‘Can’t we settle here, Seth ?’
Two figures were standing on the shoreline. The settlement behind them had been known as Dwampish but it had recently been renamed Seattle by the white man. The bay-village’s timbered houses straggled from the shoreline right into the forest. From their vantage point the couple could see the evening glory of the Olympic Mountains across Puget Sound. Lambent tendrils of mist were feeling their way inland from the islands.
‘It looks so beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘Aye, it’s got charm right enough.’ Seth Langton pulled his wife close. ‘But, Kate, it’s deceiving. This place is going to grow rapidly. The trickle of settlers coming in is going to become a tide. It won’t be so pretty in a year’s time.’
‘What’s wrong with being among people, anyway?’
‘Nothing, dear. But we want room to expand and grow, don’t we? Room for our kids to breathe and run about. That’s why we came west. And, what’s more, because there are people here already you can’t just settle anywhere. All the land round here’s spoke for. You’ve gotta buy it if you want it. And it’s damned expensive. See, many settlers arrive here exhausted and didn’t go any further inland. It’s that that has put such a premium on land and accommodation in Seattle. With our recent unforeseen outlays we’ve only got enough cash now to buy ourselves a wagon and provisions. It would take me years working here in the timber mills to save enough to buy just a little piece of realty.’
It had been a costly and exhausting passage for them. Two months ago they’d started out from Boston by ship. What was intended as a three day crossing of the Isthmus became three weeks in an expensive Panama hotel when Kate went down with some unidentified illness, a not uncommon occurrence in that humid, parasite- infested region. Then, after recuperating, up to San Francisco by steamer and from there a long trip to Fort Vancouver. They’d made the last stretch by canoe.
‘Things are going to get real congested around here,’ he continued, ‘now treaties are being signed by the Indians. Land’s still free for the taking further west. We got to get out there so we can grab ourselves a piece of the wilderness while we still have the chance.’
Time was running out for the Langtons. They’d married in their thirties and Kate’s first child had been stillborn. They’d needed a second chance. But for them, with all their precious savings now gone, setting up house somewhere out there in Washington Territory was effectively their last chance.
Sandpipers were busy around the water’s edge. She snuggled into her husband to protect herself from the chill wind coming across the Sound. ‘It’s true what you say, Seth, but the problems we talked about before we set out are getting bigger in my mind.’
‘What problems ?’ he said in a reassuring tone. Kate had always been a worrier.
‘Like getting a wagon across the mountains. Doesn’t seem such a feasible idea now we’ re here and we can see the size of the mountains. They are huge!’
‘Listen. The facts of the situation were in the newspapers back East. And they’re being confirmed by discussions I been having with folks here since we arrived.’
‘Oh, that’s why you’ve been spending so much time in the tavern, eh ?’ she chided good-naturedly.
‘No, seriously,’ he went on. ‘There are several passages across the Cascade Mountains. Why, one group two summers ago even crossed the range with a huge herd of cattle. So it must be workable. Anyways, the wagons they make here are small ones, specially made for the local conditions. Not like prairie schooners you seen pictures of.’
They’d heard the buzz saw in the timber mills zinging all day and seen the wagons in the carpenters’ yard.
She paused. Then: ‘And Indians. What about Indians ? I heard some horrible things on the boat.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to tittle-tattle,’ he reprimanded. ‘Washington Territory has got a new governor––Governor Stevens––and his first job is to make treaties with all the Indians under his jurisdiction. They’re all signing. The Nisqualli, the Puyallup, the Yakima, all of them. I’ve been reading about the local circumstances. Why Governor Stevens’s crossed the whole damn territory himself––in person––that’s nearly a thousand miles. It was in the paper yesterday. He’s reached Nebraska and has got the Blackfeet to sign. No, Kate, the red men aren’t hostile. They’re as eager to keep peace as the white man.’
Certainly the Indians they’d seen around Seattle were docile.
‘Yeah,’ Seth concluded. ‘ They’re getting land called reservations, and lots of supplies as part of the treaties––seed, corn, tools for farming. Even money––every year––from the government. They won’t have any reason to complain––or to go on the rampage.’
His grip tightened around her shoulders. They turned and walked towards the twinkling lights of the seafront shack that constituted the hotel.
