Thunder in the Mountains

By J.M. Stenfors

In 1877, the United States Army issued an ultimatum to the non-treay bands of the Nez Perce.  The document said they must abandon their traditional hunting grounds in thirty days and retire peacefully to the Lapwai Reservation or the army will move them by force.  Chief Joseph of the Wallowa Band agrees to move his people.  Unfortunately, a betrayal by white settlers and a series of rash acts by his own young men, sets his people on another path in defiance of the military order.

 

The ultimatum affects the lives of other people as well.  The young, white lawyer - Rob Stuart, raised in Chief Joseph's Band - becomes an advocate for the Nez Perce's rights.  Instead of fighting in the courts, he watched helplessly as the military forces his adopted people into war.  Also, in jeopardy are his new marriage to Becca and his fraigile friendships with her neighbors in the Wallowa Valley.

 

Relieved that her beloved ranch is no longer in jeopardy from a governmental confiscation, Becca also feels conflicted by the ultimatum.  Becca shared the Wallowa Valley peacefully with the Nez Perce every summer since she settled there.  She feels the loss of her friends among the tribe - especially, she'll miss Soaring Eagle, a senior warrior and his wife, Snow Bird and their child, Cub.  She, also, fears her husband's dangerous involvement with his adopted people, the Nez Perce.

 

As all the participants gather to face the oncoming storm, each must choose a path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.M. Stenfors
• Release date: Jun 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781386711933

J.M. Stenfors

J.M. Stenfors is a writer and author of the novel Navy Blue, a historical romance set during World War II.  She is an avid reader of historical novels, loves traveling in the American West and cannot past a historical marker without reading it.  She combined her two interests and one oddity to write several other historical novels featuring unconventional, independent and adventurous women in the Gilded Age and the Progressive Era.  Her novels are Thunder in the Mountain, Quest of the Heart, and Eye of the Beholder.  Joelene earned a Bachelor of Science Degree in Economics at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas.  She lives with her family and a version of Grumpy Cat, Rosie, in the beautiful Pacific Northwest in Hillsboro, Oregon.

Book preview

Prologue

In the northeast corner of the state of Oregon lies a special valley.  The meadows grew a rich harvest of food.  Kehm-mes (Camas bulbs), thlee-tahm (bitterroot), Khouse, tsaweeth (wild carrot) and keh-kheet (wild onion) grew wild in its rich soil.  Shimmering fields of wild hay covered the valley’s floor.  Wild tangles of serviceberries, gooseberries, hawthorn berries, currents and chokecherries bushes covered the hills each summer.  Its forest yielded a bountiful harvest of pine nuts, black moss, and pine bark.  Its clear, cold mountain rivers teemed with the flashing bodies of migrating Chinook, Silver Dog, and Blueback salmon.  Several varieties of trout, sucker, succulent eel and large sturgeon swam in its lakes and rivers.  Its canyons were alive with herds of shy mule deer, majestic elk, fleet-footed antelope and elusive mountain goats.  A cerulean blue sky reigned over this valley of plenty.

The valley was part of the traditional hunting grounds of the Wal-lam-wat-kins, a branch of the Nez Perce Indian Tribe.  This rich and beautiful valley was more than mere land to these nomadic people.  It played a special part in their heritage - a sacred sanctuary. Then the white man discovered the valley and everything changed.

Chapter 1

Pausing on the ridge the local people called Smith’s Mountain, Rob Stuart took off his wide brimmed hat.  He wiped away the sweat gathered on his forehead beneath the band of his hat.  His piercing blue eyes swept across the valley below, a dark, ferocious scowl marred his ruggedly handsome face.  The muscles in his jaw, tightening menacingly, gave him the look of a man about to do battle.  Looking at his face, one could easily believe the man would win any fight, no matter the odds.

On that peaceful June day in the year 1873, standing where Rob stood and seeing what Rob saw, it was difficult to find anything displeasing in the serene view spreading out below him.  Settler’s sturdy log cabins dotted the valley floor; their fences neatly divided newly plowed fields.  Their cattle, sleek and contented, grazed in the rich meadows of bunch grass and wild hay.  Through this scene of peace and prosperity flowed the life-giving waters of the Wallowa River.  In a few short years, the trappings of civilization made a remarkable inroad into the tranquil valley.

