The Coming Storm (3 page)

Malachi and Faith were too exhausted to argue. Dianne smiled at her uncle. “I think we just might have our miracle. Faith knows a great deal about sickness and such.”

Bram’s face brightened. “Truly?”

Dianne’s smile broadened. “Truly.”

She served the breakfast quickly and waited impatiently as Uncle Bram blessed the food and prayed for the well-being of his family. Dianne had a million questions to ask Faith, and it was so hard to be patient. She wondered where Faith and Malachi had come from, how they’d managed in the gold fields, and what had happened to the baby they’d been expecting when they’d parted company some five years ago. Knowing, however, that they were probably half starved, Dianne held her tongue.

They ate in silence for several minutes, with only an occasional comment about the delicious food being added to break the stillness of the meal. Finally Dianne could wait no more.

“Where did you walk in from?” she asked.

“Can’t really say,” Faith replied. “We were up north for a spell. Then west. We’ve been so many places, I can’t even remember their names.”

“You were going for gold,” Morgan stated. “How did that work out?”

“Oh, we found da gold,” Malachi assured. “Not much. Jes’ enough for us. But we no sooner had it den somebody would come to take it away. We was robbed mo’ than five times.”

“Oh no!” Dianne gushed with great sympathy. “How awful.”

“There were worse things,” Faith said softly.

Dianne met her pained expression and instinctively understood. “The baby?”

“Three babies,” she admitted. “I miscarried two, and one was born stillborn last week.”

“Last week! Oh, Faith. You should be in bed.” Dianne looked to her uncle. “They can stay in my room, can’t they?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“We gotta earn our keep,” Malachi said, pushing back his plate. “I come lookin’ fer a job. I’m a hard worker.”

Dianne nodded. “And not only that, Uncle Bram, but he’s a smithy.”

Morgan smiled. “And a right good smithy. I saw him mend many a wagon wheel on the trail west—not to mention shoe horses and oxen. He knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure.”

“We could use a good smithy,” Bram replied. “I’ve long wanted to set up my own blacksmith shop here on the ranch. I’d be happy to give you a try.”

And before Dianne knew it, the entire matter was settled. But when Dianne turned to smile at Faith, she recognized her friend showed signs of exhaustion. “I’m going to put Faith to bed,” Dianne said as she helped her stand. “You go on and finish your breakfast.”

No one argued, especially not Faith. She allowed Dianne to pull her along until they reached Dianne’s bedroom. As Dianne helped her into a warm flannel gown, Faith offered her thanks.

“I thought we’d die before we found you. I prayed for a miracle.”

Dianne laughed and tucked Faith into bed. “We were praying for a miracle too. You see, my aunt Koko had a baby girl yesterday, several weeks early. I fear my aunt may have pneumonia, and the baby isn’t doing very well either. I don’t have enough understanding of such things to really know what to do.”

“Can she feed the baby?” Faith asked, her voice breaking with emotion.

“No, not really. And the baby isn’t thriving.” Dianne saw tears come to Faith’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about it, what with you having just lost a little one. I’m so sorry.”

Faith shook her head. “No. God has a purpose, even in this. Don’t you be sad—I’m sad enough for us both.” She paused and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Bring me the baby.”

“What?” Dianne shook her head. “You need your rest.”

“Bring her to me. I can wet-nurse her. I have plenty of milk. Plenty so as it hurts to bear.” She looked away from Dianne, tears streaming down her brown cheeks. “My heart knows my baby boy is gone, but not my body. Bring her to me.”

Dianne reached out to squeeze Faith’s hand. “You truly are my miracle. You can’t possibly know how hard I prayed for help.”

Faith turned her face upward and met Dianne’s gaze. “I know,” she said sadly. “I know.”

CHAPTER 2

Z
ANE
C
HADWICK HUNKERED DOWN IN HIS COAT AS HE
awaited orders to attack the silent Indian village below. Dismounted and positioned on the snowy bluffs overlooking the Marias River, the cavalry under Major Eugene Baker had their orders to annihilate the camp of Mountain Chief.