But Seth wasn’t so confident as he sounded. His worries were mounting too. He was increasingly concerned, not about Indians or the capability of wagons crossing mountain ranges, but the weather. That was his real worry. Because of illness, they had reached Seattle much later than intended. He had been assured by old timers in the tavern that evening that the weather would hold out for another month. But he didn’t like the wind now scything across the Sound like an icy blade.
Six wagons slithered in an ungainly pattern down the mountain trail. Four were occupied by miners and their equipment. Another contained provisions for the settlement at Wenatchee. The Langtons were fourth in line and were the only settlers in the train. Winter was approaching and other settlers had timed their journeys for the warmer months. Seth had ignored his own suspicions about the weather––but they had been well-founded. The relentless wind blustering across the Canadian border was fast getting colder.
Thankfully the first snow had been delicate and had come after the small procession had made the ascent of the final incline in the journey. They were now less than a day’s journey from the small settlement at Wenatchee, their destination. But there had been problems during the two-week trek. On many occasions ascents could only be made one wagon at a time with wooden spars levered under the back axles and with many shoulders heaving at the rear. Descents were nearly as bad. Even now, like other men, Seth was staggering alongside his faltering wagon, locking the rear wheels with his wooden spar. Braking in this way was effective in reducing the speed but it made the wagon more difficult to steer. Kate, in her fight with the reins to restrain the horses, had lurched awkwardly sidewards across the seat as the wagon slewed downwards at an angle.
Seth was glad to see her managing. If his delicate Pennsylvanian rose could handle horses and wagon under these conditions, she had the makings to cope with farming life on a settlement.
‘We’ll rest here a piece,’ came the shout from the old-timer on the lead wagon as it reached a level part of the rough mountain trail. One by one the wagons leveled and came to a standstill.
Seth leant against the wagon side, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Regaining his breath he opened his eyes and looked about him. He observed how the resting party were dwarfed by their surroundings. It was truly a land of giants. Not only were the mountains on a grander scale than was ever imagined by the easterner but even the trees were enormous. His eyes moved up the slopes taking in the towering Sitka spruce and massive Douglas fir. It was then he saw movement. Figures coming down the snowy incline, flitting amongst some red alder.
‘Hey,’ he shouted to the leader of the train, a gnarled old miner by the name of Bram, who was checking the wheel rim of his wagon. ‘We got visitors.’
Brain looked in the direction Seth was pointing, screwing up his old eyes against the glare of snow. ‘Look like Yakima to me,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t look none too friendly neither.’ He pulled himself up onto the hub of a wheel to address the column. ‘Be prepared. Put slugs in the breech––just in case.’
Seth nervously checked his Walker Colt, purchased on the advice of veterans back in Seattle, and he pushed it into Kate’s hand as she’d shuffled down from the buckboard seat with skirts gathered. His rifle levered and ready to be discharged, he waited with his wife behind their wagon like the other travelers.
Now there was nothing to see. The ominous progression down the s1opes had apparently stopped.
‘Get ready,’ Bram shouted in a voice as wizened as his face. ‘It’s just the lull before the storm. They’re up to something. The wily bastards. They’ll be coming.’
The wind fell to a breeze, working the powdery snow to soften the contours of the terrain. Above its gentle swish nothing was heard during a long interval except for the beatings of wings as a flock of trumpeter swans scudded southwards.
Then they came. God knows how many. Every tree seemed to produce its own screaming apparition. Down the slope they came, some slithering, others leaping through drifts, billows of snow spraying from their legs. The forerunners dropped into the snow, almost out of sight, and began firing. A mixture of bullets and arrows peppered the wagons.
Seth was scared. More than he’d ever been in his life. But he told himself not to panic. He had to set an example for Kate. He lined his sights on an Indian who had leapt out from cover and was running faster than the others down a stretch of hard ground. Encased in furs the Indian presented a sizable target. Seth squeezed the trigger and the man spun sideways as the bullet ripped into his body.
Other Indians fell––but some were getting through! Damn, his gun jammed. It was probably something simple to correct but he didn’t have time for lengthy investigations. He turned to take Kate’s weapon but she was already clicking on an empty chamber. He had no time to reload. Several red men were almost upon them. He grabbed the wooden spar that he had cursed so much when it had blistered his hands yet had been so indispensable in maneuvering the wagon up and down the mountain trails.
