The Dying Grass, page 95
Sir, I’m sure he values you as much as ever——
The thing is, he’s nothing but a d——d professor—
Sir, I’ll thank you not to swear at our general.
Excuse me, Wood. That’s just my manner of speaking. Anyhow, if you could put in a word, tell him that Company “D” could go ahead and get Joseph in a week. You know we can ride like Indians! We’ll finally wrap up this campaign—
Yessir.
7
Umatilla Jim has ridden out far past Lédinton,*
his heart wishing for good words from Colonel Píli,
but our enemies’ trail now narrows, the forest closing gloomily in
—an ambush place!—
therefore, picketing his horse behind some trees, then tying his Medicine bundle around his arm, he begins to whisper a song to his TAKH:
the SPIDER, Who gives him the Power to kill others,
and creeps around the dark turn with his Springfield carbine pointing ahead,
finding no Pierced-Noses, but a meadow world whose horizon is blackened by buffalo beyond counting.
8
Soon we’ll see them gangs of buffalo! I always did want to—
Hey, Redington, how much are buffalo hides going for nowadays?
O, hardly worth the bother. Fifty cents for a summer skin, and maybe a dollar sixty for a fine winter pelt. It’s been a boom year, so the big buyers can jew us down back East.
Then better we leave ’em alone until winter, I guess. After we whip Joseph—
You’ll never get back here.
O yes I will.
When’s your term up?
Two more years. That’s nothing.
What a tempting pawn! But I won’t take it.
And then what’s your notion?
I’m a-going back to the Crows to buy a young squaw.
Very kind of you, Fletch, but I’ll take your knight just the same.
You fixing to be a squaw man? Why on earth?
I can get a nice one and good worker, sixteen years old, for forty dollars hard money. The Crow scouts and I have been jawboning real good. That Horse Rider, he’s a white man and he’s awful happy with his wife. I guess I’ll civilize my squaw or else she can Indianize me, I don’t much care . . .
Well, that tears it!
That reckless capture will cost you the game!
Not if I can help it.
What about you?
O, I’m off to the gold fields. Eight more months . . .
Correct move, Wilkinson. That’s absolutely the best defense against Cozio’s Attack.
Excuse me, general, you surprised us! It’s been a tricky game—
Is Staunton’s chess chronicle still of value to you?
Sure is, sir. It’s not a bit outdated.
Well, keep it as long as you like. Has anyone seen Colonel Perry?
He’s down there with the howitzers, general.
O, so he is. Excuse me, gentlemen.
Good evening, sir. How does this weather compare to Maine?
It certainly compares, colonel. You’re holding up well.
Thank you, general. I’d rather be here than chasing Modocs through lava holes.
Yes, that must have been quite an adventure. I wish I could describe how interesting it all was when I rode into Cochise’s Stronghold . . .
Yessir.
Well, we should be getting in another crack at Mr. Joe pretty soon.
Sure looks like it, sir,
O yes, and here comes that shitty d——d Chapman, riding high like the Admiral of Idaho’s squawfucking Navy, telling the general what he craves to hear,
and Mason almost seems to see before him General Terry’s narrow face, the beard and moustache stuck on for a joke, and that two-dimensionally cadaverous yet somehow not Lincolnesque frame:
Had I been with him in the Dakota Column last year, I would have risen considerably faster. I am fond of General Howard, yes, but the way he is going about this campaign I won’t ever get my star.
Perry, another despatch came in, and I’m afraid there will definitely be a Court of Inquiry about White Bird Cañon.
I see,
as if you haven’t already hounded me with this a hundred times. What exactly is your jackassical aim, you GODd——n Christian cripple?
Don’t worry about it. These things are disagreeable, but of course the judges are always fair.
Of course, sir.
I speak from experience, Perry. As I’m sure you know, I faced something of the sort after Chancellorsville.
Yessir.
Perhaps you’ve heard it discussed behind my back.
Not at all, sir—
You know, on the evening before they broke through, General Hooker rode with me along my front line, and kept exclaiming: How strong! And at the very beginning I despatched Colonel Asmussen to ensure that all was right in the direction of the firing. And remember that we did detain Stonewall Jackson for over an hour; as a matter of fact, we stopped him forever. All the same, Perry, it has been customary to blame me and my corps ever since. Fourteen years now it’s been and still they—
(Perry’s mouth tightening)
Well, their imputations of—of neglect to obey orders, of extraordinary self-confidence, whatever that meant; of not strengthening my right flank by keeping proper reserves; of neglecting to send out pickets and skirmishers—far from true!
