Cortez slept very little that night. A cold rain beat though the poor coverings on their lodge. He found himself envying Welweyas, who snored peacefully across the fire pit. The shaman was in a melancholy mood. He was worried about that dark line he had seen from the mountain crest. There was something ominous about it. He had not been listening to and watching the signs of the earth as a shaman lately. He scolded himself for letting his mind dwell only on things that his eyes saw and his ears heard, possibly overlooking things that his shaman-spirit could learn. He had not been calling on El Oso for his knowledge of the trails. His thoughts were filled with guilt. I wonder if I’m afraid of knowing what the future holds. Could I have prevented Rachel’s death? If I had followed my wyakin, or if I had let my mind go to the spirit world more often, could I have changed the future? Others had dreams that were warnings. Could I have spoken more strongly to the chiefs about their dream or visions? The shaman was haunted by such thoughts. He remembered that by the time he had let the spirits show him the blood in the Big Hole River, it was too late to save Rachel and the other innocent people.

Lying on the cold ground, shrouded in remorseful thoughts, Cortez remembered the nightmare that he had had as a boy after burying his murdered father. He had sobbed himself into a fitful exhausted sleep in which he dreamed that an evil black spot was slithering out of the dark trees toward him. Fear made him choke with screams. No sound left his throat. Then he had heard something crashing through the brush, as the great grizzly, whom he called Grandfather at the time, chased away the evil black spot. That real grizzly, later named El Oso, became his friend. He saved my life in daylight by killing my father’s murderer and became my protector and wyakin. How many other times has my wyakin shown me the way to take and saved me from some other evil? I could use his help now, yet I haven’t called for him.

Remembering again the sight of the dark line moving across the prairie, Cortez realized that it seemed much like the evil spot in his nightmare. He worried that the people might be in danger. The chiefs kept saying that now is a time for rest and healing, but the dark line might be something that could prevent the people from reaching the safety of Grandmother’s Land.

Gray streaks filtered through the lodge coverings—dawn was approaching. Cortez decided to rise from his pallet and go outside. He hoped that the cold, rainy day might be less gloomy than the thoughts running through his head. The camp was quiet. The embers of many small buffalo-dung fires still created smoke, which gathered as a low cloud hanging in the depression made by the little creek. Dung smoke has a unique odor—not the sharp cheerful odor of pine knots.

Other people started to emerge from their shelters. Women added buffalo chips to the embers—blowing on them to get the damp dung to burn so they could cook the morning meal. Both young and old men were walking stiffly toward the horse herd to bring in the horses for the day’s move.

Cortez saw Looking Glass come out of his lodge and decided to tell him of his worry about this place and the long dark line that he had seen on the prairie to the southeast. Just before he reached Looking Glass, Wootolen dashed out of his shelter. In great excitement he yelled to all, “I just had a dream about a terrible battle that will be fought in this very place. There will be much killing of Ni-mi-pu and soldiers. Blood will flow in the stream.”

Looking Glass laughed at him and said to the people nearby, “The one-armed general and his walking soldiers are two days from us. Do not hurry. Eat well. The bands will travel slowly and still we will be two days ahead when we reach Grandmother’s Land.”

Cortez looked directly at Looking Glass and spoke strongly. “It was Wootolen who had the bad dream about the soldiers attacking the people when were still traveling in the Bitterroot Valley. Others have had such visions as well. If the chiefs had listened and been prepared, many of our wives and children would still be with us. Yesterday, looking from the top of that small mountain, I saw a long, dark line on the prairie. I’m not sure what it was, but its spirit was bad.” Looking Glass scowled at the shaman and yelled, “You, a white man, are telling me how to lead. I will say when the bands will move. Now is the time to eat and let the horses’ hooves heal. The scouts will tell us of danger. I will trust the scout’s eyes before anyone’s dreams.”

The shaman strode away in anger. Finding that he was headed toward the horse herd, he decided to catch Silu Silu and the pack horses for Welweyas and then ride back to the mountain and look again for the dark line and any other signs on the land.

Welweyas had his breakfast cooked when Cortez got back with the ponies. While he ate, the woman/man packed the animals.

The shaman decided that he would find White Bird and urge him to move rapidly from this place before the smell of death overpowered the smell of dung fires.

People were getting packed. Some were already moving out. This was good. Scouts were already out ahead and could stop the people if they saw danger from that direction.

Then Cortez heard a pony galloping through the camp. It was one of the two scouts who had spent the night at the Assiniboine camp. He was shouting that buffalo were stampeding east of the camp, driven by soldiers. “Get ready for war!”

Looking Glass just stood there, waving his arms to quell the excited people. “There is time. Let the children and old people eat their fill.”

The shaman’s gut wrenched, for he instantly realized what he had seen in the distance the day before—an army stretched out in a long, slow-moving file. That army couldn’t be Howard’s, or the other one that had joined him in the Yellowstone Valley. Cortez ran to find White Bird and urge him to order his band to leave immediately, heading northward.

White Bird had already ordered the entire band to pack and was shouting, “Those who are ready—leave!”

Horses were still to be caught. The loose ones were startled by the people. “I have my pony. I’ll ride to the main herd and get them moving!” The shaman yelled to his chief.

As Silu Silu picked his way through the people and animals, he saw another scout on a nearby bluff waving his blanket wildly and shouting, “Tele’ tele’!” The people all knew that this signal meant that soldiers were about to attack. Joseph ran from his lodge shouting, “The horses! Horses! Save the horses!”

Cortez kicked Silu Silu into a gallop toward the western hills and the loose horse herd. A strange buzz sounded near his left ear, then another on his right side. He knew the sound. The shaman was being shot at, but all the rifle balls missed him. He kept riding hard. Then he heard the war cries of Cheyenne warriors, leading a charge of cavalry straight for the horse heard.

Ni-mi-pu warriors were riding or running toward the herd, knowing that to save the horses for the people was critical. The horses were needed to escape this attack and to reach freedom across the border.