One Indian, wielding an axe, was thundering to the edge of the small bluff to the fore of the Langton wagon. Such was his impetus that he clearly intended leaping across to the backboard and fighting at close quarters from there. Seth circled the wagon and waited just below the overhang with the heavy spar, its end resting on the ground. He couldn’t see their attacker but he soon heard his feet pounding on the hardened ground above him. He heaved the spar forward and upward just before the Indian appeared, launching himself into mid-air. With hands raised, the man’s arms presented no protection for his face which, together with his chest, took the impact of the swinging beam. There was a sickening sound as the red man buckled in mid-flight and fell backwards to the ground. Seth. grunted as the force of the violent connection travelled up his arms. He looked at the smashed face of the man who was drunkenly trying to get to his feet beneath him. Instinctively he raised the beam and brought it down on the Yakima’s head. Something cracked. He did it again and looked on the bloody mayhem he had wrought to confirm the man was no longer a threat.
Meanwhile the spiky, shattering noise of the milieu was spooking the horses along the line and, one by one, the wagons began rolling as terrified animals reared and strained.
‘Onto the wagon!’ he shouted to his wife. ‘We have no choice. There’s too many of ‘em.’ He pushed her up to the seat and released the brake. The buckboard shot forward but the preceding wagon was jammed into the bluff. In a frenzy the Langton horses tried to circumvent the blockage but there was not enough space on the narrow mountain trail.
As the right hand wheels began to slither over the edge of the drop he pushed Kate clear but the wagon angled too fast for him to make it. The last thing Seth remembered was the ear-piercing neighs as his horses were dragged over the edge.
All was quiet when he opened his eyes. His body was cold and aching. He looked about him. He’d dropped about a hundred feet and come to rest in some bushes.
‘Oh my God––Kate! ‘ he thought, getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘What’s happened to Kate ?’ He could see where he’d landed and the channel through the snow where he’d rolled. The fact that he’d fallen unimpeded for some distance and thus left no immediate trail in the snow explained why no Indians had followed him. Far below he could see the wagon and the grotesque, inert shapes of bloodied horses.
He climbed back to the trail. There was no one living. With redness stark against the snow, crimson stains pinpointed where fallen defenders had been butchered. Near to puking and afraid of what he would find he investigated each mutilated corpse. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad that he found no Kate.
Everything usable had been taken from the bodies and wagons. There was a flattened course of snow back up the mountain where the victorious raiders had made their triumphant way back with their booty. All he could think of was––the savages had his wife! And he could plainly see whence they’d gone. He knew Wenatchee was not far away. He would get help and guns and fetch her back!
Five hours later he reached Wenatchee. It was a disappointment. A few shacks clustered around the rough trail. Small though the place was, it was a hive of activity as people around the town were loading up wagons. He almost collapsed with exhaustion outside the first house.
‘Dearie me,’ an aging lady said as she opened the door. ‘What’s the matter ?’
‘Indians,’ he whispered. ‘I was with a small wagon train out of Seattle. Attacked by Indians. The savages––they got my wife!’
The woman bit the back of her hand and gasped.
He was helped inside by her husband who had come to the door. As Seth recounted his story, the door of the little cabin repeatedly opened as curious neighbors entered. A growing group clustered around the fireplace, the matter being of communal interest.
‘That confirms it,’ one said when Seth had finished. ‘That’s the third attack in a couple of days. The first one might have been an isolated incident. But it’s clear now there’s a big uprising on.’
By this time Seth had realized that some of the settlers had already decided to leave. That explained the wagons that he had seen being loaded on his arrival.
But his story now prompted all the remainder to join the exodus.
‘What about my wife ?’ he said in a weak, pitiful voice as people hurried out. He was met by silence. One by one his audience left. They’d heard enough.
‘This is a beautiful land, son,’ one of them said as he passed, ‘but if it turns nasty it can be a hell on earth.’
Seth didn’t hear, just continued. ‘I gotta get her back. What’s gonna happen to her?’
‘It’s probably already happened,’ one man said. ‘You gotta face reality, son. The best for you is to forget about her, she is in the past. Hard though it is to take account of but you must concentrate on saving your own skin now.’
Seth breathed deeply. It was plain that there was little chance of his getting help. If he was to return to the mountains it was going to be a one-man job. But food and sleep had first priority.