With a grunt that showed his continuing dissatisfaction, Rob Stuart lifted his eyes. This time the breathtaking scene greeting his eyes brought an unconscious smile to his face.  The high mountains remained unspoiled, he thought.  Even in the last few days of June, some of the higher peaks wore a white mantle of snow; they gleamed clean and glowing in the brilliant blue sky.  The mountains, in a continuity of time and space, remained the untouched and silent guardians of the valley.  As Rob Stuart studied the distant peaks, he suddenly felt the tension drain from his body.  Those mountains were his comfort, his hope that other parts of his beloved valley had escaped the ravages of civilization.

Turning around abruptly, Stuart emitted a long piercing whistle and then instantly shouted, Caesar, here!

Immediately a huge mastiff appeared at his master’s side. Caesar descended from an ancient breed of dogs; Roman soldiers stationed in pre-Christian Britain discovered them.  The Romans bred the dogs to fight lions and bears and later, Christians in the Roman amphitheaters.  True to his breed, Caesar displayed those dominant characteristics that first attracted the attention of those long-ago Roman soldiers.  Fearless to a fault, Caesar was also loving and gentle, as well as faithful and vigilant.

In the nearly four years of exile in the eastern United States among his father’s relatives, Rob never found a more dependable companion and friend than his dog, Caesar.  However, in Harvard’s dignified halls and the serene parlors of Cambridge’s intellectuals, Caesar’s great size and boundless energy caused many and sometimes humorous encounters.  Even now, the picture brought a grin to Rob’s face.

As he rubbed the dog’s massive head fondly, Rob could feel the animal’s eagerness to be away.  All right boy, said Rob softly, let’s get Wind Walker and we’ll go.

Now if Caesar was an unusual animal, then Wind Walker was extraordinary.  The stallion was a proud descendant of the Nez Perce’s famous breed of horse, the Appaloosa.

Horse breeders in the West, both Indian and White, could not fail to recognize the Appaloosa’s visible trademark, a white blanket sprinkled with brown spots spread across the horse’s hindquarters.  Breeders also prized the Appaloosa for its stamina and versatility.  Wind Walker, a prime example of the Appaloosa breed, had a flaw; a meaner horse never ranged the country.  In the short time that Rob had owned the horse, Wind Walker had managed to kick, bite, and throw his new owner, not once but several times.  The horse had spirit - but his spirit, if not tamed, made the magnificent animal worthless.  Even Caesar gave the cantankerous horse a wide berth.

Mounted on his old pinto and safely out of the reach of Wind Walker’s teeth and hooves, Rob Stuart whistled sharply for Caesar.  He pulled on Wind Walker’s lead and the strange trio wandered down Rock Creek and onto the valley floor.  Rob struck out briskly toward the southeast and as he moved down the valley, he suddenly felt an uplifting of his spirit.  He was going home!

Home, he thought, now that was a white man’s idea.  One hundred and sixty acres neatly measured off and recorded in a dusty book, giving substance to a man’s dreams or nightmares, depending on the caliber of the man who owned the it.

An Indian, on the other hand, might have several favorite places where he pitched his camp to fish, hunt, or gather roots.  Because of his nomadic nature, he would never call anyone place his home.  The Nez Perce revered the Wallowa Valley as an integral part of their survival and their tradition; but the valley was not their home.  Instead, their idea of home would, out of need, encompass a far larger area; an area undefined by artificial boundaries and unrecorded except in the collective memories of the tribe.

Eastward the Nez Perce’s territories extended to the fertile Great Plains where the decreasing herds of buffalo still ranged free.  Westward it extended to the mighty Celilo Falls on the Columbia River - an ancient cite of trading and where Indian and white alike fished the huge runs of salmon.  The Nez Perce’s territory encompassed thousands of square miles of rugged wandering canyons, high inaccessible mountains and lush meadows

Rob shook his head ruefully.  Thinking of the valley as a home proved to him that he had lived to long among his father’s people.

Pulling his horse up abruptly, Rob Stuart stared at a crudely printed sign.  Written on the weather-beaten board was a name, Horseshoe Valley. It pointed toward his valley.  Damn, he thought, another bad habit of the so- called civilized man.

