Chapter 11: Funeral and Flight

The stone monument marking Chief Joseph's grave stood like a witness to the assembly of mourners gathered to honor one of their own. A chill wind blew across the rough ground, picking up bits of sand and weed. Women pulled their shawls tightly over their shoulders and held their coat collars closed; men blinked as swirls of grit flew into their faces. They pulled their wide-brim hats down over their foreheads. Ragged fragments of cloud raced across a dull, lifeless sky in the early spring gloom. Snow lingered in patches on the low hills surrounding Nespelem, an Indian community on the Colville reservation, site of the Chief Joseph Cemetery.

Despite the fame of the great chief interred there, poverty and neglect made the cemetery site a rough and barren scene. Slender white wooden crosses, many tilted or fallen, marked untended graves. Some graves were marked with carved headstones; many more were unmarked and forgotten. This was a severely impoverished area, scorned by whites and mourned by the natives. One could hardly stand for more than a moment on that sacred cemetery ground without feeling a terrible melancholy, without hearing the heart-rending words of Chief Joseph calling the white man's government to account for its perfidy and injustice.

Injustice was an uninvited guest in the mind of every mourner standing there that day. They mourned another senseless act of hatred and cruelty. They were gathered to bury Jackson Redclay, one of their own. His family stood grim-faced and unmoving, lost in their own thoughts while the words of the white preacher fell uselessly among them. Soon, it was time. Emmett Redclay knelt, and dropped a feathered amulet upon the casket. A scattering of shredded tobacco was followed by a thin, streaming handful of sandy soil, picked up from the pile beside the open grave. Melba Redclay stood with her husband, her face a cold mask. Tears ran in streaks down her cheeks to be flung away by the cold wind.

No sound other than low murmurs was heard among the nearly two hundred tribal people gathered. The Redclay family moved away from the open grave and trudged down the slope to their car. Others followed and dispersed. This was not a funeral to celebrate a life lived long and full among the people. This was the grim silence of loss; the loss of a young life torn away with all its strength and promise from a community that had so little to spare.

It would have been easy to hate, but there was no hatred that day. Hate demands impassioned, violent emotions of anger and accusation. Hate found no room in their weary hearts. Angry words hurled against the whites, against the government, against the cold gray skies would be uselessly swept away on the wind, unheard, unheeded, disregarded.

The elder couple stood huddled together facing the Chief Joseph grave monument, regarding the carved face recessed in the white marble. Once the marker stood straight, gleaming, highly polished and proud. Now it was dull and stained, its corners chipped, its proud pointed crest broken. It stood tilted at a slight angle. Its base had settled unevenly in the long years since the great chief's death and burial in 1904.

"Marie must be told. Hatred of us burns fiercely across the country. The attacks are increasing. We will lose more young men and women, and children, too, if we do not guard against this terror," the old woman murmured. "It grieves me to inform her, however. Jackson Redclay was a dear friend to Marie. He helped their escape from the Owyhee mountains. She will not take it well when she learns the manner of his death."

Jackson Redclay was crucified on the hillside tree. The old couple had withdrawn into themselves to find spiritual guidance. They devoted two days to prayer chants. They sought balm and comfort for their grieving community.

"We will call her. Her husband Steve must also come. He has experience and wisdom. Despite the government ban against him, I think he will agree that he must be here to advise and assist our response," the old man answered softly.

The elders stood for a long time by the monument, lost in a silent communion of prayer. They sensed a revered spirit there; they reached for wisdom and confirmation. The sun was nearly touching the western horizon when the old man dug deeply into his jacket pocket to pull forth a small offering of polished stones and quills strung along a thin leather thong. He placed it at the base of the monument on the side facing the grave. He sprinkled it with black tobacco dust, and sang a low, wavering chant. He turned, gently offered his hand to the old woman, his wife. Together they walked to their vehicle. Behind them, the cold wind hurled itself against the grave markers, scouring them with blasts of sand and debris. The Chief Joseph monument stood silent, accusing, an enduring witness to injustice.

"Grandmother, you and Grandfather must no longer live isolated and alone. It is not safe! Steve and I both think that you must leave immediately! We think perhaps you should join Rhys and Martha Jacobs in Salt Lake City. They have room for you there, and there is something important that you and they must do for us. We'll consult and advise you when Steve and I are able to join you. But for now, please, will the two of you make arrangements to leave ... as soon as possible?"

The old woman held the telephone receiver loosely beside her ear, holding it at an angle so her husband could share their granddaughter's voice. He moved his head away, gazed into her worried face for a moment, smiled, and nodded his agreement.

"We will go," he murmured.

"Yes, Marie, we hear you. Grandfather agrees. I agree with him. We will go. I think we will take a young man with us to drive, and perhaps two others. We have been feeling thoughts of warning. It seems that you, too, have felt the warnings. We will leave in the night, after dark tomorrow evening. Do not worry for us. We will be fine."

The old woman replaced the receiver back on its base. The antique rotary dial telephone sat stolidly on the small stand in the sitting area of their cabin. She looked around, slowly taking it all in with a circling, sweeping glance. She recalled the sights and sounds of their long life together in this tiny cabin. She sensed the memories of a long life spent in this precious home.