When he awoke next morning the settlement was three parts empty. He could see wagons at staggered intervals spread out along the trail heading for Spokane. He went to the general store where the owner was clearly one of the last to
leave, having three wagons to load.
‘Is everyone running ?’ Seth challenged in frustration.
‘You’re damn right we are. We’re all getting the hell out of here. The Yakimas have lit the fuse and we’re sitting on the powder keg. As yet there are no forces here, no law authorities or army to protect us.’ He went to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered up the snow-covered slopes. ‘The red varmints will be down here next––looting and out to kill. Oh yes, the government will eventually send troops. But, mister, till then and from this point on it’s gonna be one hell of a bloodbath.’
‘You don’t understand. They’ve got my wife, my Kate. I can’t do nothing! Maybe the Indians will listen to me. Maybe I can strike some kind of bargain with them.’
The man scuttled about his store gathering items. ‘You’re crazy. You’re not from these parts––so you don’t know the region. The winter looks as though it’s setting in early. You can die up there in half a day if the weather takes a bad turn. And it’s plain the Yakimas are ripping up any white man they come across. Crazy––that’s what you are. Now, me ? I’m getting my wagons loaded up and making tracks––before the weather really breaks.’
Seth caught his arm as he brushed past. ‘You got a gun I can have ?’
The storekeeper may have been in a rush, but not rushed enough to ignore money. ‘You got twenty dollars ?’
‘Less than ten.’
The storekeeper paused. He could feel the determination in the hand gripping his forearm. He looked at the whitened knuckles and then at Seth’s distressed features . ‘There’s one in back––with shells. Take what you need by way of provisions, too. I can’t get it all on the wagons. What’s left behind will go to the redskins anyways. But, mister, you’re plumb crazy.’
The hardness suddenly disappeared from his eyes. Who was he to cut the last thread of hope? ‘Ah, what the hell. Take all you need. There’s even a spare horse you can have. And keep your money.’
When Seth left later in the morning Wenatchee was derelict. At least he was well equipped. At the storekeeper’s invitation he’d helped himself to clean, dry clothes, a leather jacket, a fur overcoat, some clothing for his dear Kate, a rifle, two handguns and a war-bag full of provisions.
Seemingly in little time he reached the site of the massacre. There had been no more snow so the tracks left by the large group of Indians were still clear. From this point on the horse would be more hindrance than help so he pointed it in the direction of Wenatchee and slapped its rump.
He ascended non-stop until dusk. With the night wind coming down harsh there was no option other than get shelter; and, before light disappeared, he found himself a small cave and took a supper of hardtack.
Early next morning he pulled himself stiffly out of his bivouac and surveyed the terrain. During the night there had been a. considerable fall of snow. The Indians’ tracks had been obliterated. He set off in the direction that he remembered from the night before.
As the morning progressed he caught sight of a whole range of wild life from marmots to elk but nothing of consequence until mid-day. His eyes were tiring with snow glare when he saw two figures moving across the top of a ridge before him. He couldn’t make out details but he had to assume they were Indians.
It was Indians that he wanted to see––but he had no desire to be picked off by a couple of sentries before he’d had the chance to reach the main encampment and state his piece. He glanced over his shoulder at his backtrail. The line of churned snow stood out against the virgin whiteness. No way could they avoid seeing it. Worse, whichever direction he took in search of cover would be signposted in a most obvious fashion.
He would just have to accept the inevitable. He swung hard right and made for a clump of Douglas fir. Beneath the umbrella of trees there was less snow on the ground and he could make better headway. After a few minutes running he heard a shout. They had seen his tracks. He maintained his pace for another fifty yards then paused, breathing headily, and looked back. He could just see them. They had reached the marks of his passage and were looking into the forest. Looking his way!
With the snow clearly indicating his every move he reckoned there was to be no escape. His only chance was surprise. He leaned against a tree to steady himself and levered the rifle in readiness for a last-ditch shootout. As he waited for his pursuers to make sizable targets he glanced behind him. Nothing but trees and virgin snow. Trees and virgin snow! There was a way to use them to advantage; he’d give the Yakima some tracks!
He took to running again, further into the temporary refuge of the forest. Making sure he was out of view he started to run more erratically but gradually he curved round. After about ten minutes he’d completed the circle and reached the tracks of his pursuers. He deliberately overshot them for a dozen yards or so, and then ran backwards to the crossing point. Still moving backwards so his prints pointed in a false direction he went down their common trail. Clearing the trees he turned about, keeping within the tracks. It wouldn’t fool them indefinitely but it could give him some headway.