Names and labels, everything neatly defined and then carefully labeled, was the way of the white man.  He put a name, usually his own, on every rock, stream, mountain, valley or river he came across. If inanimate objects were not enough, educated men had an affinity for labeling their fellow human beings.  Red brother, niggers, breeds, white trash, shanty Irish, Jews were just some of the labels used in the civilized East and the not so civilized West.  Everyone wore a label.  Lord, he thought, such dark and angry thoughts for a homecoming.

Suddenly another thought struck him.  If a sign directed people to the small valley, then someone must live there.  A sick feeling knotted in his stomach as he tried to imagine his special place violated by a settler’s cabin.

Many canyons and small valleys riddled the country.  These canyons and valleys branched out from the main Wallowa Valley like forks of lightning; some softly defined by smooth, rounded hills and others were impregnable walls of unyielding rock.  Even in all their journeys, Rob doubted that Joseph’s band had discovered all the canyons and valleys crisscrossing the Nez Perce’s hunting grounds.  The thought should comfort Rob Stuart, except the sign existed. Two such valleys with a horseshoe shape so close together was unlikely. 

Not ready to meet the settlers yet, Rob Stuart reluctantly turned his horse toward the hills.  High above the small horseshoe shaped valley, a path, a mere game trail, moved up through the timberline.  From this vantage point, Rob could survey the valley at his leisure and in solitude away Rob pulled out some jerked venison and chewed on it thoughtfully as he guided his horse through the silent forest.  He allowed his thoughts to drift aimlessly as he rode.  Horseshoe Valley was a retreat for his family.  Joseph’s band returned each year to the Wallowa Valley for the summer.

Rob’s father broke away from the band and brought his Indian family and his white son to this special valley.  There with his stepbrother, Soaring Eagle, and his half-sister, Yellow Moon, Rob Stuart spent some of his most memorable summers of his life.

Rob’s stepmother, Summer Fawn, did not understand those special weeks.  All the complicated rules and traditions of the tribe that unwittingly erected a barrier between children and parents vanished; everyone enjoyed a time of unrestricted pleasure.  Rob, only then, was vaguely aware that his father was anything but happy with his chosen way of life.

David Stuart, Rob’s father, began his association with Joseph’s band in 1849 when Rob was just three years old.  Like so many other Americans, David Stuart succumbed to the magical allure of the goldfields in California.  This white man, unlike most men, chose not to leave his family behind in the States.

Tragedy struck the party of prospectors quickly and without mercy.  Within days, a fever annihilated most of the party including David’s young and beautiful wife.  When Old Chief Joseph and his warriors came across the camp, David Stuart had just buried Rob’s mother and three others in the party.  The rest of the ill-fated party fled.  Although the Nez Perce - overall - upheld an excellent relationship with their white brothers from the East, they were reluctant to help the white man and his child.  Bitter experience taught them to beware.  A white man’s disease could easily destroy an entire village within days.

Sensing their unwillingness to interfere, David decided on a bold and desperate move.  David did not know if the leader of the band spoke English or not; but his only son’s survival was uppermost in his mind.  Taking the three-year old boy into his arms, the weary man hugged his child fiercely and then placed him on a horse.  The white man held out the reins of his son’s horse to the leader, Tu-eka-kas or Old Chief Joseph as the white men called him.

Take him, whispered David Stuart, exhausted and emotionally drained.  Raise him as your own.

The white man studied the chief.  Then satisfied that his son was safe, David turned away and gave into his grief.

Seventy-two hours later David Stuart awoke refreshed and bewildered to find himself amid a bustling Indian camp.  A mature, beautiful woman held his son, Rob, in her arms.  She watched with bright curiosity as the white man tried to orient himself to his surroundings.  Her interest was both sympathetic and understanding.

I am called Summer Fawn, she said.  Her English, softened by a slight French accent, was flawless.  Her smile was as gentle as her name and unknown to David then, it began a long healing for him.

The Nez Perce were nomadic people who spent at least nine months of the year engaged in food gathering.  When they found David and his son, this part of the tribe was returning from a late spring buffalo hunt and a trading venture with the Plains Indians.  Both undertakings were successful and eagerly they returned to the main body of the tribe to display their prowess.  Only the death of Summer Fawn’s husband in a buffalo stampede marred the homecoming. Because both David and Summer Fawn recently lost both of their spouses, they naturally gravitated toward each other’s company.

