The Dying Grass, page 22
what the hell:
Trumpeter, let’s have “Boots and Saddles.” Now.
Lucky is what they are, that we’ve come to help ’em out. A few marauding Injuns and they’re all in a tizzy. Can’t they keep down their own reds?
No one asked you,
the troops already leading into line,
and our volunteers passing proud to come to the relief of Idaho.
Jonesey, blow “To Horse.”
I heard they’ll have us swim across some river—
Can you swim?
Prepare to mount. Mount.
Well, howdy-do and so long.
Never did see that Lynn Bowers with her skirt off.
Forward!
Bare-breasted like an Apache squaw . . .
Forward!
. . . Perry, tall and almost serene, riding lightly
and Theller straightening out our column
(Trimble and Parnell unseen behind Company “H,” driving it along)
and the crickets in the dark
(our vigor and happy spirit):
Not a very lively parade.
No, sir.
Skirmishers and flankers out.
Right, colonel. Let’s go, men:
to cast down the Dreamers’ mandate
and improve the miseries Joseph has caused.
Sure wish the moon would rise.
They raped Mrs. Walsh and Mrs. Osborne. And—
You told us that before,
and another mile and
Colonel Perry, sir, some men are already falling out.
Round ’em up and keep ’em on the go.
Yessir.
They should have drunk more coffee.
Yessir,
and the sound of men breathing
and the moon as huge as a horse’s eye
and the grass, the silverwhite grass.
Theller, you’re going to patrol around the lake for Indians. I’m guessing that they’re gone. Take twenty men, a scout and some of these volunteers. Engage anything that moves.
Yes, sir. Corporal Curran, get me nineteen good men and Cutmouth Sam. You’re number twenty, corporal. We’ll leave in ten minutes. Now, which of you Grangeville fellows wants to come along?
I will.
You’re a sport, Chapman,
more grim than furious.
Who else?
Lieutenant, I want in.
And you are?
I already introduced myself.
Well, do it again.
Shearer. George Shearer, formerly a major in the Confederate States.
A Seccesh! Well, have you seen the light yet?
Lieutenant Theller, I’m a loyal American.
Starting now, Mr. Shearer, you’re under my command. No more of that major shit. You don’t shoot without my say-so, all right?
All right, lieutenant.
Where’s Sam?
Here I am, lieutenant.
You found sign?
There’s sure sign all over the place, sir, but the freshest tracks go down into White Bird Cañon. They must have struck their lodges in a GODd——d hurry.
Guilty consciences, no doubt.
Yessir.
Hey, you, put out that pipe! You want an Indian arrow in your teeth? Put it out, sonofabitch. Now.
Yessir.
Is that an arrowhead? I collect those.
So do them Lewiston men. You can sell to them men, although they’ll jew you down.
Something just moved between those rocks.
Mr. Shearer, how’s the catfish in this lake?
Not bad.
Over here, Sam!
No, that ain’t fresher than my dead grandmother.
I say it’s plenty fresh.
Sam, what do you think?
Sam’s off hiding somewhere. Probably warning his friends—
That ain’t right. Sam’s on the square. Why, one time he—
All them campfires is nothing but dead, dead ashes.
Here’s a stash of camas bulbs, fresh-roasted!
Break it open, boys, and help yourselves.
And a worn out mockersin.
Then you’ve gone and found your wages, Blackie boy!
Any more of them ovens?
This one’s cleaned out.
If this here was my place, I’d plant an acre of buckwheat.
Your place is in the sinks behind the whorehouse tent.
Looky here, some Injun must’ve stolen this sheep bell. Maybe to keep track of his squaw—
Ready, men? All right. Move out, and keep each other in sight. No talking, now,
the moon, still low, as round as a woman’s hatbox
and Tolo Lake,
as a fish splashes: mokh!
Corporal, sir, far as we can tell in this dark they cleared out.
All right. No fresh sign, lieutenant.
Good job, corporal. Let’s ride back. At your ease, men. Mr. Shearer, how was your brief career in the army of the winning side?
Lieutenant, we’re all Americans.
Right about that, mister,
and the brightening moon, moonlight on their bayonets:
Lake’s clear of Indians, colonel,
the men now refilling their canteens.
All right, Theller. Which way do their tracks run?
Sir, a few go north, and Ad Chapman believes those are Looking-Glass and his Indians skedaddling to the reservation to keep their noses clean. White Bird’s lot might have gone with ’em, but I doubt it, since the main sign points straight ahead toward his home cañon. Must be a good five hundred horses heading thataway—
Joseph—
And more.
How about that Chapman?
Well, sir, he’s gung-ho enough. He’s got “sand.”
I appreciate your trouble, lieutenant. All right, prepare the men to move out.
Yes, sir.
as the moon ascends over the camas prairie whose swales are dotted with trees.
Not a healthful place for us to charge, because they—
O, cut it out.
Mr. Shearer, is this country still familiar to you?