Eventually he reached the spot where the Indians had met up with his tracks and retraced those of his pursuers to the top of the ridge. He crested the summit and before dropping entirely from view he glanced back. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The Yakimas were still in the forest. His subterfuge had worked, at least for the time being.
An hour later, tired and cold, he spotted smoke curling up from the trees further up the mountain. It had to be the Indian encampment. He fell against a tree, exhausted, and closed his eyes for a few seconds’ respite. It was the first time his vigilance had slackened since he’d set out from Wenatchee. But in such conditions, vigilance needs to be absolute. Hardly had his lids fallen when he heard a strange swishing sound behind him and before he realized what was happening he felt a hot searing pain at the back of his neck.
He grimaced with the effort of turning. His blood, already cold, ran even colder as he did so. With soul-shattering whoops two be-feathered Indians were bearing down on him, clouds of powdery snow billowing out. With one hand he wrenched at the arrow which, although gusted off its intended target by the mountain wind, had impaled him by his clothing to the tree. With the other he raised the all-ready-levered rifle and fired. But in his haste the slug did no more than bring a shower of snow from the foliage.
He freed himself as the nearest attacker closed in on him with a raised axe. He lifted his arms instinctively. Then he knew no more.
When he awoke he was sure he was in hell. He had to be. Only in hell could there be such pain. The first pain that ripped him from unfeeling unconsciousness was in his right temple. Then he remembered that the upraised axe had fallen with the blunt edge lowermost. Otherwise his head would have been in two pieces. Next he sensed the raw groove made across his neck by the arrow. As his awareness of the present intensified he discovered he was suspended from a tripod of timber beams. His thonged wrists were numb.
It was difficult for him to move his head but he could see other tripods on either side. Hanging from each were the near-frozen carcasses of caribou. At least he was more alive than they. Just.
As his mind took stock of the situation, he contemplated the question as to whether he was to be a Christ or a Barabbas. He didn’t know how long he’d been hanging there. He surmised it couldn’t have been long. Without his thick over-clothes, he surely would have been as dead as the meat around him, dangling as he was on the top of the world at the mercy of the autumn winds.
The tripod began to shake rhythmically as though someone was shinning up one of the timbers. There was an Indian close, cutting through the main thong above him. The man’s breath was strong and repellent. Seth crumpled as he hit the hard, icy ground. He was too numb to get up of his own accord. He sensed being dragged away from the exposed summit.
Like a puppet he was hauled to stand before a tipi amidst a gathering of what he supposed were Yakima. His legs, still without capability, buckled and he fell to his knees. Voices jabbered around him in an unknown tongue––the Sahaptin dialect, he guessed, that he’d heard miners speak of. Eventually an old man emerged, swathed in furs with a multitude of feathers hanging loosely from a headpiece. The man spoke, slowly, deliberately, in English.
‘You interest me, white man. Why you come ? You brave...or a fool? Or maybe you scout for white soldiers?’
Seth spoke with difficulty. ‘I am from the East. I came with wagons. Indians attacked. My wife was taken. I’ve come to take her back.’
A young brave at the old man’s side leant over and whispered in his ear, apparently helping out in the translation. The old man nodded. Then he spoke in the dialect and Seth was dragged off to another tipi. The deerskin flap was pulled back and he was partly thrust inside. His eyes were not adjusted to the darkness so he could make nothing of the interior. But he recognized the voice.
‘Seth!’
It was Kate!
‘Kate,’ he croaked. He felt her grabbing him, then strong hands pulling them apart. ‘What have they done to you ?’ she screamed. The same question was in his throat but he had no chance to voice it or reply as he was dragged back to the chief.
The brave who had accompanied him returned to the chief’s side and spoke in dialect to him. The old man nodded again. ‘So the woman did belong to you. That we have learned. Well, now she belong to the tipi of Quinquian, my son. He need children, many children. Strong children.’
‘She’s my wife, for God’s sake!’ Seth shouted, some of his strength now returning. ‘My wife!’