I’m sorry, sir.
I certainly did all which could have been done by a corps commander . . .
Yessir.
And so did you.
Thank you, general. I tried my best, and Theller—
I remember when my dear friend Captain Griffith of Philadelphia took his mortal wound. I went to his bedside, Perry, and I said to him: Captain, your wound is a punishment to me and not to you. And he . . . To you, Perry, I would say the same. What happened at White Bird Cañon was my failure, not yours.
Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.
9
Fletch, do you know what I just heard from Major Mason? Apparently General Sherman just recently passed through here.
Yessir.
As a tourist!
Yessir, I did hear something of the sort. He was escorted by Company “L” from Tongue River—
O! Who told you?
Buffalo Horn, sir. He knows our every corps; it’s almost unnerving. And it seems Mr. Joe has now kidnapped and outraged a party of tourists in the vicinity—
That’s right. Redington’s on their trail just now. What do you think, Fletch? Wouldn’t it be splendid if we met General Sherman to-morrow with good news:
Joseph and his confederates safely in irons, Sherman striding rapidly toward me, smiling and puffing on his pipe
(he has just now decorated thirty-one of Miles’s soldiers with the Medal of Honor for overthrowing the Sioux!—not us!)
as I turn out the guard to receive him, our drums beating the long roll just before I present my army to him with every compliment
just as he had ever craved to do, from the very first time they really crossed paths (although they had already been introduced at Chattanooga, during a conference of strategy presided over by General Grant): a humid dawn when he surprised Sherman’s bridgemen on the North Chickamauga, and Sherman himself was there, shouting cheerily: How are you, General Howard? That’s right! You must have got up early . . . —at which he knew in his heart that here stood his true leader, no less resolute and indefatigable than he himself (GOD knows, not a soul on this earth could ever be more so!), but recklessly grim and mirthful all at once as he could never be; he knew how to spend himself to his utmost and had proven at Fair Oaks that he could laugh off his own most atrocious agonies; but to enjoy hazarding oneself like a gambler (it was well known that Sherman lacked Grant’s faith in PROVIDENCE), to feel, and glory in the feeling, this pattern of being touched by some as yet unmatured consonance in the acolyte whose shrill voice, sadly brilliant eyes and myriad aloofnesses—from drinking together, from swearing, from expressions of rage and violence against the enemy, not to mention companionable nigger-baiting—left him too indrawn to dare, socially at least; how could he ever know spontaneity, except when he gave himself again and again in prayer to OUR SAVIOR, or in passion, succeeded by devotion, to Lizzie, or in lovingkindnesses and sweet sillinesses with his younger children? But here laughed General Sherman, whose greeting, so simple, recognized his earliness as a happy, natural characteristic of any zealous soldier-brother in this soon to be bloody morning of a relentless year—and in his affection for Sherman there might have been the protectiveness of the phlegmatic nature (which Howard in truth possessed, no matter that his enemies claimed to smell hysteria in him) toward the mercurial one—for everyone likewise said that Sherman was more perturbed by excitement than Grant. He yearned to shoulder still more misery, drudgery and peril for the sake of this open heart whose openness might someday be wounded—although if it actually had, would his ardor for Sherman have declined?
Yessir. It would be splendid indeed.
The men they will cheer and the boys they sure will shout,
we officers in our fantailed dress coats trimmed with buff
The ladies, O, the ladies, how they’ll all turn out!
and Lizzie in her lilac Sunday dress, with Mrs. Perry on her arm
(the brightness of this Yellow Stone country painful on my eyes):
And we’ll all feel gay when—
By the way, Fletch, who’s the officer of the day?
Captain Miller, sir.
O, that’s right. Will you ask him how far he trusts our Bannock scouts?
Right away, sir. Sir, Buffalo Horn is sullen of late, he says.
Well, send him over. I’m sure I can coax him back into a good humor. Wilkinson, how would you rate Sandford’s shavetails?
Not exactly neat from garret to cellar—
Exactly. Warn him there’s to be a surprise inspection to-morrow, and everything had better shine like a silver dollar. I do hope he can pull them together. Hard marching is no excuse.