The horse herd was excited by the shooting, shouting, and galloping horses’ hooves. The Ni-mi-pu horses surged in panic, first one direction and then another. Some boys and women were trying to catch their animals, but the milling, rearing, wild-eyed ponies and mules were nearly impossible to catch. Part of the herd broke into a stampede to the north. Cortez kicked Silu Silu into a racing gallop after the herd. He knew that his stallion could beat all those stampeding horses in a normal race, but this time, the blood was up in the lead ponies, and Silu Silu couldn’t catch and turn the run-away herd. Cortez gathered what stock he could and turned them back toward camp.

Cortez heard the steady roar of gunfire, even though several knolls separated him and his small herd from the main non-treaty band. Women and children were running, fear driving their feet—some were nearly naked, many without moccasins.

The shaman was ordered to catch a pony or mule for an older warrior to ride north in search of Sitting Bull and ask him to send Sioux warriors to help the Ni-mi-pu fight the army. Instead, Cortez hopped from his saddle and handed Silu Silu’s reins to the warrior, yelling, “Go! Go! Take my fast pony. Silu Silu will get you to Grandmother’s Land this day.”

Cortez ran to the crest of a knoll and saw that soldiers and their Cheyenne scouts had nearly surrounded the people’s camp. Non-treaty warriors were digging rifle pits along the crest of a low hill to the south. A troop of cavalry and Cheyenne charged the warriors guarding the horse herd. They were trying to separate the herd from the people. There was much shooting. The shaman could see that both soldiers and warriors were being killed and wounded. Many people would die this day. Would he be one of them?

The thought that, on this day, he might join his beloved Rachel, his parents, and Samuel gave Cortez a feeling of strength he had never known. The shaman stood tall and ran with legs that vaulted him over sagebrush clumps. “If this is where I will die,” he shouted, “I will die with blood on my face and the front of my shirt. No cowardly soldier or Cheyenne warrior will see my back this day.”

His legs were carrying him in long strides that seemed to defy gravity. Then he smelled the distinct odor of wet grizzly. Cortez knew that his wyakin was with him. Then he saw the great bulk of El Oso bounding ahead, leading him toward the people’s camp. “I have a great wyakin and he will not fail me!” the shaman shouted. Again, he heard the buzzing sound of bullets close to him. They seemed to tug at the loose parts of his buckskin jacket, but they didn’t so much as burn his skin.

At the camp, there were many wounded who needed care. Welweyas had started treating wounds and was very glad that Cortez had returned. The shaman dug his parfleche out of the baggage and pulled out the grizzly pelt with its long silver hairs, which he tied over his shoulders. Then he ran out to the battle area to carry back the wounded and dead.

Without enough horses and pack mules to move all the people, the chiefs decided that those still in the camp should stay put. The stream banks and low hills provided some protection for the non-combatants, and the warriors, who had dug rifle pits, would hold off the soldiers. There seemed to be a general feeling of hope that Sitting Bull would arrive with his warriors, drive off the army, and then welcome the people into the safety of Grandmother’s Land. Cortez was not this optimistic. Sitting Bull might be far from the border, and he would not be expecting the Ni-mi-pu. In fact, he probably didn’t even know that the Nez Perce wanted to join his Sioux. Cortez wondered if Sitting Bull would even be friendly. What reason did the Sioux have to help the non-treaty bands? Some Ni-mi-pu warriors under the leadership of our chief, Looking Glass, had helped the Crow drive the Sioux from the Yellowstone hunting grounds. Wouldn’t this be remembered by the Sioux?

Some of the most courageous warriors and Chief Joseph were still with the remainder of the horse herd. A troop of soldiers and Cheyenne had cut them off from the main camp.

The women, old people, and children had found places to dig into the soft creek banks to make shelters. They were using digging sticks, frying pans, any tool they could find. All understood that they were under siege. The warriors facing the army dug rifle pits and made breastworks of stones.

It appeared that the army had been stopped for now. The warriors had learned that some soldiers and at least two officers had been killed in their first charge from the east. The warriors had been prepared for them and had shot from the crest of a bluff that formed a small tableland.

Chief Joseph rode hard though the soldiers’ bullets trying to reach the main camp. He had a strong spirit, and only his shirt was torn by bullets. The warriors shot at targets. The soldiers seemed to just shoot without aiming.

Sometime in mid-afternoon, Cortez heard much shouting and noise from the south and east. “A charge is coming!” he shouted. The people in the camp scurried to get ready again. Expecting cavalry, they were surprised to see foot soldiers running toward the warriors’ rifle pits on the bluff and then on down toward the camp. There were not many soldiers, and the warriors fought hard against them. One group didn’t even make it to the edge of the main camp. They hadn’t yet shot any of the people when they turned and ran back toward their line. After a few minutes, Cortez heard the sound of a bugle. The foot soldiers charged again. Some were killed, and many wounded. The young soldiers’ eyes were filled with fear. They must have realized that their officers knew what their fate would be. Surely, they sensed that their charge against the experienced warriors, who knew no fear—especially of them—was foolish. Still, they had been ordered to charge, and refusing to charge would result in punishment more to be feared than the warriors’ bullets. Finally, they turned back.

While the army was charging, many people from the main camp and some from the horse herd area escaped the siege and headed north. Even if the army achieved a victory here, it would not be total. By then, many of the Ni-mi-pu people would be beyond the reach of the U.S. Army.

The camp waited tensely for another charge. Wounded warriors limped in for Welweyas’s help and the shaman’s treatments. From the wounded, Cortez learned that among the dead warriors were some of the bravest: Ollokot, Joseph’s brother and leader of their band’s warriors; Lean Elk, the courageous chief who led the bands from Izhkumzizlakik Pah and through Yellowstone; and Lone Bird, always strong in a battle to protect the people.

The Cheyenne warriors who had charged with the soldiers at the horse herd showed no loyalty to their Indian brothers. They killed unarmed Ni-mi-pu men and women who were only trying to catch their ponies. Heyoom Iklakit was killed by soldiers while talking with a Cheyenne. The Nez Perce hadn’t thought that the Cheyenne and Sioux scouts would fight them, but that same Cheyenne warrior who had talked with Heyoom Iklakit later killed an unarmed woman and took her horse.