A natural born athlete, the white man easily moved into the circle of hunters.  Although not nearly as competent as the warriors in their native skills, he did impress them with his eagerness to learn their ways.  It was not long before he contributed his fair share to the welfare of the tribe.

David’s willingness to learn the ways of the Nez Perce did not stop at hunting.  Their approach to life fascinated him, driving the false dreams of California gold from his head.  David Stuart’s attitude attracted two mentors to his side.  Old Chief Joseph was one of the mentors; he correctly read the white man’s strength of character in those few minutes when David unselfishly gave up his son to insure the boy’s survival.  Summer Fawn, Tu-eka-kas’s niece, was the other mentor.  She fell deeply in love with the handsome white man.

Under Nez Perce tradition every child’s welfare and upbringing was the collective responsibility of the whole tribe.  Teaching and disciplining of the children fell to the older generation, usually the grandparents.  The white boy, Rob, was no exception.  Young enough to escape the burden of grief and to adapt without resistance, Rob Stuart became part of the tribe even quicker than his father did.

Because they recently lost their son and an important provider for the family, the widowed Summer Fawn’s in-laws adopted both Rob and his father, David.  The white man was a strong hunter and Summer Fawn had a logical suitor for her hand.  David had a family to help him over his grief and Rob had a tribe full of teachers.

The first year passed quickly and in the summer of the next year, David and Summer Fawn married.  They joined first, according to Nez Perce’s tradition and then, again by a white man’s priest.

In the years that David lived with the Nez Perce, he only strayed twice from their ways.  First, he insisted that Rob have a proper education.  Each year before the early snows fell in the mountains, David took his son to a mission run by the Catholic fathers.  There, Rob reluctantly learned his lessons.  At the first sign of spring, his father returned to take his son back to the tribe.  Second, after several years of a childless marriage, Tu-eka-kas with the full consent of his niece, advised David to put Summer Fawn aside to take a second wife.  David steadfastly refused to do either.  His devotion won him his heart’s wish.  Summer Fawn gave him a child; a daughter named Yellow Moon, born in Rob’s thirteenth year.

David’s life with the Nez Perce and his son, Rob, was near idyllic. However, the increasing encroachment of the white man into the Nez Perce’s traditional hunting grounds upset him.  As the years passed David watched sadly as each successive treaty siphoned off more and more land from the Nez Perce’s domains.  The white man’s practices when dealing with the Indians—broken promises, undelivered or damaged trade goods, mismanagement of tribal money, and just plain chicanery – enraged David.  He became increasingly outspoken against the White Men.

As an educated man, David Stuart knew the government followed a standard pattern in framing their Indian Policies.  They soothed the heathen with gifts and promises.  Then they gradually restricted the tribe’s movements and finally they confined them, by force if necessary, to a reservation where the tribes died of neglect. The United States government, in less than a hundred years, subdued most of the powerful Indian Civilizations in the East.

The government, turning on the Western Tribes, slowly forced the major ones onto reservations.  The saddest truth about most of the men managing government policies was the men were either rogues or misguided fools. 

In 1863 the Wal-lam-wat-kins, Joseph’s band and Rob Stuart both reached a crisis in their respective existence.  A growing number of miners invaded the Nez Perce Indian Reservation set up in 1855; violent incidents between the Indian and White occurred with increasing frequency.  The Indians appealed to the white man’s justice to redress their wrongs.  The government’s answer was to call another council and draw up another treaty.

The impressionable seventeen-year-old Rob Stuart attended.  From the start, the commissioners asked the Nez Perce to cede more land to the government.  Ten thousand square miles made up the proposed concession, including mines and some of the richest agricultural land in Oregon and in the territories of Washington and Idaho.  With their proposal, the well-meaning commissioners managed to create an irreparable chasm in the core of the Nez Perce Tribe.  The proposed reservation reduced the tribal lands to an area of five or six hundred square miles near the south fork of the Clearwater.

The treaty sacrificed Joseph’s beloved valley, Wallowa, and his tribe’s wintering grounds.  Chief Joseph and the headsmen of those Nez Perce who still wandered freely outside the confines of the original reservation refused to sign the treaty.  The piece of paper ripped apart the unity of the powerful tribe.  For Joseph and the non-treaty bands, 1863 marked the year that they began their campaign of passive resistance against governmental pressures to move them onto the new reservation. 

