Silver City Massacre by Charles G. West Page B

talk to. They didn’t seem as friendly as Red Shirt.” She looked up sadly at Joel and said, “He asked us where our wagon was.”
    â€œRed Shirt, huh?” Joel responded. “He spoke pretty good American, did he?”
    â€œReal good,” Ruthie said. “He wanted to know if Aunt Elvira was my mother.”
    â€œWell, let’s get busy cleaning this fish,” Elvira sang out cheerfully, hoping to prevent the young girl’s mind from revisiting the loss of her parents and brothers.
    Realizing Elvira’s intent, Joel said, “What are we waitin’ for? Let me build that fire up a little. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate striking the mighty Snake River than to have a feast of Snake River salmon—if that’s what it is.”
    Riley gave him a puzzled look. “I reckon that’s what it is. That Injun didn’t say.”
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    It was a pleasant evening. The two large salmon provided meat enough for everyone to have their fill, and then some. The big coffeepot was refilled with fresh spring water from the little stream and charged up again with the strong ground beans that were recovered from Elvira’s wagon. Joel imagined it to be very much like a settler’s family on their trek west.
    â€œWell, I expect I’d best turn in,” Riley finally announced. “We’ll be on our way again come sunup.” Elvira and Ruthie were soon to follow.
    â€œI’ll take a look at the horses,” Joel said when the two females returned from a visit to the serviceberry bushes on the other side of the stream.
    He picked up his bedroll and walked downstream where the horses were gathered peacefully near the water. Instead of returning to sleep by the fire with the others, he spread his bedroll and settled in for the night near a little stand of pines.
    As darkness spread her cloak across the peaceful valley, he could hear the sound of the falls, nearly a quarter of a mile away, crashing down from cliffs standing more than two hundred feet high. Ordinarily, a night such as this would bring him peace, but sometimes he had a feeling everything wasn’t exactly as it should be. He didn’t know why, but he had one of those feelings tonight, even after the pleasant afternoon and evening. He thought back about the conversation around the campfire, and the generous Bannock fisherman.
    Hell,
he thought,
these ain’t Comanche or Cheyenne. They’re Bannock, friendly Indians
.
    It had been more than two years since the last trouble between the U.S. Army and the combined Shoshoni and Bannock Indians had occurred, a winter campaign known as the Bear River Massacre. More than four hundred members of Chief Bear Hunter’s band of Shoshoni were killed. Relations were reported to be peaceful now, although Joel could well understand a reluctance on the Indians’ part to forgive and forget. He reminded himself that he and Riley had been surprised by Indian raiders twice before, simply because they hadn’t expected to be attacked.
    But even Riley said this Bannock they met down by the falls showed no signs of anything other than friendship and courtesy
. Still he had that feeling.
You worry too much,
he told himself, pulled his blanket up closer under his neck, and drifted off to sleep.
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    He wasn’t sure what had wakened him—a sound from the horses, the call of a night bird, or the sounds of the falls. Lying comfortably in his bedroll, he did not move, but opened his eyes to peer up at a three-quarter moon peeking through a break in the clouds overhead. He was about to close his eyes again when he was startled by a shadow moving slowly along the young pine trees that stood between his bed and the horses. He felt the muscles in his forearms tense as he forced himself to remain still, even as his natural reflexes told him to react. His visitor was on