The afternoon dragged on. Shooting continued, but no more were killed. The people had dug deep enough into the creek and gulch banks for protection from both bullets and the cold damp rain.

Welweyas had erected a shelter for the wounded against the creek bank. A young warrior lay on a robe there, dying, but uttering no sound of pain. His wounds were beyond the shaman/healer’s ability to heal. Cortez could only chant songs that he had learned from Culculshensah and Willow Woman, asking the spirits to welcome honorable warriors to the other side. As he shook the rattle over the young man’s chest, he felt spirits surrounding them. The warrior’s eyes opened, and he seemed to be looking at something over the shaman’s left shoulder. Then his body shuddered, and his strong spirit joined those of the ancestors.

Friends of the warrior came and rolled him into a blanket, then carried his body to a place where he would be buried deeply. No Bannock or Cheyenne coward should have a chance to take his scalp.

The night was cold and there was little fuel for cooking fires, so the flour that had been taken at Cow Island couldn’t be baked into bread and the buffalo meat couldn’t be roasted. The children cried or whimpered in their sleep. Their mothers dug the shelter pits deeper to protect them from the cold.

On the second day of the siege, gunfire began at dawn. The soldiers fired a big gun with bullets that exploded when they hit. The gun shot many times from one loading, but its only effect was to create fear. The rifle pits and shelter pits were too low for the shots to hit.

The weather had gotten worse. The rain had turned to snow, being blown by a strong wind. There was no way to stay warm. Many warriors wore nothing but breach clouts, and some had no moccasins.

The chiefs and warriors looked toward the north throughout the morning, hoping to see Sitting Bull’s warriors charging in to save the people and end the siege.

About mid-day, the soldiers hoisted a white flag. The warriors rejoiced at first, expecting the soldiers to come out to make a truce. The warriors watched and waited, but when they saw the soldiers eating dinner, they realized that the “truce” would end when dinner was over. The warriors were angry that the soldiers had abused their trust to allow them to eat a hot dinner in peace, especially since the warriors had no dinner to eat. They wouldn’t be so trusting next time.

Sure enough, the shooting soon started again. Cortez was reminded of the first battle at Lahmotta, when honorable warriors rode out under a white flag to meet the first wave of soldiers. Instead of a truce, the soldiers shot at the flag. No warrior would dishonor a white flag of truce. To do so was a grave insult.

The Ni-mi-pu camp stirred early on the third day of the siege. It was still cold, and the rain and snow kept everything wet. Buffalo chips dry enough to burn were hard to find. The suffering of the children and old people was disheartening.

A commotion occurred in one of the rifle pits near the crest of the bluff, with shouting and pointing to the north. Cortez saw Chief Looking Glass stand up, but then fall backward. He ran to the scene. Warriors were wailing in anguish as they started to carry their chief down the slope. The shaman stopped them to see if he could help, but saw immediately that a bullet hole in his forehead had ended the brave man’s life. Through their tears, the warriors told the tragic story. One of them had seen a rider galloping toward camp from the north. The excited warriors thought that the rider might be one of Sitting Bull’s scouts, and that Sioux warriors would soon be coming over the hill. Looking Glass stood up on the crest of the hill for a better look, making an easy target for a soldier or Cheyenne sharpshooter. Looking Glass had lost his life for nothing. The lone rider had been a Ni-mi-pu warrior returning to see about his family. The entire event, especially the death of Looking Glass, sent a shudder of gloom though the people. It seemed to make rescue by Sitting Bull less likely. Both chiefs who had led the non-treaty bands from the Clearwater to this place were dead.

In the mid-afternoon, there was activity at the army’s headquarter camp. Soon a white flag was waved, and a voice shouted, “Colonel Miles wishes to speak with Chief Joseph.”

The remaining chiefs and the shaman held council to consider this request from the army. They pondered over why this Colonel Miles would choose to talk with Joseph. Did they know that Looking Glass and Lean Elk were both dead? Joseph didn’t speak for all the bands. The council decided that Tom Hill, as an interpreter, would go to the soldiers’ camp under the flag of truce to see what Colonel Miles wanted to speak about with Joseph.

There was no shooting while the council waited anxiously for Tom Hill’s return. Cortez asked White Bird if he could help as an interpreter for talks with the soldiers. His chief said he worried that the soldiers would see the shaman as a white man, and therefore a traitor, whom they should shoot or hang.

Tom Hill rode out of the army camp with an officer, whom the council assumed to be Colonel Miles, and several other men. They stopped about midway between the two camps and called to Chief Joseph to come and talk with Colonel Miles.

The council was anxious, but Joseph agreed to go under the white flag. Joseph was a brave man, but he rode out with three of his warriors. The shaman saw Yellow Wolf head toward the meeting spot and crouch in a low place where he could see what was happening. Cortez, knowing that Yellow Wolf was very loyal to Joseph and the Wallowa Band, was certain that if Joseph were harmed, Yellow Wolf would fight the soldiers to the death.

Joseph and Colonel Miles talked, and a gun was passed as a sign of peace, but then Colonel Miles escorted Joseph to his tent. The three warriors returned to camp without him. Yellow Wolf reported that Joseph had been taken prisoner. The truce flag had been dishonored yet again.

While the warriors still honored the white flag, a young army officer boldly rode into the main camp and inspected the non-treaty bands’ situation. Chief Yellow Bull yelled for the warriors to hold the soldier. Several of them ran to the soldier and grabbed him. He did not resist. White Bird and Yellow Bull agreed that the officer should not be harmed, but held until Joseph was safely returned. “Treat the officer with respect,” the chiefs ordered. “He is one of the army’s commanders.”

A Ni-mi-pu named Chuslum Hihhih boldly announced, “I want to kill this soldier!” The chiefs ordered the warriors to guard the officer well and tell the mean-spirited coward to leave the hostage alone. One of the warriors scolded Chuslum Hihhih and told him that if he wanted to kill soldiers, he should go kill some who might shoot back at him. Two good, strong warriors took the young officer to a safe place, where he was given a buffalo robe and blankets. This hostage would be treated with respect and care in the hope that Joseph would be treated well also.