Angrily Rob Stuart watched the proceedings with an emerging sense of awareness.  The high-handed methods employed by the government commissioners against the Nez Perce sickened him.  White men, believing Indians were either children - tolerated because of their ignorance-or animals, held them in contempt. The commissioners’ attitudes enraged Rob.  The self-righteous white men had no idea of the caliber of the men with whom they dealt.  They underestimate the Nez Perce’s native intellect; believing the Nez Perce were not smart enough to know the white man stole their lands.  They understood.  All they lacked was legal skills and the respect of the white man to fight back successfully.  Nevertheless, a white man could fight them as an equal; especially a man educated in the white man’s law and a background steeped in the traditions of the Nez Perce.  That white man could win if he believed in their cause.

Rob Stuart committed immediately.  The commitment led him, first, to the ivy-covered halls of Harvard’s law school.  Then he lobbied in the chambers of the state and territorial legislatures having jurisdiction over the Nez Perce’s traditional homelands.  His fight finally led him to Washington DC. There, while the Nez Perce carried on their campaign of passive resistance, Rob sought justice for his adopted people.  He failed. 

After three years of intensive effort, Rob returned to Joseph’s band defeated and discouraged.  All he had to show for his time and effort was another empty and useless treaty.  The white lawmakers listen to him with no more understanding than those white commissioners, ten years ago, had listened to the Nez Perce.

Rob Stuart’s horse stumbled.  With a start, the man realized that he was further along the trail than he intended.  He missed the second trail leading down from the ridge and into a narrow canyon.  Rob Stuart backtracked quickly; the time grew late and already the shadows gathered on the floor of the canyon.  Moving steadily down the streambed, he searched the rugged walls for familiar landmarks.

Rob remembered that his family had used the cave in this canyon as a storehouse for their extra food and supplies. Woven baskets containing dried salmon and wild game - mostly venison and buffalo- lined the walls; other baskets contained dried Camas root and small loaves of Knouse.  Berries and fruits, dried and preserved, served as a hedge against the starving time in midwinter.  Other items included fishing traps needed only in the summer and extra buffalo robes for trading.  Many such caves and caches existed throughout the Nez Perce’s land.  The articles, valuable for survival or trading, offered no temptation; thieving among the members of the Nez Perce tribes was almost unknown.

Darkness gathered as Rob Stuart reached the foot of the trail leading to the cave.  He dismounted.  All his instincts warned him to wait until morning but a primeval sense of urgency drove him up the steep trail.  His feet, although encased in white man’s boots, scarcely made a sound as he scrambled over the final ledge and stood before the cave.  He hesitated.  The urgency he had felt all-day deserted him now.

Just inside the cave’s entrance, Rob reached unerringly for a torch that he knew was there; he lit it.  As the cave’s interior flooded with light, a hundred memories assaulted Rob’s senses.  He could almost hear Summer Fawn’s gentle voice directing her men about the proper storage in the cave.  He, his dad, and his brother, Soaring Eagle, and his sister, Yellow Moon would exchange glances of pained acceptance as they restacked the buffalo robes or rearranged the food baskets.  They hunted and fished in the summer until Summer Fawn felt secure in the family’s and, the tribe’s welfare for yet another year.  Laughter and happiness abound.

In the ten years since he left the tribe Rob returned once, in the summer between finishing law school and before he began his crusade for Indian rights in the Northwest. Rob, eager to move on, cut the visit short.  As he stood in the cave, Rob had no idea what drove him on so relentlessly.  He shrugged and then walked over to the pile of buffalo robes and trading blankets.  He would take some down to his camp; June nights in the high country were chilly.  As Rob slipped his hands beneath the robes, he first felt his father’s pokes of gold; David was the only white man who panned gold in the Wal-lam-wat-kins’ territory with the tribe’s permission.  Of course, David used the gold sparingly- as not to start rumors of a gold strike - to help his adopted people.  Rob set them aside as he rummaged under the robes again.  He felt a second bundle, wrapped in a waterproof covering.  He knew what the bundle held, his father’s books.  Rob’s father carried them wherever he went.  The King James Version of the Bible, Webster’s Dictionary and his father’s diaries - they were David’s constant companions.  Rob touched the leather-bound volumes lovingly.  He, Soaring Eagle, and Yellow Moon received their first reading lessons from the Bible.  Later he and his brother and sister spent hours poring over Webster’s Dictionary.  They tried to find words to stump David in a game that they played each night by the campfire.  They never read the diaries; David said that his diaries were a private part of him that he could not share with them while he lived.  Tears started in Rob’s eyes as he crushed the books against his chest.  The feeling, like a part of his soul was gone, persisted all that day.  White man’s logic had no explanations, but his Nez Perce's heart knew and understood.  The books were his final proof that his father, David Stuart, was dead.

