The Dying Grass, page 101
and Good Woman makes thin soup while Heinmot Tooyalakekt repairs a lariat for Rainbow’s widow.
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TRAVELLER THE SUN begins to touch the trees
as Lean Elk shouts: Hurry, you People!
but old Kapoochas the Medicine man is febrile; wounded in his hip at Ground Squirrel Place, he can ride no more,
so we leave him under a buffalo robe, with two copper bracelets to comfort him
(he is smiling after us like the smell of sunshine on fallen pine needles);
now we are riding and riding away.
JOSEPH’S GOOSE IS FINALLY COOKED
SEPTEMBER 9
1
Sure could use a pinch of Borden’s evaporated milk in our coffee to-night. And maybe some molasses—
Shut up.
And then some squaws for side meat—
Quit it. General’s coming,
not to mention Wilkinson, who finds the most unpleasant aspect of Army life the low, base smuttiness of the enlisted men’s minds—once upon a time he imagined that they could be educated out of it, but now he knows that they’re brutes, riddled with the sin of Adam, polluted:
dear LORD, it’s not merely prostitutes who are, as the wise have warned us, whited sepulchers!
So that’s my position on promotion, Fletch. Unfortunately the Government sees fit to—
Excuse me, general, but I thought you wanted to hear some good news.
What do you mean by that, Captain Fisher?
Well, sir, Redington just reported in, and he made contact with some Canuck who’s on scout for Colonel Sturgis—
Go on.
Seems the Canuck had no idea of Mr. Joe’s whereabouts, but Redington put him on the trail, so he went galloping back—
That is excellent news. Once Sturgis gets in position . . .
Yessir.
Where is he now?
Waiting for the hostiles, sir, and guarding all three passes as ordered.
Thank you, captain, and please assure young Redington that I won’t forget his exertions. That’s all. Wilkinson, go notify Major Mason, if you would. Well, Fletch, what do you make of this development?
General, I’d say Joseph’s goose is finally cooked. Do you think he’s aware that Sturgis is approaching from the other side?
Probably. But it won’t do him any good to know what awaits him. What can he do but charge into our pincers, or else wander back into Yellow Stone, where at best he could delay capture for another week or two?
Who will capture him there, sir?
We will.
Yessir.
What’s your opinion of Redington?
As you’ve said yourself, sir, a brash youngster. I like him. Insolent, amusing, capable, extremely daring so far as I can tell—
Well, after this campaign is concluded we ought to do something for him.
Yessir.
Perhaps even a recommendation to West Point . . .
General, sir, there’s Mr. Joe’s tracks, headin’ right up the valley!
So I see, Captain Fisher. Right here at Crandall Creek, just as you’ve predicted. Now tell me something. Have James Reuben’s bunch been exerting themselves?
Well, general, I know my Bannocks better than I do your Nez Perces, so I—
Tactful of you. How far ahead can we see yonder?
A good ten miles, sir.
Where’s Mason? I sent Wilkinson for Mason. What is going on? Now, Fletch, unroll the map again. I purpose we follow this gorge up to Sunlight Creek right here. We won’t prevent Joseph from ascending Heart Mountain, but we can harry his rear, and Sturgis will be waiting below whichever pass he chooses.
That’s logical, general.
Where do you suppose he’s heading?
Sir, he may swing south toward this Stinking Water River—
All right. Major Mason, are you as pleased as I am? Kindly look over the map with me . . . Wood, Fletch, Wilkinson, inform the officers. Captain Fisher, keep your scouts on the qui vive. This cañon would be perfect for an ambush, which we know is Joseph’s specialty. That’s all, captain; kindly return to your duties. Where’s Chapman?
Right here, general.
Captain Fisher has implied that our Nez Perce scouts are holding back. Could any sympathy for their relatives in Joseph’s band possibly hinder this campaign?
Well, general, speaking as someone who knows those Indians—
Go on, Chapman,
because in much the same way that alkali begins to shine out as one rides westward through Nebraska, so Ad Chapman’s qualities increasingly bewitch our general’s soul,
so that they all go over the map again together
(Wilkinson rolling his eyes,
Wood longing just then to marry a fine half-breed girl and spend his life deep inside her),
and then they rejoin the column, trailing the hostiles through this long wide valley in which the late summer grass is growing patchily on the high sunnier swales
although here the grass has been grazed down by Joseph’s herds
and I see more dead horses in that marsh of jade-green reeds,
Glory, glory, hallelujah—
then many more brown marsh-pools,
Left,
left,
left!