White Bird’s eyes showed deep worry, so the shaman tried to stay near him. His more than seventy years showed on his face, and his normally tall, straight back seemed bent with weariness. Cortez knew that this chief’s concern was for his people, and that outweighed his pride. White Bird had never tried to hold the position of head chief among the non-treaty bands, yet he was the eldest and, in the shaman’s opinion, the wisest. “If the soldiers kill Joseph, then who will lead his people?” White Bird asked Cortez as well as himself. “Ollokot is dead. Toohoolhoolzote is dead. If I should try to lead the Wallowa people, then my own people will be made to follow the same path as Joseph’s people.”

The shaman offered, “Yellow Bull is related to the Wallowa people, and he is a strong leader.”

White Bird looked his shaman in the eye and nodded agreement, then posed another question directly to Cortez. “Simahichen Tim, what does your wyakin tell you? Do you have wisdom from the great hohots that protects you?”

“My wyakin is with me at this place,” Cortez replied. “His great strength has caused many bullets to whistle by me. Before the soldiers attacked us, I saw a long dark line on the eastern prairie. I didn’t know its meaning, but I sensed that this vision was bad. I didn’t speak strongly for moving farther north, though the people could have traveled to the Milk River. The soldiers might not have been able to attack there. Spirits may have been telling me that this place was bad, but I wasn’t sure. If I had spoken strongly to you, you might have insisted to Looking Glass that we move on. Wootolen had a bad dream about an army attack at this place. He spoke strongly, but Looking Glass ridiculed him. By then, it was too late for many to hear this warning and leave in time.”

White Bird studied the shaman’s face and didn’t interrupt this long speech. Then he said, “Simahichen Tim, you are a shaman—a white shaman. It’s not your place to speak strongly at council. It is my place, as your chief, to ask your opinion. Now, today, I ask you to seek out your wyakin and go to the spirit world as a tiwet. Ask the spirits if the Lamtamas should stay at this place and fight until a truce is made”

The shaman nodded his understanding and agreement to his chief, and then turned away. Cortez felt that a very great burden had been placed on him.

Welweyas had cooked some food for the shaman. He told his lodge-keeper to give it to some of the hungry children, explaining, “Hunger will help me find my wyakin.” The woman/man’s soft eyes showed concern as he nodded his understanding.

Taking his parfleche, the shaman walked down along the creek bank through the camp, where he again saw the suffering of the people. Warriors were hardened to cold and hunger. They maintained themselves through their strong spirits. The elderly, women, children, and those who were ill felt the cold and the emptiness in their bellies. The babies’ cries and the whimpers of the small children told Cortez that the people couldn’t tolerate much more time in this place. “The people must either move northward, or surrender, or fight to the death of all,” the shaman said aloud to any spirits who might be listening, as he walked to a high point of rocks just north of the main camp. There he could see across many miles in all directions, and there the shaman would be alone in the cold and snow to search for the spirits and El Oso. A scout who was watching the soldiers used signs to tell him where he would be safe from being shot by soldiers in their rifle pits. There was little action coming from the dug-in soldiers. They, also, seemed to be trying to stay warm.

There was a place near the crest of the rocky point where the shaman could stand with his back to the cliff. He climbed up the sharp-edged blocks of talus and placed his parfleche on a ledge where he could easily access objects.

For this “spirit quest,” the shaman must first make his own spirit journey to the earth and become like the things of nature. His thoughts could not be of the cold and his hunger. Before the shaman could find El Oso and seek answers from the spirit world, his own consciousness must leave this world. Taking off his buckskin jacket and shirt, he rolled them into a bundle that he squeezed into a cleft in the rocks. He pulled the braids from his hair—wet with snow—and let it flow down over his shoulders. From his parfleche, the shaman took a little bag of powdered charcoal. Then he caught a dribble of water running down the cliff face in his hand and mixed it with the charcoal to make a paste. This he smeared on his forehead and face, then the rest of his torso. The sight of the black paint on his white chest was startling but the black paint was needed to show the spirits that the shaman had climbed out of his soyapo skin. He then took his little pouch of ochre mixed with animal grease and with his fingers smeared broad stripes under each eye to show the spirits that he wanted to see what was to come. Putting these things away, the shaman took out the rolled grizzly pelt that had once lived on his wyakin. This wispol had brought El Oso through the battles and protected Cortez from the whistling bullets. He fit the head pate over his own head so that his face looked out from beneath the snout. The great pelt covered the shaman’s shoulders and back. The underside of the wispol attached itself to his bare skin. The hide was damp from the rain and snow, and it carried the odor of El Oso. Cortez felt the protection of his wyakin with the odor of a wet grizzly.

Standing on this high place, the shaman could see out over the prairies. Snow covered the grass. Montana Territory was not like the Salmon country of Idaho. There would be no snow at Lahmotta this early in autumn. The grass would be golden, but the air would be warm. Grandmother’s Land would be an even harder place in winter without deep valleys that the snow and gales would pass over. The shaman then tried to let his mind slip out of the present and journey to the place and time where the spirits would find him and give him the answers he sought.

Not really knowing what to do next, the shaman took his gourd rattle and began shaking it in a quiet rhythm. His mind started to go back to the time he spent with Culculshensah, when they had tried to learn from Smowhala, the great Dreamer. Smowhala’s Washan believers danced a secret dance called the Washat. Some called this the Ghost Dance. At that time, Cortez wasn’t allowed to learn the Washat dance because Smowhala didn’t trust him, simply because of his white skin and blue eyes. With his eyes closed, the shaman tried to place himself back in the longhouse above the Columbia River. He experienced a vision of Smowhala, stepping to the rhythm of a drum beat that he had heard from outside. Stomp, stomp, hya hya hi hi hya. The rattle started to catch the rhythm, and the shaman shuffled his feet a little in rhythm also, causing small rocks to rattle down the slope. In the vision, the little stooped-shouldered Smowhala turned to see who made a rude noise and scowled. This vision made Cortez smile and again feel his body, but shaking the rattle a little harder soon caused the shaman’s knees to start moving in the rhythm of the Washat. Cold and hunger pangs faded as the rhythm of the dance crowded out other sensations. Stomp, stomp hya hya hi hi hya.