I agree, sir.
Then ride to the rear of the column and see how many men have fallen out.
Right away, general. And Sladen purposes that the three of us sing some hymns to-night.
Good. O, and Wilkinson?
Yessir?
Wilkinson, do you suppose that Fisher really knows the mind of his Indians?
10
Regarding Captain Fisher,
toward whom Perry can’t help but feel friendly because the man is bearded and wide-hatted just like General Crook
and almost exactly Perry’s height: six feet,
it must be confessed that Wilkinson,
to whom it is essential that this campaign be conducted in a spirit of integrity,
dislikes him because for the sake of his collection (although he claims inability to control his reds) he keeps digging up the graves of our enemies, who, evil though they surely are, ought to be left undisturbed until the Last Trump;
truth to tell I do feel much disgusted at our ghoulish Bannocks; why the general won’t punish them I’ll never understand. But it’s not my business; who cares about me anyway? Now he’s practically put Wood in my place. I can’t say I expected that. Well, he is my general just the same and I’ll follow him without thinking about it. Please, GOD, give me patience with all these afflictions, and send me an opportunity to distinguish myself again even if I die for it; although in all honesty I was plenty brave enough at the Clearwater.
11
And then they move out, the cavalry riding single file on Spurgin’s narrow road, the infantry marching at a hundred and ten paces a minute.
Mr. Chapman, the general desires you to see him.
Where is he, lieutenant?
At the rear. Some snaffle with the artillery wagons.
If only he could have travelled light! I feel the same as you.
What do you mean?
Looky here, Lieutenant Wood, we all know you’re sick of this campaign.
That’s not true.
It ain’t, eh? All right.
By the way, Mr. Chapman, I’d like to ask you something.
Well? Am I in trouble with you now?
Why did you turn against the Indians?
Which ones? You mean Joseph’s reds? They was fine to me. Treated me right, and all that. But they stood between me and my dreams, so that’s why I done it.
12
General, Captain Robbins is bringing in another of Mr. Joe’s victims.
O, and who is that?
I can’t say, sir, but the captain’s riding in just now. The fellow’s still alive, it seems. Shot through the head.
Bring them both here.
Yessir.
Good afternoon, captain. Good afternoon, Mr.—
Cowan. The Nez Perces shot me in the head and then tried to brain me with a rock. My wife and her sister—
They’re safe, thank GOD. You have my word. Now, Mr. Cowan, did you see Joseph himself?
That cruel red devil! Pretended to let me go—and Looking-Glass was there—
Wood, where’s Doctor Alexander?
Standing by, general. I’ll—
Wait a moment. Mr. Cowan, before you get medical attention, is there any information in your possession which will help us get Joseph?
Lots of ’em—on their horses, going fast, and the squaws yelling all the time—
Calm yourself. Did you see any other white captives? We’re hoping that a Mrs. Manuel is still alive—
No, general, I—
All right, Wood, take him to Doctor Alexander. Stay with him awhile and see what else he can tell you.
Yessir. Please come with me, Mr. Cowan. It’s not far.
My wife—!
Don’t worry now. Who shot you? Was it Joseph?
My wife, she, her name is Mrs. Emma Cowan, and they’ve also kept her sister, in order to—
Wood can almost see those grim Indians levelling their weapons at Cowan while his wife and sister-in-law look on screaming
and Red O’Donnell, enthroned in the spring seat of his wagon, reaches back without looking, grubbing into his sack of dried apples.
What in myself should I repudiate?
The general is right, I see, and always was. My sentiments keep chilling me like cañon-shadows. Our arrest of Red Heart was certainly unethical—
but who are my friends,
and how can I stop wasting myself?
What should I do?
O, that stone cold murdering Joseph!
Don’t I want to put all this behind me? That means getting through the campaign and—
Maybe Gibbon was also right. If the squaws were shooting back, what the hell was he supposed to do? And why won’t Joseph surrender? I now hate him more than anyone.
THEY ARE THE ONES WHO DID WRONG THINGS
1
They are following us as perpetually as FROG stays glued to the MOON’s eye,
even now into late summer, when the male tree swallows have begun turning greener:
our women gathering serviceberries and chokecherries as they ride, no longer hoping to stop long enough to dry them into cakes,
whipping the mules our best men stole from Cut Arm
(these animals are strong, but cannot travel quickly, so let us beat and scare them until they die! That will punish Cut Arm the Moldy—
and if only he had not picketed his horses that night!