Zane thought of his uncle Bram’s wife, Koko. She was Pikuni Blackfoot, just like the Indians they were about to slaughter. Her brother, Takes Many Horses, might even be among them. Somehow, when his duties had consisted of killing hostile Sioux and Cheyenne, Zane had been able to justify the situation. Those groups were warring against the wagon trains and refusing to follow government instructions. Many tribes saw the whites as an impossible threat, refusing to even try to get along. But the Blackfoot had been friendly. For the most part.

Mountain Chief needed to be dealt with, to be sure. He and some of his men were guilty of killing a white fur trapper turned rancher named Malcolm Clarke. Zane had no problem in taking the hostiles captive and returning them to Fort Ellis, but to attack the entire village was rather like killing everyone in Virginia City for the sins of one or two highwaymen. But reason wasn’t a part of this war. Baker had his orders to “strike them hard,” which every soldier knew meant leave no one alive, if necessary.

“If they resist at all,” Baker had explained only moments before, “shoot them.”

Zane pulled his Springfield rifle close and tried not to think about the half-inch-thick bullets that would rip through the flesh of living, breathing human beings. Of course, he was probably one of only half a dozen present who thought of the Indians, any Indians, as human. Time after time he’d listened to his men and his commanders. The Indians were subhuman, to the thinking of most. They were a nuisance to be rid of.

“Sir, if our reports are correct, most of the warriors are away hunting,” army scout Joe Kipp announced to F Company commander Lieutenant Gus Doane.

Zane looked up from where he’d taken position with the others in nearly two feet of snow. January would finally be over in another week. He’d never been colder in his life, but at least the snow afforded a bit of protection from the wind. Someone had mentioned it was nearly forty below zero, and from the numbness in his face, hands, and feet, Zane could well believe it.

“Maybe we won’t need to go in guns blazing,” the lieutenant replied. Zane hoped that might be the case as well.

“There’s more than that, sir,” Kipp continued. “This isn’t Mountain Chief ’s camp. Best as I can tell, this is the camp of Heavy Runner.”

“But he’s a friendly,” Doane said, looking thoughtfully across the valley below. He lifted his field glasses to assess the situation for himself, although it was surely hard to make out much detail in the early-morning dawn. “Does the major know?”

“Yes, sir. He said I was most likely mistaken, but that on any account we were going to attack.”

“Attack? Even though we have the wrong Indians?”

Kipp shook his head. “You know the major. There’s no wrong Indian when it comes to killing them.”

Zane felt sick to his stomach. Kipp spoke the truth. Both men looked to Doane as if expecting him to suddenly make everything right.

“I’ll go speak with him,” the lieutenant offered. “Joe, you come with me. Sergeant Chadwick, you keep watch. If anyone stirs, send word to me right away.” He tossed the field glasses to Zane.

“Yes, sir!” Zane said, catching the binoculars with one hand while maintaining his grip on the rifle. The impact of the glasses stung his icy fingers.

Zane rolled back over to give his full attention to the still silent village. Hopefully Doane would talk sense into Baker. But deep inside, Zane wasn’t counting on that. When it came to the Indians, Baker lumped them all together, never considering tribes or individuals. They were heathens—undeserving of any consideration or understanding. Zane had once seen Baker push a Crow child aside as if she were nothing more than a stray dog. His surprise had come in the fact that Baker hadn’t kicked the child on the way by. The man’s attitude definitely left Zane rethinking his plans for making the army a career.

It wasn’t long until the lieutenant returned. He was clearly perturbed and ill at ease with his orders. Joining his men, he motioned to Zane for the return of the binoculars. Zane handed them over, eyeing the man with a raised brow—the unspoken question quite evident.

“He said it’s immaterial. We’ll get Mountain Chief after we take care of Heavy Runner.”

“Begging the lieutenant’s pardon,” Zane began in a low voice, “but Joe said there were mostly just women and children in that village. Surely we aren’t going to unleash war on women and children.”

Doane met his gaze. The pained look in his expression was almost more than Zane wanted to see, because in it was the harsh reality.

“Nits make lice,” Doane whispered, offering no other comment.

Zane cringed. He’d heard Baker use that phrase over and over since his first encounters with the man. It was his way of saying, “Kill the children—they’ll only grow up to be adults we’ll have to fight.”