Chapter 2

Rebecca Bjortsen, sitting cross-legged on the ground, rested her finely chiseled chin on her small, slim hand.  Her eyes, the color of a green sea flecked with golden sunlight, smoldered with anger.  Even the view of her land from the ridge behind her cabin, a view that normally filled her with such pride, did nothing to soothe her towering rage.  Clenching her free hand into a neat fist, she drove it into the soft, yielding earth repeatedly - pounding out her frustration in a rapid tattoo.  Even in her anger, Rebecca Bjortsen was a beautiful woman and unlike most women of her time, Rebecca thrived on the rough, frontier life.  Her rugged outdoor existence heightened rather than detracted from her beauty.  Her skin glowed with health and her sun-kissed auburn hair sparkled as it tumbled unrestrained down her back.  Her vitality and zest for living drew people to her.  For Rebecca Bjortsen, there would never be any halfway measures in her life.  She would love to her fullest and she would hate with an equal force.  Right now, she hated!

Rebecca buried her hand deep into the rich soil and then lifting it, she allowed the warm earth to trickle slowly through her slender fingers.  She belonged to the land; her soul sprang from the earth and her heart lay open to its beauty.

Her father, from Texas, was the first to instill an all-consuming love for the land in her.  Becca, he said, preferring his nickname for his daughter to her given name, respect the land.  It will never let you down.

When he went off to fight in the War Between the States, Becca worked his land as best she could.  Barely seventeen, she fought her battles against cattle rustlers, drought, and even a stray Indian or two; however, what she could not fight was her mother’s unhappiness.  Scarcely six months after they received word of the death of Becca’s father, her mother sold the ranch and moved to San Francisco, taking her daughter with her.

Becca’s mother positively blossomed again in the western outpost of civilization.  Becca smothered.  Everything about the city – the tall buildings, the treeless streets, and the throngs of people – sickened her.  Forced to finish her schooling in an exclusive young woman's academy, Becca wanted nothing more than to kick off her shoes and ride bareback across open prairies.  Her spirit withered.

Then at the lowest point of her existence in that teeming city by the bay, Nyles Bjortsen entered her life.  From the first moment she saw him, a first generation American of Scandinavian descent, Becca knew she had found a friend in her place of exile.

His laughter first attracted him to her.  She was riding.  According to her mother, it was the only outdoor pursuit suitable for a young woman of breeding.  An officer from the Presidio escorted her.  When she first heard Nyles' laughter and looked up, she saw him surrounded by a knot of excited children.  He held a large, beautifully painted Chinese kite aloft as the children squealed with delight.  He loped gracefully across the open space until the kite, caught by a gust of wind, soared freely in the brilliant afternoon sky.  Enchanting, was all Becca could think as she watched.  The piece of Chinese art with its bright hues of red, yellow, black and gold danced merrily above the dark green of the trees.

Come along, Miss Rebecca, called the officer.  We will be late for your mother’s tea.

Shaking her head impatiently, Becca urged her horse forward.  She found herself grinning as she stared up at the fierce but humorous Dragon’s face.  Suddenly on an impulse, she dismounted and ran to join the children in the field.  The sight of a beautiful woman amid his street urchins stunned Nyles for a moment.  He halted suddenly and stood staring.

Your kite, she laughed.

Uh, he murmured.

Your kite, she repeated.  She pointed to the brightly colored object now fluttering helplessly without a firm hand on the string.  The paper dragon was on a crash course with a large kite-eating tree.