Peopeo Tholekt, whom the Bluecoats nearly killed, actually untied Tsépmin’s grey racing-horse and stampeded him away, but in the morning he was not among the captured animals; who can say how that happened? Red Spy, scouting back upon the Bluecoats, is grieved to see our former brother once again riding that fine stallion:
Why can we never kill Tsépmin?),
our weary wounded children weeping
(Mourning Dove has now begun to die; black blood blossoms on her deerskin dress);
and Over The Point is making us all homesick by singing,
although Looking-Glass grows easier in his heart, since we praise the way he led our night raid on Cut Arm
—whom we would tear apart with our hands!—
I am telling you three times, although he must not be head-chief anymore, Looking-Glass remains a good war-chief!
and now his Crow friends will take us into their country;
while White Thunder’s heart continues proud that he injured those killers
and his great war-friend Wottolen, bruised below the ribs by an almost spent Bluecoat bullet, is laughing yet over how we scared them into the cottonwoods
(they cannot make themselves brave);
he jokes with Toohhoolhoolsote, who can steal a tethered horse from the hand of his sleeping enemy;
as for Ollokot, who led the young men of Wallowa so well on that night, he has begun to heal from the death of Fair Land, his matchless one,
whose son he now carries all day on his roan horse
and Cloudburst rides behind, driving the pack animals and worrying about how to do alone for her man and boy what Fair Land used to help her do,
White Bird turning aside to shoot mallards for his People
even as White Thunder kills a black bear cub so that his Uncle Yellow Wolf, his Aunt Springtime and the other wounded People can salve themselves with fat,
all our People riding here and there as they please, delighted to have escaped from being penned up forever on painted land,
longing to ride and hunt forever
as we drive our ponies into the Buffalo Country:
a rich home where drying meat will dangle everywhere,
camas prairies and wild horses again at our hands, going this way farther than we know, and that way into the dead places which the Bostons have already made.
Even now,
although Burning Coals has lost Long Ears and six more good stallions,
The thing is, he’s nothing but a d——d professor—
Sir, I’ll thank you not to swear at our general.
Excuse me, Wood. That’s just my manner of speaking. Anyhow, if you could put in a word, tell him that Company “D” could go ahead and get Joseph in a week. You know we can ride like Indians! We’ll finally wrap up this campaign—
Yessir.
7
Umatilla Jim has ridden out far past Lédinton,*
his heart wishing for good words from Colonel Píli,
but our enemies’ trail now narrows, the forest closing gloomily in
—an ambush place!—
therefore, picketing his horse behind some trees, then tying his Medicine bundle around his arm, he begins to whisper a song to his TAKH:
the SPIDER, Who gives him the Power to kill others,
and creeps around the dark turn with his Springfield carbine pointing ahead,
finding no Pierced-Noses, but a meadow world whose horizon is blackened by buffalo beyond counting.
8
Soon we’ll see them gangs of buffalo! I always did want to—
Hey, Redington, how much are buffalo hides going for nowadays?
O, hardly worth the bother. Fifty cents for a summer skin, and maybe a dollar sixty for a fine winter pelt. It’s been a boom year, so the big buyers can jew us down back East.
Then better we leave ’em alone until winter, I guess. After we whip Joseph—
You’ll never get back here.
O yes I will.
When’s your term up?
Two more years. That’s nothing.
What a tempting pawn! But I won’t take it.
And then what’s your notion?
I’m a-going back to the Crows to buy a young squaw.
Very kind of you, Fletch, but I’ll take your knight just the same.
You fixing to be a squaw man? Why on earth?
I can get a nice one and good worker, sixteen years old, for forty dollars hard money. The Crow scouts and I have been jawboning real good. That Horse Rider, he’s a white man and he’s awful happy with his wife. I guess I’ll civilize my squaw or else she can Indianize me, I don’t much care . . .
Well, that tears it!
That reckless capture will cost you the game!
Not if I can help it.
What about you?
O, I’m off to the gold fields. Eight more months . . .
Correct move, Wilkinson. That’s absolutely the best defense against Cozio’s Attack.