To be honest, colonel, Mr. Chapman knows this section better than I. He’s had more truck with the Injuns here on account of his wife is one of them.
Takes all kinds, don’t it? Where’s Mr. Chapman?
Right here.
Mr. Chapman, what’s in it for you?
What do you mean?
Since you’re one of those squaw men . . .
Those are fighting words, colonel.
All the same, there’s no reason for you and me to fight, as long as you’re on the side of the United States.
I said I am. Now have you picked on me enough?
Is your Mrs. Chapman a fullblood?
She’s Umatilla, without any Nez Perce in her. And I won’t see her insulted by you. And furthermore, these Nez Perces causing all the trouble, I can whip ’em singlehanded, because they’re nothing but yellowbellied cowards.
You put her away, didn’t you?
What’s it to you?
Got tired of being a squaw man.
Now I’ll get you.
Mr. Chapman, is this the rise you were talking about?
Sure is. That’s White Bird Cañon down there. Lahmotta, they call it. Now, where my ranch is, you can’t see it on account of the buttes—
I don’t give two shits about your ranch. Where are the reds?
Colonel, they’re sure to be along the creek, thataway—
Good. The men can stand down now. Three hours’ sleep until dawn
in the cool dark,
the dark, the dark
(as dark and tightly twined as an Indian berry basket).
Yes, sir,
and the blue night sky
beneath which Blackie dreams of Fidelia
while Cash, that refugee from a sheet-metal factory in Cleveland, dreams about Lynn Bowers, empress of his fancy; to-night she is bare-breasted like an Apache squaw because once upon a time he had to do with the sharpened bone plug set just beneath the lower lip of a married Apache woman, a harlot who showed him no dislike, and, O, the straight bangs of her, my adorable Apache gal! I’d have to say she was kind, even if she did give me the lues. Now for Lynn Bowers, with her straightcut chestnut hair, and her blue eyes, and the bone plug under her lip—
and picture windows for Fidelia (there’s Blackie’s dream)
and a bush silhouetted against the ridgetop, then three more to the south, the stars surprisingly white in the hazy night.
Then all the trees are overhead and against and around the men like the night itself. Perry and Theller sit mostly silent together against a boulder, with their carbines beside them. Theller begins to snore, then starts awake.
How long did I sleep, colonel?
O, less than five minutes. Want a smoke?
Sure—and thank you, sir! Well, another adventure . . . !
Theller, you know what I think?
What’s that, sir? By the way, that’s a fine draw of tobacco you gave me—
Toohhoolhoolzote’s the bad one. Joseph’s just a girlie young Injun; once we nab him, he’ll do whatever we say. Ollicut’s a villain, but we can take care of him anytime. We’ve got Looking-Glass, White Bird and those others good and beaten down. But Toohhoolhoolzote, JESUS GOD! Did you see the look in his eye when me and the general laid hands on him at Lapwai?
I sure did, colonel.
And after we locked him up, you know what the general said to me? Something about his evil, glittering gaze, or some such . . .
Yessir; our general’s full of fancies—
Well, what was your impression?
Of Toohhoolhoolzote, sir? Nowhere near as fearsome as a Modoc.
That was some campaign, wasn’t it?
You remember the party we had after Captain Jack was finally hanged? How those ranchers’ daughters could dance!
Not as well as Captain Jack—
Now there, sir, was one of the worst Indian monsters that ever haunted this earth—
O, those lava beds and that cursed creeping fog! And that Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton was a d——n fucking—
A real heroic expedition, sir. Every now and then I entertain myself by telling it over to Delia until she gets the shivers—
After which you comfort her, I’ll bet!
Well, sir, I do my best.
Anyhow, Theller, that’s how it seems to me. Toohhoolhoolzote’s the root of all this trouble. Joseph’s just his pawn. We need to get that old growler.
And fix him. Right, colonel?
Just don’t let the general hear about it. He’s squeamish.
That’s for sure. Sir, if you want to shut your eyes for a bit, I’ll keep a watch—
Thanks, Theller, but you know I never can sleep before action. Get a bit sick to my stomach, as you may remember. You were always cool as ice—
I’m just a fool for excitement, colonel. Delia always says—
Colonel, sir, the volunteers are drinking.
So what?
They’re drinking a lot.
Tell Chapman to come here. Not Shearer.
Yessir.
Mr. Chapman, are you and your men such GODd——d fools as to get drunk a couple of hours before a battle?
We can hold our liquor, colonel. I know these boys just like—
O, fuck off. Crawl away under that sissy hat of yours. Go diddle your redskin wife. What the hell did you come here for?
Colonel, I’ll put in a complaint against you. Don’t think I won’t.
Go to blazes. D——d squaw man!
Colonel, sir, the scouts are raring to go. They say—
You hear that, Theller?
Yessir.
Better ride out.