The vision was small and distant, like a pinpoint of light, with the movement of dancers to the drum rhythm. The point grew as a disk of light with movement. The disk vision grew rapidly. The light and movement engulfed the shaman, taking him to a place he knew, yet didn’t know. The dancing took him into the Wanapum longhouse, where other dancers joined him. They all danced in an oblong ring. The other dancers, both men and women, danced as if in a trance. The floor of the longhouse was smooth with white sand, making it easy to dance. The shaman’s consciousness was filled with the rhythm of the Washat. As the people in the vision danced and danced, spirits from the other side seemed to join the lines. The longhouse was soon filled with spirits. The drummers and singers kept their rhythm, Stomp, stomp hya hya hi hi hya. The longhouse was becoming so crowded that the vision didn’t let the shaman see the faces and forms of the spirits. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of spirits had joined in the Washat and danced all around the shaman/tiwet. Though spirits occupied the vision, they took no space. The rhythm and song of the Washat had drawn all these spirits into the longhouse, yet the tiwet didn’t know if they were aware of him or realized that he was not one of them.

Thoughts outside the longhouse started edging their way back into the shaman’s consciousness, and he became aware of cold fingers gripping his rattle and weariness taking over his legs. Cortez tried to go back to the warmth of the longhouse and the Washat, but the vision became foggy and then was gone. He was back on the point of rocks and very weary. His arm was unable to keep shaking the rattle to the rhythm of the Washat, his knees were like wet rawhide, his feet were sore from stomping on the rough stones. The shaman’s mind had returned to the present, yet he had no answers to his questions of the future. Opening his eyes, he saw that all daylight was gone. He had been in the Washan trance for hours.

The wispol felt heavy on his shoulders and head. Reaching up, he felt several inches of snow that had accumulated during his trace. Taking the grizzly cape off to shake it, a chill shuddered through his body. When the shaman put the wispol back on his shoulders and head, he immediately felt the damp cold of its underside. Trembling again with chills, he thought about putting on his shirt and jacket, but he feared that this clothing would create a barrier between the spirit world and his own spirit mind. Old Culculshensah had often told him that to know the secrets of the world, one must be part of the world. The shaman must expose himself to all the harsh things of the world, such as hunger and cold.

“It’s not winter,” Cortez told himself. “I shouldn’t be this cold. It’s only early October. This is only cold rain that has turned to snow. I am cold, but I will not freeze to death. I will only be cold. This will be a long, cold night, but I will survive. One of Culculshensah’s many lessons was that pain and misery can be overcome by the spirit. He taught me how to make a place in the body to concentrate all pain, and then how to make that pain go away.”

The shaman made himself remember the hot springs where Culculshensah had taken him. The water had been so hot that it turned his pale skin bright pink. Yet that hot water had brought great relief to the old man’s pain-filled back and legs. Culculshensah had said that good spirits, deep in the rocks, made the water hot for the healing of people who suffered from the cold and damp.

Closing his eyes, he tried to relax his shoulders and neck and focus his vision on the welcome warmth of a hot spring. Moist vapors began to surround him and warmth to flow over his bare skin. A shudder and a tremor revolted against the pleasant feeling of warmth. Consciousness pushed aside the vision, and Cortez again felt the snow. Shaking the chill from his arms and shoulders, the shaman relaxed his mind with the shaking of the rattle in the rhythmic drumming tempo of the Washat, and his mind began searching for a hot spring as a place of warmth.

With renewed visions of a hot spring taking form, the shaman immersed his feet into the steaming pool. Immediately, he felt tingling, then sharp pain, as the hot water burned the skin of his feet. Despite this pain, he struggled to hold the vision and step deeper into the pool. Warmth crept up his legs until he felt the hot water reach his groin. He let out a gasp and sat down in the pool, allowing the water to completely cover his torso and flow over his shoulders. The vision was so real that his frigid hands soon tingled, and he tossed the gourd rattle onto the bank. Continuing to hold onto the vision and allowing the warmth of the hot spring pool to replace the chilling cold of the night, the tiwet dozed.

Though he seemed to wake—Cortez was unsure—the wonderful warmth of the pool still surrounded him, but his neck was stiff from supporting his head and the heavy wispol. He didn’t want to lose the warming vision, but when he reached his hands up to lift his head, which had slumped so that his chin was resting on his chest, the shaman discovered that he was sitting on the rocky ledge.

While he had sat up in his vision, he had sat down in reality. The sensations of the hot spring pool yielded to the cold of the rocks and the facts of a snowy night in the Bear Paw Mountains. Cortez discovered that more than just his neck was stiff, so he forced himself to his feet. He retrieved his gourd rattle and again faced the agony of the situation without a resolution that he could pass on to White Bird.

The shaman was discouraged. He still had no answers to his questions about the future. Cortez knew he couldn’t leave this place before daylight, so to give some warmth to his shivering body, he started to move his feet in place with a dancing motion, and then he gave this movement a rhythm by shaking the gourd rattle again. He didn’t consciously choose the dance rhythm; he just let the rattle-spirit find its own movements.

Unconsciously, the tiwet danced for warmth, so he was surprised to find that Culculshensah’s rattle had taken on its own life and rhythm. The rattle was shaking his arm and the increasing voice of the rattle was being picked up by his feet. Instead of the shuffling rhythm that he had started for warmth, his legs were now dancing, his knees pumping high. The vigorous dancing was warming him and making his breathing more rapid, and the shaman didn’t want to stop. The rattling and dancing so dominated his consciousness that time was no longer part of the scene. Not completely trusting this lack of control, he opened his eyes, but saw that snowfall had yielded to pitch black.