Recovering quickly, he handed the spool of string to her.  Run, he shouted.  We’ve lost the wind.

The gallant officer sat surprised as the lovely but frigid Miss Rebecca looped the trailing skirt of her riding habit over her arm and raced joyously across the field.  The big Norse God and a pack of street urchins followed close on her heels.

A short while later, Becca flung herself on the ground.  Her heavy auburn hair, loose from its confines, tumbled profusely down her back; grass stained her beautifully tailored riding habit and dirt clung to its hem.  She looked happier than she had in months.  A few minutes later, Nyles Bjortsen also flung himself down on the ground.  He knew he had never seen a lovelier woman in his life.

Nyles Bjortsen, he said, holding out his hand. 

She smiled beguilingly as she placed her small, slender hand into his.  Rebecca Wilson.

A simple handshake blossomed into a full friendship; a month later Nyles became a suitor.  He was an unacceptable suitor according to the standards of Becca’s mother, but he was a suitor nevertheless.  Since the day, Mrs. Wilson sold the ranch in Texas, what Becca’s mother thought was of little importance to her headstrong daughter.  Several weeks later in a quiet, simple ceremony Nyles and Becca married.

Later, in the years after Nyles died, Becca could never be sure if she fell in love with the man, himself, or with the man’s dream.  In retrospect, maybe, the man and his dream were inseparable.  At least, Becca hoped so.  It hurt her to think that she might have given a manlike the gentle Nyles any less than a full measure of her love.

From the first moment when Nyles spoke so lovingly of his dream in Oregon, she fell under a spell – bewitched by a single word, Wallowa.  More than two years passed before she saw the place of Nyles’ and now her dreams.  Nyles intended to stay in San Francisco for another six months so Rebecca could have a proper honeymoon before they returned to the harsh life on the Oregon frontier.  However, to Nyles’ delight, Becca wanted nothing more than to put as much distance between herself and San Francisco as soon as possible.  For Nyles’ parents, it proved to be a fortunate decision; the older Bjortsen suffered an accident confining him to his bed.

Rebecca loved living on the large well-run farm in the Grande Ronde Valley.  The Bjortsen family accepted her; Nyles’ brothers adored her and his parents adopted her as a daughter.  The older Bjortsen spoke broken English: however, the three brothers were fluent in English, their native language, and several local Indian dialects.  Carl, the youngest of the Bjortsen boys, taught Becca both Norwegian and a few Indian dialects. 

Becca felt especially drawn toward young Carl.  At thirteen, Nyles’ youngest brother was not hard and practical like his father and his older brothers.  Carl was a dreamer and he dreamed of the magnificent Nez Perce horses. Moreover, he told Becca all about the magical Appaloosas.

Nyles worried about sheep and the market for their wool.  Thor, the second brother, worried over the yield of wheat an acre.  Carl’s dreams, however, raced across Oregon Valleys on the back of an Appaloosa stallion; Becca listened to Carl.  Moreover, she persuaded Nyles to take them to the Nez Perce’s spring horse races at Fort Walla Walla.

Enthralled with the colorful pageantry, Becca Bjortsen watched with the unabashed delight of a five-year old at a Christmas gathering.  The Indians, parading in their brightly hued emblazon costumes, enchanted Becca.  Cayuse, Umatilla and the Yakima tribes also attended the gathering.  Their teepees spread over the valley floor and their herds of horses roamed freely in the grasslands.  The herds drew both Becca’s and Carl’s attention.  In particular, Soaring Eagle’s ponies drew them to the Nez Perce's camp.  Becca never saw lovelier horses.  Repeatedly she returned to watch them graze.  Finally, unable to resist, she gave into the temptation to ride one.

Becca don’t, whispered Carl, these Indians are damn sensitive about their half- broken horses.

Don’t worry, Carl, she laughed.  Excitement flushed her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with adventure.  My pa taught me well.

Hearing Carl’s yell of warning, Soaring Eagle emerged from his lodge and watched in total amazement as a white woman swung up on one of his Appaloosa mares.  She, then, kicked the animal into a full gallop.  He was angry, at first, but as he watched this unknown woman ride, his anger turned to astonishment then to admiration.  In all his life, Soaring Eagle never saw a woman ride like her – not even a Nez Perce woman.  When she turned the horse at the far end of the field, a large knot of Indians gathered around Soaring Eagle with the now captive Carl.