Excuse me, general, you surprised us! It’s been a tricky game—
Is Staunton’s chess chronicle still of value to you?
Sure is, sir. It’s not a bit outdated.
Well, keep it as long as you like. Has anyone seen Colonel Perry?
He’s down there with the howitzers, general.
O, so he is. Excuse me, gentlemen.
Good evening, sir. How does this weather compare to Maine?
It certainly compares, colonel. You’re holding up well.
Thank you, general. I’d rather be here than chasing Modocs through lava holes.
Yes, that must have been quite an adventure. I wish I could describe how interesting it all was when I rode into Cochise’s Stronghold . . .
Yessir.
Well, we should be getting in another crack at Mr. Joe pretty soon.
Sure looks like it, sir,
O yes, and here comes that shitty d——d Chapman, riding high like the Admiral of Idaho’s squawfucking Navy, telling the general what he craves to hear,
and Mason almost seems to see before him General Terry’s narrow face, the beard and moustache stuck on for a joke, and that two-dimensionally cadaverous yet somehow not Lincolnesque frame:
Had I been with him in the Dakota Column last year, I would have risen considerably faster. I am fond of General Howard, yes, but the way he is going about this campaign I won’t ever get my star.
Perry, another despatch came in, and I’m afraid there will definitely be a Court of Inquiry about White Bird Cañon.
I see,
as if you haven’t already hounded me with this a hundred times. What exactly is your jackassical aim, you GODd——n Christian cripple?
Don’t worry about it. These things are disagreeable, but of course the judges are always fair.
Of course, sir.
I speak from experience, Perry. As I’m sure you know, I faced something of the sort after Chancellorsville.
Yessir.
Perhaps you’ve heard it discussed behind my back.
Not at all, sir—
You know, on the evening before they broke through, General Hooker rode with me along my front line, and kept exclaiming: How strong! And at the very beginning I despatched Colonel Asmussen to ensure that all was right in the direction of the firing. And remember that we did detain Stonewall Jackson for over an hour; as a matter of fact, we stopped him forever. All the same, Perry, it has been customary to blame me and my corps ever since. Fourteen years now it’s been and still they—
(Perry’s mouth tightening)
Well, their imputations of—of neglect to obey orders, of extraordinary self-confidence, whatever that meant; of not strengthening my right flank by keeping proper reserves; of neglecting to send out pickets and skirmishers—far from true!
I’m sorry, sir.
I certainly did all which could have been done by a corps commander . . .
Yessir.
And so did you.
Thank you, general. I tried my best, and Theller—
I remember when my dear friend Captain Griffith of Philadelphia took his mortal wound. I went to his bedside, Perry, and I said to him: Captain, your wound is a punishment to me and not to you. And he . . . To you, Perry, I would say the same. What happened at White Bird Cañon was my failure, not yours.
Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.
9
Fletch, do you know what I just heard from Major Mason? Apparently General Sherman just recently passed through here.
Yessir.
As a tourist!
Yessir, I did hear something of the sort. He was escorted by Company “L” from Tongue River—
O! Who told you?
Buffalo Horn, sir. He knows our every corps; it’s almost unnerving. And it seems Mr. Joe has now kidnapped and outraged a party of tourists in the vicinity—
That’s right. Redington’s on their trail just now. What do you think, Fletch? Wouldn’t it be splendid if we met General Sherman to-morrow with good news:
Joseph and his confederates safely in irons, Sherman striding rapidly toward me, smiling and puffing on his pipe
(he has just now decorated thirty-one of Miles’s soldiers with the Medal of Honor for overthrowing the Sioux!—not us!)