As he danced harder and harder in the black of night, he began to see movements of gray. The gray movements started growing lighter and taking form. The forms were dancing with the tiwet in his rattle rhythms. The gray forms were spirits, and they had joined him in the lonely night dance. The shaman tried to see them more clearly, but they seem to move away as he tried to approach. The tiwet called to the spirits in Sahaptin, “Wepes, wepes.” Several seemed to turn to him, saying, “Wepes yeta suki waqi.” The spirits kept dancing, more and more agitatedly. The tiwet knew they understood that he was asking them to help him find and recognize the future. Some wepes seemed to be crying out, but the shaman didn’t hear sounds from their open mouths.

The spirits became greatly agitated. They were trying to convey to the tiwet’s spirit their knowledge of the future, indicating that it would be tragic and sad. Wanting more information, the shaman shook the rattle toward the south and the army camp. The wepes understood the question. They turned their backs to the south and danced away from that direction. He then shook the rattle toward the north and Grandmother’s Land. All the wepes formed a line and started dancing in that direction—northward, northward.

The shaman was getting his answer. The spirits were telling him that surrendering to the army would be tragic. He then understood the meaning of the spirit-line dancing toward the north. It would be better, though it would still be sad.

Cortez kept dancing to the rhythm of the rattle, but the wepes seemed to be thinning out. Dawn was approaching. The time for dancing was done. The light of day overpowered the pale grey of the spirits’ forms.

The shaman still stood on the rocky ledge—wet and cold, his body in pain. It was time to let the reality of the day wash out the visions of the night’s spirit world. The wepes had given Cortez the insight into the future that he needed. It wasn’t a happy future, but the spirits had made him know, in no uncertain terms, that a surrender of the non-treaty bands to the army would be a tragedy. Cortez would tell White Bird that the spirits urged the people to continue north.

The rocky point and the little valley were in enough daylight that the shaman could see to climb down and go back to the camp. He was chilled to the bone again. Despite his shivering, Cortez took handfuls of the wet snow to wash off his painted torso and face. Shaking the snow from the wispol and setting it aside, he retrieved his shirt and jacket from the cleft in the ledge. They were cold, but not as wet as they would have been had he worn them all night.

Just as the shaman picked up his parfleche, he got the faint odor of wet grizzly. “Is that odor just from the wet pelt, or is El Oso near?” Cortez asked. He looked all about in the early light, but he didn’t see the great wyakin. On stiff legs, he started to pick his way down from the rocky point, but snow covered some of the shale slabs, making them slippery under his moccasin soles and numb feet. Near the bottom of the shale slide, both feet slipped together, and Cortez started to tumble, headed for a hard and painful fall.

Instead of landing on the jagged rock pile, however, Cortez was caught on a mass of smelly, wet fur. Then it moved under him, and he realized that he was lying across El Oso’s back. He couldn’t help but laugh, but the next moment, he found himself sitting on the ground. His wyakin was gone. El Oso didn’t like to be laughed at. Cortez knew this, but he felt sure that his wyakin would be nearby to catch him the next time he fell, even if he laughed.

The people were starting to stir and poke curious heads out of their holes in the creek banks as the shaman walked through the main camp. Welweyas was huddled under a blanket dozing. He had probably sat there all night waiting for Cortez’s return. Brushing the snow from the rounded form and shaking his lodge-keeper’s shoulder, the shaman said, “Wake up old friend. We must prepare to move north.” Welweyas looked up from under his blanket and Cortez saw disbelief in his tired eyes. “Cook what food we have. We must be strong for our travel.”

Cortez hadn’t noticed at first, but then he realized that the hump under the blanket was much larger than Welweyas’s form alone. Then the man/woman opened the folds a little more and showed the shaman two small heads. Welweyas had taken a boy and girl into his care. The shaman motioned and signed to him not to disturb the sleeping children. They obviously needed his body warmth.

White Bird saw Cortez from the dugout where the chiefs held council. He motioned for the shaman to come over. Before they joined the few chiefs left living, Cortez told him, “The wepes have let me know that bad things will happen if we should surrender to the army. They showed me that going north toward Grandmother’s Land is better.”

White Bird nodded his understanding, “I too think this way. I don’t trust the one-armed general. I think that he will hang me and the other chiefs and warriors and maybe you. Colonel Miles, who asked to speak with Joseph under a white flag, has kept Joseph. The army officers are not to be trusted.”

The chief and shaman went into the dugout, where White Bird told the other chiefs what the wepes had shown the tiwet. White Bird went on to say, “Had we listened to the dream visions that some people had from the beginning of this trouble, we would not have lost so many of our wives and children and brothers. We would now be with Sitting Bull. We would have our horses, and the one-armed general couldn’t chase us.” The wise old man paused for effect, and then went on, “I say that the bands should start to move north as soon as we can. The warriors could prevent the soldiers from following the bands and then catch up with them later. I think that the soldiers are tired, hungry, and cold and do not want to follow or to fight.”

Shooting started up between some soldiers and warriors in their rifle pits. The warriors in the dugout didn’t seem worried about this. They knew that the soldiers liked to shoot even if there were no Indians in their sights. The warriors in the rifle pits shot at the soldiers to keep them from getting brave enough to make another charge.

The chiefs and warriors in the dugout talked about Joseph and speculated as to whether he was still alive. They had the hostage lieutenant brought before the council. He had been well treated, with a good place to sleep, food to eat, and water for washing. The chiefs hoped that Joseph had been treated as well.

The lieutenant wrote a note that could be delivered to the army officers telling them about his good treatment. Cortez read the note, as did a warrior who could read English. “This is a good note,” they told the chiefs. The warrior interpreter volunteered to take the note to the army. He walked toward the officers’ tents carrying a white flag. A soldier came out and took the note, while the interpreter waited. A few moments later, the soldier brought a note from the army officers in response, which the interpreter delivered to the chiefs.

The lieutenant read the note and told the chiefs that Joseph was alive, but wasn’t being treated as well as he himself was being treated by the bands. The note also said that if the lieutenant were allowed to return to the army camp, the officers would release Joseph.

The chiefs did not trust this offer. Also, they and the warriors were angry that the army was assuming its victory over the bands. They asked the captured lieutenant to write another note, saying that Joseph must be brought to a place midway between the soldiers and the warriors under a flag of truce. The lieutenant would be brought there also, and the exchange of captives would be made. The warrior interpreter carried this note to the army camp for delivery to the officers.

