort. He was a crack shot and now he aimed at the waving man, hesitated. What was getting into him? Two Arrows was paid to do this. He pulled the trigger.

The Nez Perce brave dropped the blanket, hesitated. Two Arrows could see the expression of shock on the man's face as the momentum knocked him backward and he fell in the muddy snow. Two Arrows slipped the rifle back on its hanging ring and nudged his horse into a lope, heading back to report to Bear Coat Miles. Whoever he'd just killed, it didn't matter much; nothing mattered any more but surviving in a white man's world.

Colonel Miles, General Howard, accompanied by Ad Chapman, the interpreter, and Lieutenant C.E.S. Wood, who would write down the translated words, rode out to accept Joseph's surrender on October 5.

In the gray light, Joseph was ready now, but his mind was numb with grief. Only two things comforted him; the captured old and wounded would no longer starve and a handful of his people had escaped. Perhaps that alone made the effort worthwhile.

His handful of warriors had found a gray blanket to put around Joseph's shoulders and one of the few remaining horses, thin and old, for him to ride. A chief must ride and be dressed with dignity, even if his heart was breaking. Joseph mounted the bony horse and carrying his rifle, rode out to the waiting bluecoats with the five old warriors walking along beside him.

Bodies of his brave men still lay about the camp unburied. A movement caught his eye as he rode past, and Joseph reined in and looked down. An open book's pages flipped in the wind. The whiteness of its pages was marred by a smear of scarlet blood. A young warrior lay breathing his last, a rifle in one hand, the other grasping the book as if somehow, it was all important to him.

Puzzled, Joseph stared at the handsome warrior who had died so bravely. He recognized Raven lying dead on the frosty ground, a slight smile of triumph on his face. Next to him lay a bluecoat with his throat cut. The white officer stared unseeing in eternal surprise and his brown hair blew in the wind.

Joseph studied the scene and wondered about it. Then he thought of the woman and the older brother. He could only hope they had made it across the border.

With a sigh, he nudged the old horse again and rode out to face the white men. They had fat jowls and pale skin, he thought, they had not eaten raw horse meat in a vain fight for freedom. Freedom. Less than a day's ride to the north; it might as well be a hundred days away.

With his straggly little group standing there, Joseph reined in and dismounted. It seemed a long way across that prairie to where the two big chiefs sat their horses. He walked with slow dignity so the little bunch of tired old men who had accompanied him would not be ashamed.

Very slowly, Joseph offered his prized rifle to General Howard, but One-Arm motioned for him to give it to Bear Coat Miles. Joseph took a deep breath as he handed over the weapon, knowing that the younger man, the lieutenant, was waiting to write down his words as the civilian translated. What could he say that would tell the white people how he felt? How could they ever know and understand his people's ordeal?

“Tell General Howard I know his heart,” Joseph said. “What he told me before, I have it in my heart. I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed. Looking Glass is dead. Too-hool-hool-zote is dead. All the old men are dead. It is the young men who say yes or no. He who led the young men [Ollokot] is dead. It is cold and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets and no food. No one knows where they are—perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my chiefs! I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”

It was almost dawn as Willow and the others made their way north. The gunshots had long since faded in the distance. Little Cub was fast asleep in her arms and Bear stirred slightly on the travois. She looked down at him, knowing that soon he would be conscious, but it would be too late for him to return and try to save the others. Raven had made her a gift of Bear's life. She thought now of Raven's child. She and her beloved Bear would raise it as their own and never, never forget his sacrifice.

The eastern sky turned pale lavender with the coming day. Abruptly, the chill wind rose and blew past her as if it were singing a ghostly warrior's song. The
hattia tinukin,
the death wind, Willow thought. She knew that at that very moment, Raven was gone, riding that wind. Now he rode with those brave warrior spirits who were forever wild and free.
“Kuse timine,”
she whispered, “and thank you, dear Raven.”

The sun came up then, all pink and gold, full of promise for the new day. She looked down at her beloved warrior as he stirred again, loving him as his brother must have loved her. Willow nudged War Paint forward, following White Bird's little band of survivors.

Raven's sacrifice must not be in vain. She would tell the Nez Perce story about what had happened to the people of the heart's own blood so that the world would never forget.

Willow squared her small shoulders and smiled bravely. Then she nudged War Paint forward and crossed into the freedom of Canada.

When Chief Joseph surrendered his rifle that cold October day, Colonel Miles promised that the pathetic little band of survivors would be returned to their own country. However, Washington politicians soon overruled Miles.

Puzzled by this deceit, Joseph and the survivors with him were sent first to Fort Keogh, then south to Fort Leavenworth. They were moved several times more, finally ending up near the present town of Tonkawa in the Indian Territory that they called
Eeikish Pah
(the Hot Place), where disease and the warm climate took its toil on these mountain dwellers of the cool Northwest.

Some of those who escaped to Canada later recrossed the border, were captured and sent south. Only White Bird and a few of his followers never returned; preferring to stay forever in the wild free land to the north.

In 1879, Chief Joseph made a speech in Lincoln Hall in Washington, D.C., and lobbied unceasingly to get his people returned to their own country. Even the widow of President Garfield tried to aid Joseph with petition drives. It was all in vain. The settlers who now owned the Nez Perce land did not want them returned. Finally, a furor of indignation across the country at the injustice caused the Nez Perce to be offered a chance to return to the Northwest, but not to their own beloved land.

When the Nez Perce had begun their 113-day flight, they numbered about 750 people, many of them old people, women, and children. They had fought their way across 1,500 miles against more than 2,000 regular and volunteer troops, and Indian scouts of several tribes. The poorly armed Nez Perce had fought eighteen engagements, including four major battles and at least four skirmishes. The government had spent more than a million dollars on this war.

By best estimates, 65 men, 55 women and children of the nontreaty Nez Perce had been killed. But this brave, ragged little group had killed probably 180 whites and wounded another 150. No one is certain how many Nez Perce had escaped to Canada, possibly several hundred. The army gathered up all that was left at the Bear Paw Mountains, 87 men, 184 women, and 147 children, and put them on that long road to imprisonment in Indian Territory.

Eight years passed and a few babies were born, but Chief Joseph's people sickened and died in the hot climate. At least a hundred of these now sleep forever in the alien soil of Oklahoma.

Finally, on May 22, 1885, 268 people, all that was left of the captured Nez Perce, were loaded on a train to be sent back to the Northwest. In their seven years of bondage, fully 40 percent of those captured had died.

However, Joseph was never to live again in his beloved Wallowa Valley. The returning group was divided; some sent to Lapwai, Joseph and others sent to the Colville Reservation in Washington state. For 27 long years, he struggled without success to get his people returned to Nez Perce traditional land. This then was the way his people were repaid for befriending Lewis and Clark, and for peacefully aiding the whites for three-quarters of a century.

On September 21, 1904, as he sat before his tipi fire at Colville, he pitched forward dead. The doctor who examined the body said Chief Joseph died of a broken heart.