‘She not Quinquian’s wife; she his slave. The white man, he not understand many things. He never understand the having of slaves. Nor does he understand that all this land’––he waved his hand expansively––’belong to red man. He want take land. He get redman to make mark on paper but, in his turn, white man’s mark, it mean’––his hand shot flat and moved horizontally till he found the word––’it mean…nothing.’
A spark of interest suddenly lit up the features of the man beside the chief. He whispered in the old man’s ear again. The chief resumed. ‘My son, Quinquian, he has idea. He prepared to fight for his new slave. Are you prepared to fight for woman you call wife ?’
Seth was no fighting man yet he had no choice. ‘Yes. Whatever he says.’
‘Then let it be.’
The ring of people widened and a man cut through Seth’s wrist bonds while another tied a longer thong to Seth’s left ankle. The other end was fixed to the right ankle of Quinquian.
Seth rubbed. his wrists vigorously. Despite his acquiescence he foresaw only one result from such a contest. Minutes later a knife was thrust into the ground at his feet.
‘That is to be your weapon when I lower my arm,’ the chief explained.
On that instruction the two men faced each other. Quinquian had stripped to the waist. His brown skin seamed impervious to the cold wind cutting across the encampment. The Yakima’s face mirrored his anticipation.
The chief’s arm dropped. Both men pulled out their knives and began circling each other, the one menacing the other nervously defensive.
Quinquian lunged and Seth was congratulating himself on avoiding the first thrust when he realized too late–– it was merely a feint. Quinquian used it to give himself the opportunity to lean down and grab the thong snaking on the ground between them. Before Seth could step back in counterbalance Quinquian yanked the cord pulling Seth’s leg from under him. As he fell heavily on his back his opponent leapt on him with the ferocity of a mountain lion.
Both men gripped the wrist of the other’s knife hand and they locked together in a vibrating stalemate. But the Indian was clearly the stronger and Quinquian’s blade sliced the cold air nearer and nearer Seth’s face. The white man writhed energetically and managed eventually to yank himself free and roll clear. Both men were on their feet again, But Seth had learned his lesson and he too had a length of the bonding thong coiled around his hand to prevent his opponent jerking him once more from his feet.
Again Quinquian took the initiative, swinging his blade in a vicious arc which sliced open the front of Seth’s jacket. He brought the knife around on the back swing with equal success. But the success was his undoing. The blade tangled momentarily in Seth’s fast-shredding jacket. In the split second of his opponent’s fumbling Seth looped the rawhide strip around the Indian’s throat and tightened it. Before Quinquian realized what had happened Seth had whipped another coil around his throat. The Indian coughed and dropped to his knees as Seth pulled tighter. Quinquian relinquished his grip on his blade and fell forward using both hands in his attempt to loosen the throttling coils. Seth maintained the pressure although he didn’t know what his chances were if he killed the son of the chief.
Suddenly a command was given. The voice was frail and could hardly be heard above the noises of the circled onlookers. Despite its quietness it had significance for the members of the tribe end thus was heard––in the same way the delicate splintering of a twig can be heard by the attuned ear of a man of the forest.
Seth was only aware of the voice because of the hush that fell on the spectators. He looked back to see the chief make a lateral movement with his arm and repeat the command. Seth hopefully guessed it was Sahaptin for ‘Cease’. He relaxed his grip on the Indian’s throat. Quinquian wriggled free and turned to hear what further commands his father had. Then Quinquian rose in response to the words that did come and cut the strip of rawhide that had joined the two combatants, the thong that had been the cause of his overthrow.
The chief resumed his faltering English, clearly addressing the white man. ‘I did not know whether you were fool or man of courage. The two can be so close. You come to strange land. You, clever––outfox my scouts once.’ He nodded and pointed away from the village in the direction in which Seth had come. ‘We know you trick two of our warriors on your journey to this high place. It is puzzlement that such a clever man should come this far; for your woman you walk into camp of many-number red man. I think you not warrior, yet you ready to fight many-scalp brave. It is my conclusion you are man of courage.’
`There was a pause. Then: ‘Woman––she truly your squaw. No slave to Yakima. I have decided.’
As he spoke the last words his extended arm moved slightly, adding a chiefly emphasis to his words. ‘You go white chief Olympia. Tell, Yakima not sign white man’s treaty. Tribes will have powwow. Red man will divide red man land.’
Seth listened but was not concerned with the politics of the situation. ‘And I take my wife ?’