An army officer came out carrying a white flag. All shooting stopped. Joseph was brought out by several officers to the midway point between the camps. Then the chiefs had two warriors take the captive lieutenant out also. The exchange was made, and Joseph returned with the warriors.

All crowded around Joseph, anxious to hear what Colonel Miles had said. Joseph told them that the army wanted the non-treaty bands to surrender all their guns. Then the army would take the bands to the Yellowstone Valley, where they would spend the winter. In the spring, they would be returned to Idaho. Joseph told the chiefs that he had made a counter-offer to Miles—his band would give up half of their rifles, but they needed to keep the rest to hunt for meat.

Miles had said that this wasn’t good enough and immediately ordered that Joseph be taken captive, even though the truce flag was still up. Joseph, with anger in his voice, said that the soldiers tied him up in blankets and left him outside all night to sleep on the ground near the mules.

Many of the warriors waved their rifles and argued to continue fighting. The army had lowered its truce flag, and soon rifle shots were heard. “See,” the warriors yelled, “The soldiers have lied three times. They want to continue the battle. Tiwi! We are still at war! This war is not over!”

White Bird strongly urged the chiefs to leave the camp with the non-combatants of their bands and tell their warriors to fight from the rifle pits. Their brave fighting would give the Ni-mi-pu bands time to reach Grandmother’s Land. “The women, children, and old people are suffering, crouched like animals in their dugouts,” White Bird told the chiefs. “Walking to Grandmother’s Land could not be any harder on them than staying here, freezing and hungry.”

To encourage their serious consideration of White Bird’s argument, the shaman repeated what the wepes had told him. In as strong a voice as he could muster, he intoned, “The spirits have warned against making a truce with the soldiers. All the wepes danced in a line facing north, showing me that it would be best to head north, away from the soldiers. Their crying told me that surrender would be tragic. Going north would be hard, and the people would suffer, but the wepes did not cry about this choice.”

Joseph didn’t seem to take the shaman’s words seriously. He only nodded.

One of the older warriors then reminded the chiefs that Sitting Bull and his warriors could be arriving at any time. Then the army would have to make peace or fight a battle against both the Ni-mi-pu and the Sioux warriors. “The soldiers will fly many white flags when they see Sitting Bull and his warriors on the hill,” concluded the older warrior. All the warriors chuckled at that vision.

The shaman looked at White Bird for a decision, but the old chief spoke only to Joseph. “I will not surrender my people to the soldiers. If you speak of truce with Colonel Miles or the one-armed General Howard, you speak only for your band. You must never speak for the Lamtama band.”

Joseph nodded agreement and responded, “This has always been the way of the Ni-mi-pu. Each band chooses which way to go. Lean Elk and Looking Glass are both dead. We followed their leadership to reach this place, but now, each band must choose its own future.”

White Bird then stated his decision, “The Lamtama will stay one more day while I talk with the people. Then we will get ready to leave. People from other bands are welcome to travel north with us.”

Cortez went then to his lodge and found that the two children were still with Welweyas. The woman/man told the shaman that the children were from the Wallowa band and that they had no one to care for them. He went on to say that he had once lived with the Wallowa and that he wished to look after the children. “They are too small and hungry to walk to Grandmother’s Land.”

The shaman saw in the large sad eyes that Welweyas had chosen a path knowing that Cortez might not agree with it. He replied, “You are free to do as you wish, Welweyas. I will go with White Bird and the Lamtama band. Joseph is considering making a truce with the army. If he does, there will be food and blankets for his people. You and the children would be taken care of, but you must know that the spirits showed me that there would be much sadness for the people as captives of the soldiers. You will no longer be free to do as you wish.”

Welweyas spoke again, more strongly than he had ever spoken before. “I have never been free. I was born to be neither a man nor woman. I was made a slave. I was given to you to pay for a healing. You have always treated me well, but I still had nothing of my own and I couldn’t leave. I would now like freedom from you so that I can take care of the children.”

Cortez was surprised at Welweyas’s words. He had never considered himself to be a slave-owner. The shaman thought that Welweyas had willingly taken care of his lodge and food for a share of whatever they had. “Of course, you are free to go as you wish. I have always considered you to be a friend—never a slave.”

Tears trickled down the cheeks of the kindly person who had cared for the shaman’s lodge for these years without asking for anything more than a warm place to sleep and a little food. Cortez told Welweyas, “Take whatever robes, blankets, and cooking things you need to care for the children. I will take only my parfleche and one blanket.”

The cold and snow continued to make the evening dismal, but only a few shots were fired on either side before dark. Cortez rolled in a blanket near the pit covering that Welweyas had made. The woman/man had found food and managed to cook it over the buffalo dung fire. The children ate well and fell asleep under a buffalo robe. Welweyas and the shaman ate tough buffalo haunch and talked little.

Morning brought no change. The chiefs were still talking about what to do. The warriors exchanged rifle shots with the soldiers from their hill-crest pits. Then the soldiers started to shoot their big gun with exploding shells. They must have known that there were only non-combatants in the camp dugouts and pits. The big gun wasn’t effective against the warriors that shot at them. This angered Cortez. He acknowledged that some warriors did bad things to women when they were drunk on whiskey, but these soldiers seemed to try to kill those who could not fight back. Just as Cortez was thinking this, a big gun shell landed right on a shelter pit where people were hiding. It exploded causing the ground to cave in. The shaman ran to the spot with some warriors. Using only their hands, they dug out four women and two children alive. A grandmother and her granddaughter were found dead.

The chiefs and warriors were again very angered. Some talked of attacking the soldiers’ camp and killing as many soldiers as possible, regardless of their own losses. Cooler heads argued that there were too many soldiers; all the warriors would be killed, leaving the non-combatants without anyone to fight for them. “The soldiers kill our women and children just to make us angry,” one warrior exclaimed. Another added, “If we are to fight the soldiers again, we should choose the time to fight—not just shoot back after they have shot at us.”