as I turn out the guard to receive him, our drums beating the long roll just before I present my army to him with every compliment
just as he had ever craved to do, from the very first time they really crossed paths (although they had already been introduced at Chattanooga, during a conference of strategy presided over by General Grant): a humid dawn when he surprised Sherman’s bridgemen on the North Chickamauga, and Sherman himself was there, shouting cheerily: How are you, General Howard? That’s right! You must have got up early . . . —at which he knew in his heart that here stood his true leader, no less resolute and indefatigable than he himself (GOD knows, not a soul on this earth could ever be more so!), but recklessly grim and mirthful all at once as he could never be; he knew how to spend himself to his utmost and had proven at Fair Oaks that he could laugh off his own most atrocious agonies; but to enjoy hazarding oneself like a gambler (it was well known that Sherman lacked Grant’s faith in PROVIDENCE), to feel, and glory in the feeling, this pattern of being touched by some as yet unmatured consonance in the acolyte whose shrill voice, sadly brilliant eyes and myriad aloofnesses—from drinking together, from swearing, from expressions of rage and violence against the enemy, not to mention companionable nigger-baiting—left him too indrawn to dare, socially at least; how could he ever know spontaneity, except when he gave himself again and again in prayer to OUR SAVIOR, or in passion, succeeded by devotion, to Lizzie, or in lovingkindnesses and sweet sillinesses with his younger children? But here laughed General Sherman, whose greeting, so simple, recognized his earliness as a happy, natural characteristic of any zealous soldier-brother in this soon to be bloody morning of a relentless year—and in his affection for Sherman there might have been the protectiveness of the phlegmatic nature (which Howard in truth possessed, no matter that his enemies claimed to smell hysteria in him) toward the mercurial one—for everyone likewise said that Sherman was more perturbed by excitement than Grant. He yearned to shoulder still more misery, drudgery and peril for the sake of this open heart whose openness might someday be wounded—although if it actually had, would his ardor for Sherman have declined?
Yessir. It would be splendid indeed.
The men they will cheer and the boys they sure will shout,
we officers in our fantailed dress coats trimmed with buff
The ladies, O, the ladies, how they’ll all turn out!
and Lizzie in her lilac Sunday dress, with Mrs. Perry on her arm
(the brightness of this Yellow Stone country painful on my eyes):
And we’ll all feel gay when—
By the way, Fletch, who’s the officer of the day?
Captain Miller, sir.
O, that’s right. Will you ask him how far he trusts our Bannock scouts?
Right away, sir. Sir, Buffalo Horn is sullen of late, he says.
Well, send him over. I’m sure I can coax him back into a good humor. Wilkinson, how would you rate Sandford’s shavetails?
Not exactly neat from garret to cellar—
Exactly. Warn him there’s to be a surprise inspection to-morrow, and everything had better shine like a silver dollar. I do hope he can pull them together. Hard marching is no excuse.
I agree, sir.
Then ride to the rear of the column and see how many men have fallen out.
Right away, general. And Sladen purposes that the three of us sing some hymns to-night.
Good. O, and Wilkinson?
Yessir?
Wilkinson, do you suppose that Fisher really knows the mind of his Indians?
10
Regarding Captain Fisher,
toward whom Perry can’t help but feel friendly because the man is bearded and wide-hatted just like General Crook
and almost exactly Perry’s height: six feet,
it must be confessed that Wilkinson,
to whom it is essential that this campaign be conducted in a spirit of integrity,
dislikes him because for the sake of his collection (although he claims inability to control his reds) he keeps digging up the graves of our enemies, who, evil though they surely are, ought to be left undisturbed until the Last Trump;
truth to tell I do feel much disgusted at our ghoulish Bannocks; why the general won’t punish them I’ll never understand. But it’s not my business; who cares about me anyway? Now he’s practically put Wood in my place. I can’t say I expected that. Well, he is my general just the same and I’ll follow him without thinking about it. Please, GOD, give me patience with all these afflictions, and send me an opportunity to distinguish myself again even if I die for it; although in all honesty I was plenty brave enough at the Clearwater.
11
And then they move out, the cavalry riding single file on Spurgin’s narrow road, the infantry marching at a hundred and ten paces a minute.
Mr. Chapman, the general desires you to see him.
Where is he, lieutenant?
At the rear. Some snaffle with the artillery wagons.
If only he could have travelled light! I feel the same as you.
What do you mean?
Looky here, Lieutenant Wood, we all know you’re sick of this campaign.
That’s not true.
It ain’t, eh? All right.
By the way, Mr. Chapman, I’d like to ask you something.
Well? Am I in trouble with you now?
Why did you turn against the Indians?
Which ones? You mean Joseph’s reds? They was fine to me. Treated me right, and all that. But they stood between me and my dreams, so that’s why I done it.
12
General, Captain Robbins is bringing in another of Mr. Joe’s victims.
O, and who is that?
I can’t say, sir, but the captain’s riding in just now. The fellow’s still alive, it seems. Shot through the head.