clackings of pebbles under horse-hooves,
Arrow still yearning to chase after Chapman’s grey,
cloud-piles here and there on the valley walls,
and my bladder is already full again and that arm-stump has commenced annoying me again (I won’t take calomel unless it gets a lot worse):
O, how fine it would be to be sitting right now on Colonel Perry’s front porch at Lapwai, listening to the cicadas while Mrs. Perry sets out her bowl of root beer, the FitzGerald children shyly playing, and gallant Perry helping Mrs. Theller with something, the moon rising fast, the soldiers already back in barracks, our good Indians softly singing
Wakesh nun pakilauitin
JEHOVAN’M yiyauki—
and presently it will come time to retire and read Lizzie’s latest before reviewing the communications from Headquarters,
then re-approaching Montana Territory, passing through an aspen grove to where a knob-mountain perforates the sky
(and in the vanguard our Bannocks chanting; I must ask Fisher if all these Indians smoke the same mixture in their kinnikinnick
—and is kinnikinnick a word universally employed? It reminds me of the syllables I used to hear as a child from our Indians in Maine: Abenakis, Penobscots—
LORD have mercy, but my arm does ache! I’m getting old, evidently),
and coming down into the dry grass country, a butte-labyrinth in the aspens between the clouds, pellets of scrub, pancakes of buffalo dung, the country ahead ever wilder, the river almost invisible to our left behind the softly rolling swales not unlike Joseph’s Imnaha country, the Army moves brightly on!
2
We’ll plant our guidon here on the map, just before Sunlight Creek joins Clark’s Fork. Do you follow me, Wilkinson?
Yessir. I see—
Then give the instructions. Lieutenant Howard could use some exercise. Send him forward to notify the scouts.
Right away, general. The boys’ll be—
Pim! Pim! . . . Pim!
What’s that?
Sounds like shooting, general.
Wilkinson, ride ahead with me.
Sure thing, general,
cantering so that in convenient time they arrive at the ordained halting-spot, so shady and so delightful by the sweetly rushing brown creek (a veritable oasis among the crags!),
all quiet, so it must not be an emergency
(perhaps some careless trooper discharged his weapon in error:
a punishable offense),
fresh horse dung everywhere:
Joseph must have just vacated this camp, wouldn’t you say?
Without a doubt, sir.
We merely need to keep bearing northeast on Joseph’s trail . . .
Yessir.
O, there they are. Why do they stand around like that?
as angry nest-guarding birds fly cheeping to the attack, accompanied by flies and mosquitoes
although even more flies enshroud this dead Indian under the tree—
Captain Fisher, what’s happened here?
Well, general, when I heard them three shots I wondered the same thing, so I rode up here quick as I could, and my Bannocks were just putting the finishing touches on this Nez Perce. Seems like Mr. Joe left him here to die, and when my Injuns rode in, he sat up like to draw a bead on ’em, so they—
Then where’s his weapon?
Well, sir, my half-breed must’ve confiscated it. Them Cheyennes are crazy about toys like that. Hey, Jule, show the general that pistol of yours.
Captain Fisher, look me in the eye. Do you swear that your man’s pistol was previously in the dead man’s possession?
General, I absolutely swear by the sainted MOTHER OF GOD! See, he must’ve been holdin’ up Mr. Joe’s progress, with this hip wound of his, so they tucked him here—
Captain Fisher, this Indian has been scalped.
Well, gosh, general, now that you mention it, I do see that he’s missin’ hair—
Have you forgotten my prohibition of killing and scalping the wounded and infirm Indians we find in these camps?
Sure I’ve kept it in mind, general, but the thing is, when my Bannocks ride ahead of the column they sometimes forget the rules.— By the way, general,
pointing up to the cañon-ridge where the cloud-puffs so quickly flow,
ain’t that quite the Injun trail up there? I’d appreciate your opinion, because all the boys keep remarkin’ on your eagle gaze.
That’s your job, captain. I’m disgusted you’d even ask me. However, let me look through my field-glass,
while Fisher winks to Jule, who instantly kicks down the willow twig on which the Indian’s scalp was drying, then throws a blanket over it, just before the general, having swept his glass across the river and up into the grinning green crags
(this time even Wilkinson, who ordinarily must be counted the best observer in and of the general’s circle, is fooled, and apes his master),
turns round, saying:
Nothing of the kind. Now, captain, henceforth you’d better keep a tighter rein on your Indians. I will enforce certain standards of humanity. Do you understand me, captain?
Yessir.
I see you’ve already stripped him. Doubtless for your collection.
No, sir, it was my Bannocks who—
Look into your heart, captain. Consider your conduct. From now on I’ll be watching you.
Yessir.
This is the third time. Next time I’ll have you punished. Wilkinson, go tell them to plant the guidon. Then send Buffalo Horn to me, and, Captain Fisher, I want you present,
and suddenly the cool air from the creek seems nearly as precious as the lovely clouds themselves which now whiten the gap of sky between river shrubs, so rich and cool—such a treat, a relief after the desert!
as Wilkinson,
whose view of these Nez Perces is simply that they have to go,
having finished gazing up toward the sky, inquires into the origin of a delightful cinnamon smell:
Is it this tree’s crumbled whitish bark? No, in fact it derives from the resin of that tree’s ovoid leaves
(while our Bannocks, as innocent as house-cats, gaze up wide-eyed through leaves into the blue and white sky),
mounts his horse, transmits the general’s first order, which instantly registers upon our Army as follows:
Halt!