Yessir,
the eastern horizon as white as the parting of a Nez Perce woman’s black, black hair,
Theller exultant, loving his horse, proud of his command, knowing his Springfield right down to worm and tompion:
vanished ahead now with his squad of six,
and dawn,
the men counting off their hundred rounds from the saddlebags, filling their belt-loops and pockets, swinging out the cylinders of their Colt .45s:
Load with cartridges; load!
and
Double columns now. Company “F,” move out. Injuns and volunteers on flank.
Yessir. All right, boys . . .
and a pale cloud in the saddle of the dark ridge behind White Bird Creek, the crickets loud in the cool bushes, the water deeper than shadow, more invisible than the night itself, but one can smell it above and below the stink of cavalry sweat.
Company “H,” move out.
Yessir. Move out!
Just as Umatillas will make American coins into pendants, blankets into dresses, so our cavalry must now change these outlaws into good Indians,
and from far away rise the little-drum-sounds of their coming: pim, pim, pim—
and the door of the morning is almost opened:
White Bird Cañon,
and down that stony wagon road:
Help me—
You hear that?
Help me, please—
Companies, halt. Ma’am, who the hell are you?
A pale little body, ain’t she?
Mrs. Isabella Benedict is my name. These are my two youngest children. The Indians killed my husband
(having first shot him through both legs, an injury which their neighbor Hurdy Gurdy Brown pronounced susceptible to the cold water cure, and then while they waited for the Nez Perces to come back, Isabella, scrubbing the floor, which had kept splintering the youngest’s feet, heard a noise, and staring out into the bright green summer rectangle of hot humid light, saw nothing, but here came the sound of footsteps in dry grass: shlokh, shlokh. He never did them any harm! All he was doing, I swear, was making sure the cows were all right. I’ll never throughout my days forget those first three gunshots, but first we kept waiting and praying, hoping the other miners would return in time with their weapons, and then when I went to pick onions from our garden I saw them for real and Samuel told us to run for it and GOD bless us because he couldn’t run no more, and we couldn’t hardly bear to leave him but Mr. Bacon promised to stand by him and Samuel said to me, Bella, think on our little ones, and may the LORD protect you, so I took the girls by the hand and we started running out by the back gate but the Nez Perces were already homing in on us, so we had to come creeping back, and Samuel had already crawled away out the window, leaving a trail of blood like a dying deer, and we never saw him anymore. Then came those three shots, and Mr. Bacon falling down on his back, and the faces in the window, O my GOD, those hateful Indian eyes . . .)
Give them some rations.
Yessir.
Poor lady!
Mr. Chapman, do you know these individuals?
Sure do, captain. My neighbors—
Now, Mrs. Benedict, ma’am, where did those Indians go?
Down there, toward the crick. And Mr. Bacon and Mr. Baker, they’re all lying dead, O JESUS, O JESUS. I witnessed what they did to Mr. Devine. And the Indians, their faces rose up in the window, and then the baby—
What about Mrs. Manuel? Have you seen her?
O JESUS—
How many Indians, Mrs. Benedict?
Hundreds and hundreds, o, dear JESUS—
Who’s in charge? Is it Joseph?
I don’t know. My GOD, my GOD, they’re all on the warpath! And when I pled for my children’s life, they—
They let you go, looks like. Was it Joseph?
They—
You knew them?
They—
Here’s a blanket, ma’am. Your troubles are finished. You just set there and wait. We’ll be back to take care of you just as soon as we’ve whupped them.
Don’t go down there, I pray you—
You just wait on us.
No!
All right now. Just take a rest here, ma’am.
Don’t go; O, dear JESUS!
Companies, move out. Volunteers on flank.
Our Father Which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come; Thy will be—
Yessir.
O, that sad lady and them poor little children—
It would make your heart ache to see the little children hereabouts that never cry except when you say the word Indians.
Well, all them bad times are coming to an end to-day.
Stand up for these, the wrong’d, the aggriev’d,
They carried off Jack Manuel’s wife. Never did hear from her again.
In deepest pits of darkness found,
Tell us anything we haven’t heard, sport.
Of Heav’n’s most sacred gifts bereaved,
O you fucking—
The task’d—the scourg’d—in fetters bound.
For all we know she’s safe at Slate Creek.
You never met Jack Manuel. Much less his wife—
Mr. Joe shot her in cold blood and then burned her in her house. That’s what the little Manuel girl said, and she—
Then why didn’t that Mrs. Benedict know nothing about it?
I’d rather hear from Lynn Bowers.
It was Linda Bowers.
Lynn.
And they mutilated that other fellow. They—
You told us that a dozen times.
That’s White Bird Creek way down there and the Salmon’s way past it,
the gorge softer than Hell’s Cañon, but still wide and deep enough to give birth to any story
and a smell of water from the darkness:
I can’t see nothing.
Mr. Chapman, what sort of country lies down yonder?
Well, lieutenant, the Indians call it hik’íseyce, which means a wrinkled country.