Bring them both here.
Yessir.
Good afternoon, captain. Good afternoon, Mr.—
Cowan. The Nez Perces shot me in the head and then tried to brain me with a rock. My wife and her sister—
They’re safe, thank GOD. You have my word. Now, Mr. Cowan, did you see Joseph himself?
That cruel red devil! Pretended to let me go—and Looking-Glass was there—
Wood, where’s Doctor Alexander?
Standing by, general. I’ll—
Wait a moment. Mr. Cowan, before you get medical attention, is there any information in your possession which will help us get Joseph?
Lots of ’em—on their horses, going fast, and the squaws yelling all the time—
Calm yourself. Did you see any other white captives? We’re hoping that a Mrs. Manuel is still alive—
No, general, I—
All right, Wood, take him to Doctor Alexander. Stay with him awhile and see what else he can tell you.
Yessir. Please come with me, Mr. Cowan. It’s not far.
My wife—!
Don’t worry now. Who shot you? Was it Joseph?
My wife, she, her name is Mrs. Emma Cowan, and they’ve also kept her sister, in order to—
Wood can almost see those grim Indians levelling their weapons at Cowan while his wife and sister-in-law look on screaming
and Red O’Donnell, enthroned in the spring seat of his wagon, reaches back without looking, grubbing into his sack of dried apples.
What in myself should I repudiate?
The general is right, I see, and always was. My sentiments keep chilling me like cañon-shadows. Our arrest of Red Heart was certainly unethical—
but who are my friends,
and how can I stop wasting myself?
What should I do?
O, that stone cold murdering Joseph!
Don’t I want to put all this behind me? That means getting through the campaign and—
Maybe Gibbon was also right. If the squaws were shooting back, what the hell was he supposed to do? And why won’t Joseph surrender? I now hate him more than anyone.
THEY ARE THE ONES WHO DID WRONG THINGS
1
They are following us as perpetually as FROG stays glued to the MOON’s eye,
even now into late summer, when the male tree swallows have begun turning greener:
our women gathering serviceberries and chokecherries as they ride, no longer hoping to stop long enough to dry them into cakes,
whipping the mules our best men stole from Cut Arm
(these animals are strong, but cannot travel quickly, so let us beat and scare them until they die! That will punish Cut Arm the Moldy—
and if only he had not picketed his horses that night!
Peopeo Tholekt, whom the Bluecoats nearly killed, actually untied Tsépmin’s grey racing-horse and stampeded him away, but in the morning he was not among the captured animals; who can say how that happened? Red Spy, scouting back upon the Bluecoats, is grieved to see our former brother once again riding that fine stallion:
Why can we never kill Tsépmin?),
our weary wounded children weeping
(Mourning Dove has now begun to die; black blood blossoms on her deerskin dress);
and Over The Point is making us all homesick by singing,
although Looking-Glass grows easier in his heart, since we praise the way he led our night raid on Cut Arm
—whom we would tear apart with our hands!—
I am telling you three times, although he must not be head-chief anymore, Looking-Glass remains a good war-chief!
and now his Crow friends will take us into their country;
while White Thunder’s heart continues proud that he injured those killers
and his great war-friend Wottolen, bruised below the ribs by an almost spent Bluecoat bullet, is laughing yet over how we scared them into the cottonwoods
(they cannot make themselves brave);
he jokes with Toohhoolhoolsote, who can steal a tethered horse from the hand of his sleeping enemy;
as for Ollokot, who led the young men of Wallowa so well on that night, he has begun to heal from the death of Fair Land, his matchless one,
whose son he now carries all day on his roan horse
and Cloudburst rides behind, driving the pack animals and worrying about how to do alone for her man and boy what Fair Land used to help her do,
White Bird turning aside to shoot mallards for his People
even as White Thunder kills a black bear cub so that his Uncle Yellow Wolf, his Aunt Springtime and the other wounded People can salve themselves with fat,
all our People riding here and there as they please, delighted to have escaped from being penned up forever on painted land,
longing to ride and hunt forever
as we drive our ponies into the Buffalo Country:
a rich home where drying meat will dangle everywhere,
camas prairies and wild horses again at our hands, going this way farther than we know, and that way into the dead places which the Bostons have already made.
Even now,
although Burning Coals has lost Long Ears and six more good stallions,