Dismount!
then rides ahead to collect Buffalo Horn
(although Wilkinson, who has never trusted Buffalo Horn and lies awake at night worrying that he might take advantage of our general’s kind heart, has little hope that any talking-to will improve the Bannocks’ natures),
and the river flows so loud
while Trimble’s company forts up in the soft rye-grass under the trees,
with Perry’s bunch on their left and Jocelyn’s on their right
and Ad Chapman rides up singing
as a fine breeze blows up the cañon.
WHEN THE THISTLES ARE BLOOMING PURPLE
SEPTEMBER 10
1
Then coming down from the pass, across the shoulder of green and orange grasses in the reddish dirt, as the first riders begin to see far ahead where Heart Mountain glows in a notch of Buffalo Country, Springtime, who rarely speaks out, suddenly says to her elder sister-wife: Now that my baby is getting weak, it comes into my heart to kill her.
Good Woman,
she who once was rich in horses fitted out with many baskets,
is riding White Face, who keeps snorting and stumbling. She replies: My sister, you are tired; in camp to-night I shall look for rush skeletonweed to fatten your milk; that is all she needs,
while their husband, completing his heart, rides up to Looking-Glass to say: White Bird and Lean Elk are right, I am telling you three times.
But if Sitting Bull will not smoke with us—
Then, my brother, we shall die. Where else can we ride now?
They ride through the light rain, the Buffalo Country glowing pale yellow ahead with blue shadows some of which might be water
(they are taking us far away),
into the arid loveliness of that other world, so vast that it must contain some country where the Bluecoats can never find us
—if not yet here, then somewhere;
if not before the Medicine Line
(only our best men know where that is, and nobody asks them)
then after
(there will someday be happy days of drying meat)—
but again Springtime speaks of killing her baby, because her breasts have gone dry;
therefore Heinmot Tooyalakekt goes fishing with Ollokot, who then creeps away to chase a deer,
while Good Woman watches for helping herbs as she rides
and Heinmot Tooyalakekt kills two ducks for his family,
TRAVELLER THE SUN low on the left like a Lakota warrior’s quiver.
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Riding side by side until night, hoping for buffalo,
with the knife-ridged mountains just ahead resembling bear-gnawed deer vertebrae,
and our horses greying in the rain,
Good Woman, the excellent one, now becoming wrinkled,
Cloudburst carrying Fair Land’s son,
we follow Lean Elk, our strict head-chief, longing to eat and rest
(although Toohhoolhoolsote’s heart does not care);
it is getting cold, and Springtime’s baby no longer cries.
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Up here in the green shadows we gaze down into the light,
sorrowing as we ride
down the meadows into the windings among white-striped red-backed ridges
and the canted stripes of red sandstone,
the foggy meadows beginning to bear the silver marks of sagebrush, especially along the lips of the red-walled river gorges;
when the chilly breeze springs up, the long deerskin fringes of his shirt begin pattering against Looking-Glass’s shoulders,
and now between the spread thighs of rainy orange meadows shines the sky-jewel over arid buckskin buttes
and rain, low purple clouds over the dry orange hills, cool fat drops
(this world goes on forever,
this gently slanting world),
rain singing down the carved gorges, pillared gorges, everything rounded and grooved
as Strong Eagle rides up a side-coulee,
wishing to help our People, who are always hungry for meat;
and Wottolen climbs a butte to look back, because he has Dreamed that Cut Arm will soon attack again
(and just as cowbirds pursue the buffalo herds, in order to eat the insects which afflict them, so Cut Arm’s kindly Lice-Eaters keep after us, to relieve us of our horses and our weary lives);
while Looking-Glass keeps speaking against Lean Elk, pókat, pókat,
although Toohhoolhoolsote,
whose heart informs him that just as no man can say exactly how and when old women become no good, so no one can tell us when Looking-Glass stopped being straight,
cannot make himself angry at this decayed chief:
we all must die, so why should Looking-Glass be considered worse than smallpox?
—but White Face keeps stumbling, and Sound Of Running Feet punches Helper’s nose again and again
(for a moment we hear Looking-Glass’s youngest daughter weeping)
and to the north, a purple murk of rain with a crack of blue sky just over the cañon ridge.
Now as we ride down into the sagebrush flats, with colored buttes ahead, Well Behaved Maiden,
who was lung-shot at Ground Squirrel Place,
slides off her horse;
although White Bird tried three times to suck the evil Power out of her, singing songs and inhaling her sickness through a leaf funnel, she kept failing, so that her brothers have now begun to say that White Bird is a wicked shaman
(all Arrowhead’s poultices have failed;
Toohhoolhoolsote lost much of his helping-Power at Ground Squirrel Place;
perhaps Feathers Around The Neck could have healed her);
she can ride no more.
(Her WYAKIN is a BLUE GROUSE; that girl never could resist anything.)
Her mother and brothers are grieving over her; they wrap her in a buffalo robe and hide her away in a cave guarded by wild roses, leaving her to be raped, shot, scalped, stabbed and stripped by the Lice-Eaters;
White Bird does not look; Kate rides ahead quickly;
then down we ride,
so that when we spy some fleeing miners we enjoy to overtake them,