The wizened fingers rode skyward. ‘The snow gods are here. You leave squaw in warm Yakima tipi. She be safe for when you return.’ His speaking of the next sentence was accompanied by his fist touching his chest above his heart. ‘There is Sketana’s word on that.’
The relief was apparent on Seth’s face. ‘I accept your word. You are an honorable man, Sketana. Put I still want to take my wife.’
‘The decision is yours. She is your property. But we advise you against. In any case, we give furs and blankets for your journey. Food, too.’
The treatment of the white man and his squaw changed. They ate at the campfire as equals to the red man.
Seth found himself ripping into caribou meat alongside his former opponent. Quinquian’s English was better than his father’s. Seth discovered he’d been taught at a mission. After a long conversation Seth plucked up courage to ask why the Indians were suddenly attacking the white men.
‘As my father has said, they are taking our lands.’
Seth didn’t understand. ‘Yes, but it is only by treaty agreed by yourselves.’
‘Pah, it is one-sided deal. He take our land and give back small piece.’ Seth, new to the Territory, was still puzzled. ‘But you receive payment––commodities and money––do you not?.’
Quinquian scoffed. ‘I know the meaning of white man’s money.’ He tapped his forehead in the universal gesture of understanding. ‘We are given what is called––annuities. It sound good, money every year. I make calculation. Each Indian is going to get fifty cents a year. Is that worth parting with our birthright ?’
Seth shook his head. As a newcomer, he hadn’t realized the bargains were that raw.
Quinquian continued. ‘And I tell you one thing. White man make his mark on treaty––but his mark is no good until treaty is ratified by white man’s council of elders––what he call government. That can take a season of our time, what you call three months. In all that time––white man can change mind! On other hand, red man put mark on treaty––it binds immediately. He––no change mind. Well, I follow whitey’s way now; I change mind.’ He wiped grease from his mouth. Many whites come to land before treaty ratified. We send back. They come with guns and fight. So we fight and kill.’
The next day, after a night in their own tipi, Seth and Kate set off down the mountain. His warbag was topped with Indian food and Kate wore a fur shawl given by Quinquian. After an hour they stopped to rest on a ledge. A light snowfall had begun and they watched the flakes drifting down into the great void below them.
Seth took his wife’s hand. ‘Did they ill-treat you ?’
She paused as if choosing her words carefully. ‘Not in a violent way.’
His face tightened and he looked at the fur shawl wrapped around her slight figure. ‘Were you––molested ?’
She paused even longer before answering this time. ‘Quinquian took me once.’
Langton covered his eyes with his hand.
‘He claimed me as his woman,’ she continued. ‘Some kind of trophy as I understand matters.’
‘Trophy?’ he said with a tremor. ‘ My God, does that justify it?’
‘No, of course not.’
He exhaled loudly. ‘I wish I’d killed him.’
She put an arm weakly around his shoulders. ‘Things may have turned out differently if you had.’
As the day wore on the snow got worse and the temperature dropped. Kate got rapidly weaker. Although it was not yet dark Seth decided to camp for the night as his wife was shivering and having difficulty breathing. He found the cave he’d used previously. Once inside he tried to get her to eat but she had no interest in food, rejecting the hardtack which he had remaining.
Eventually he forced her to have some strengthening caribou marrow supplied by the Yakima. He felt her brow––she was shivering and, despite the cold, sweating at the same time. He got worried as the night wore on, her shivering becoming more violent and her breathing increasingly difficult. With his precious bundle in his aims he fought off sleep until eventually fatigue forced it upon him.
When he awoke his wife’s shaking had stopped. For a moment he was relieved––until he realized the absence of movement was complete. She was not even breathing!
He held her close for a long time. He didn’t want to leave her. His Kate.
He looked at her in his arms and thought of the warm, warm tipi from which he had taken her. That was what she had needed: a warm, cozy tipi. And he had chosen to take her away from it.
The tears froze on his cheeks. He cradled her for a long time, the words “If only I hadn’t taken…” acting as a mantra in his numbed brain.
And so it was, much later, a lonely figure stumbled downwards through the drifts. Through the drifts, alone, to civilization.
POSTSCRIPT
It took a three year war to defeat the Indians to the east of the Cascade Mountains in Washington Territory, during which dozens of their leaders were hanged. In 1858 the tribes were herded into reservations and their lands were opened up for settlers.