Zane struggled to keep down the contents of his stomach. He knew he didn’t have it in him to kill a child. Perhaps joining the army had been a mistake. He’d seen it as a brave and noble thing to do. He’d thought of himself as a peacemaker . . . but now that was clearly about to change. He gripped the Springfield even tighter in his frozen hands and prayed for God to somehow intervene.
We’re supposed to be the civilized ones,
he thought.
Surely we can’t go through with this
.

As the sun rose, word came that the attack was on. In the eerie silence of the frigid morning, F Company and the others moved with great stealth down the slippery slopes. Zane could hear the blood rushing through his ears, could feel his heart pounding harder and harder. Somewhere, a baby cried and then was silent. No doubt its mother had been close by to tend its needs. But in a short time, many babies would be silent, cut down by the white seizers who had come to raid this village of innocents.

“Nits make lice.”
The words rang in Zane’s ears. He thought of his little cousin Jamie, Bram and Koko’s son. With only a quarter Blackfoot blood running through his veins, Jamie was still considered an Indian by white man’s standards. No doubt Major Baker would be more than willing to kill Jamie, just as he was willing to take the lives of the children in Heavy Runner’s camp.

Zane slowed his steps and gave serious thought to walking away. To simply turning around and marching back up the ravine. Past his men—past Doane—past Baker.
I can’t kill women and children. I can’t slaughter innocent lives
.

But the moment passed. The charge sounded and the soldiers moved en masse down the snowy bluffs. What happened after that seemed to occur in slow motion for Zane.

To his left, an old man came running from his tepee. Zane knew the man to be Chief Heavy Runner. He’d encountered the man on more than one occasion in the past. The old man was notably alarmed but smiled as he held up his arms. He announced in Blackfoot that he and his people were friends to the whites. Then he repeated the declaration in English.

“Friend,” he called while waving a paper in his hand.

Zane wasn’t about to shoot the man. He reached out to take the paper, but before he could do even that much, one of the soldiers fired his gun into the old man, killing him instantly.

After that, the war came to life. Screams filled the air, along with gunfire. Pikuni came pouring from their lodges, desperate to escape certain death. Women ran with their children for the cutbanks of the Marias, while old men and young boys attempted to fight back.

Zane fired into the air as his comrades fired into old men and women. The stunned brown faces were permanently etched in his mind as the battle continued. He felt numb, but not from the cold. His mind refused to accept the horrific sights before him or to listen to the question his heart kept asking:
How can I be a part of this?

The firing seemed endless as the shells ripped through innocent people. Some of the soldiers collapsed the tepees and set them ablaze. Zane was standing in front of the opening of one lodge when a young woman, babe in her arms, emerged. She looked directly into Zane’s face, crying out in her native tongue.

“Please don’t kill my daughter.” She held the infant up for Zane, as though offering the baby to him.

He shook his head and fired his rifle into the air as he said, “Get out of here. Go to the river.”

She looked confused for a moment, so he repeated the order in Blackfoot. She nodded and pulled the infant close before running for her life. Zane tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that he’d saved one woman and her child, but it did little to ease the misery of participating in the worst massacre he’d ever known.

Zane moved out, stepping over the dead as he went, trying his best to direct women and children toward the river. Baker might well believe they should all be killed, but Zane would rather face a court-martial than commit murder.

The fighting stopped almost as quickly as it began. With a few of the lodges burning in a bright blaze as evidence of Baker’s hatred, Zane could feel the heat begin to thaw his frozen face. The painful prickling on his cheeks made him only too aware that this was no heinous nightmare. This was real.

“Round up the strays,” Baker called, as if they were on a cattle drive.

Zane moved toward the river, knowing that other men might not be as compassionate. Women and children, some looking quite ill, were pressed together in the sheltering banks of the river. Zane approached one group and began conversing with them in Blackfoot. The women seemed surprised but almost grateful.

“We’re sick,” one woman told him. “The white man gave us sick blankets.” She pulled back her blanket to reveal a poxcovered child. The girl couldn’t have been more than two or three years of age.

Zane swallowed hard and searched the area until he spotted his commander. “Lieutenant Doane!”