Silently they watched as she fought to control the spirited animal through a turn and then again kicked the animal into a full gallop.  As Becca raced back toward the gathering crowd, those stoic Indians began to cheer and laugh like small children; all, that is, except Soaring Eagle.  Flush and exulted, Becca reined the horse to a standstill among the admiring crowd.

Becca, you were incredible, laughed Carl.

She turned joyously toward her young brother-in-law.  Then seeing Soaring Eagle’s stern face, she was immediately aware of her surroundings.  Silently she slipped her leg over the mare’s back and allowed Carl to help her dismount.  Instantly the mood of the crowd changed.  They became as quiet and subdued as Becca herself.  Soaring Eagle approached, as dignified as any European king.  The crowd parted before him.  Ignoring the beautiful white woman, the Nez Perce warrior carefully examined his horse.  His meaning was clear and insulting.

Laughter spread through the crowd of Indians and Becca felt her cheeks flush with anger.  Who was this damn Indian to insult her in such a manner? she thought.  Becca ignored the fact she had practically stolen his horse.  Come Carl, she said angrily as she grabbed the boy’s hand.  We are late.  She pushed through the crowd and pulled Carl along behind her.  If she had bothered to look back, Becca would have seen a small smile play across the impressive face of Soaring Eagle.

Later that night as they sat by the fire at their camp, Becca told Nyles about the afternoon’s episode.  To her surprise, he burst into laughter.  Do you think a ride like that remains a secret in a place like this?  You are notorious.

She flushed, deeply embarrassed.  I didn’t mean to hurt you, Nyles. Their horses are. . .

Are so tempting, he finished her sentence.

Becca giggled.  Exactly

Nyles drew her into his arms and kissed her soundly.  I love you, Becca Bjortsen, even if you are a notorious horse thief! he teased.

The next morning as they prepared to leave the fort, Carl came running into the camp.  It's that Indian from yesterday.  He is coming here.

Sure enough, the stalwart Nez Perce warrior walked arrogantly at the head of a group of Indians.  They infiltrated the white man’s camp without opposition.  Before Nyles reacted, Becca stepped forward.  It had been her act of foolishness, she thought defiantly, as she lifted her chin. 

If Soaring Eagle noticed her, he gave no sign.  Instead, he stopped before Nyles and motioned a lovely, young Indian woman to come forward.  The Nez Perce woman, walking gracefully through the crowd, led the exceptional Appaloosa mare Becca rode the previous day.

Oh God, whispered Becca running an expert’s eye over the horse.  Don’t let anything be wrong with the animal.

Shyly the Indian woman handed the halter rope to Nyles.  My husband, Soaring Eagle, she said softly in perfect English, says your woman rides like a Nimiipuu, one of the people.  She should have a horse worthy of her skill.

Looking at his wife, Nyles was at a lost for words.  Becca came forward and smiled at the Indian woman.  Please tell your husband he honors us to much with his magnificent gift.  The mare is a fine Appaloosa.  Nyles was about to object; normally a married woman did not accept a gift from any man but her husband.  However, the size of the crowd surrounding them convinced him to remain quiet.

As the buckskin- clad woman spoke to her husband, Becca took the opportunity to study the Nez Perce warrior.  The man was as magnificent as the horses he raised.  Soaring Eagle, with the easy grace of a natural-born equestrian, stood as tall as Nyles.  His face was impassive as he listened to his wife, but his dark eyes flickered over the white woman.  Detecting a trace of humor around his mouth, Becca realized with a start, the man either spoke or understood English as well as his wife.

Grinning wickedly, Becca spoke again.  It would be our honor if Soaring Eagle and his family would visit us in the Grande Ronde Valley.  Perhaps we could even discuss stud services for my new mare.

Even Nyles gasped at Becca’s boldness but Soaring Eagle did not even blink an eye.  The honor will be ours, Mrs. Bjortsen, replied the Indian warrior, speaking flawless English.  Then he was gone like an ancient king parading arrogantly among his subjects.  He left the white men to gape in wonder.

Soaring Eagle did visit the Bjortsen farm that summer and they bred Becca’s mare to one of the warrior’s stallions.  By