There was no improvement in the weather, and the night was again long and miserable. Cortez worried even more that the time to head toward the border might be slipping by the Lamtama band. They had learned from the scouts that Howard’s army would be joining Miles’s soldiers soon. The chance to attack and win a victory was past. He only hoped that the armies would not charge the non-treaty camp for one more day.

When morning arrived, the shooting began again, but there didn’t seem to be any preparations for an attack.

It was about mid-day when two well-known reservation Ni-mi-pu men rode toward camp carrying a white flag. They had been traveling as scouts with Howard’s army. They called out in Sahaptin to the chiefs, saying that they were glad to see that so many of their brothers were still alive. They also asked about their daughters who had been traveling with the non-treaty bands.

Chuslum Hihhih—the loud-mouthed Ni-mi-pu who had wanted to kill the captive lieutenant—walked up to the two men and yelled that he was going to shoot them because they scouted for the one-armed general. The chiefs ordered the foolish man to leave them alone.

The two men told the chiefs that they were concerned about Joseph’s people and were glad that the fighting seemed to be dying down. “General Howard wants no more war,” they reported, “and Colonel Miles says that he and Joseph will be friends this day. He wants no more war, either.”

Chief Joseph told the messengers, “Go back where you belong—with the soyapo soldiers.”

The chiefs and head warriors again held council. Several told Joseph that he shouldn’t trust Howard. They were sure that the one-armed general would hang him and many others. “Remember how his soldiers attacked us at Lahmotta when we approached them under them a white flag. Remember how they took our property and didn’t pay.”

The warriors watched the messengers return to the army camp and saw that they were met by General Howard. After the messengers reported what had happened, Howard began yelling. The warriors couldn’t hear his words, but they could see his anger.

The two Nez Perce messengers came again under a white flag and told the chiefs that Colonel Miles wished to speak with Chief Joseph.

Joseph told the messengers that the chiefs would hold council. The head messenger firmly stated, “The soldier chiefs said to tell Joseph again that they want no more war.”

Joseph turned to all the chiefs and warriors and insisted that he had never said that the non-treaty bands would surrender. “It was Miles who kept saying to me that they wanted to end the war. I told them that the Ni-mi-pu bands had never declared war. We had only defended our people from the army’s attacks. All we have ever wanted is to find a better place to live.”

Then Joseph turned to the messengers, “Go tell Colonel Miles that I will meet with him at the midway place.”

Not long after, a few soldiers came out with the truce flag and a buffalo robe to stand on. Joseph and several of the lesser chiefs, accompanied by some of their warriors walked out to the site to talk. White Bird and others did not.

From a distance, Cortez couldn’t hear what was being said, but it appeared that the exchange of words between Miles and Joseph was friendly. Then Howard joined them, appearing angry. After a few moments, however, the three seemed to come to an agreement. Cortez saw Joseph hand his rifle to Miles as a sign of agreement of some kind. White Bird emphatically stated, “This is Joseph’s surrender. I don’t trust the army to stand by a truce. I will lie dead under the snow, here at this place, before I will be made captive and wait to be hanged.”

“This is a sad day for the Ni-mi-pu,” the shaman responded to White Bird. “While the soldiers are not shooting, however, it is a good time for the Lamtama to leave for Grandmother’s Land.”

“When it is dark, and the snow is falling, we will leave quietly. The snow will cover our tracks. The soldiers might not even know that we are gone,” the old chief told his shaman, along with any of our chiefs and warriors who choose not to go with Joseph and the army.

Cortez told Welweyas what had happened and again assured him that he was free to join Joseph’s people. “The soldiers will not see you as a warrior. They should give you food and blankets for the children.”

“I dress as a woman. The soldiers will think that I’m the children’s grandmother.” The woman/man then turned to look directly into Cortez’s eyes for the first time. “Simahichen Tim, I am sad that I will not share your lodge. You have treated me well.”

Tears welled in Welweyas’s eyes when Cortez told him, “You have taken on a great responsibility with the children. I wish you and them good lives. Someday, old friend, we may again sit by a lodge fire and talk of our time together, but in these troubled days, I must go with White Bird and the Lamtama.”

Cortez was concerned for Welweyas and his adopted children, but the trail north would be very hard and dangerous for the children. He left the little family and went to help White Bird talk with the Lamtama people, to help them choose for themselves whether to go to Grandmother’s Land or to join Joseph and his people.

We also talked with the people from other bands and found that many wanted to follow White Bird. Not even all of Joseph’s people would accept the choice that their chief had made.

Some warriors took their rifles to the army camp during the afternoon. Many women and children went over and got food and blankets.

Just as the sun was setting on this sad day, Cortez went back to where his lodge belongings had been left and found that Welweyas and the children were gone. The empty camp increased his melancholy. The shaman found his parfleche and a blanket coat that his lodge-keeper had set out. These were all the things of his present life that he would carry into the future.

White Bird’s band watched the soldiers who guarded the northern perimeter of the camp until they were settled in for the night. Snow was starting to fall again. Hopefully the snow would prevent the soldiers from seeing the band leave and cover their trail.

White Bird led out into the gloom. It was easy to follow the tall, white-haired chief. Seeing the Ni-mi-pu trailing off into this snowy night reminded Cortez of the visions warning him of his adopted people’s future when he had asked for a prophesy that night on the bank of the Hell Gate River, twelve years earlier. This heartsick night in the snow seemed to show the vision to be true. The painful connection created a knot in the shaman’s empty stomach.

This remnant of the non-treaty bands left on foot for the trek northward: wounded warriors were helped by the strong—women carried the small children—older children walked together—no one talked—those who cried did so without sound. Melancholy rested heavily on everyone. Until this night, the non-treaty bands had been together—all traveling the same way. This night the bands were divided. There had been more than seven hundred in the Ni-mi-pu non-treaty bands when they left Idaho. On this night, about two hundred and fifty were walking away from about three hundred and fifty, who had been, in essence, defeated by the army. The people wept for the dead ones left in graves along the trail. The people wept for the relatives and friends who would be going with Joseph and the army. They wept for the days ahead. They wept for the days that once were but could never be again. The people knew that hardship would be constant, but most wept because their campfires would be empty of many loved faces.