The First Day
One mid-April day, my sister Karen and I pedaled our bikes to the nearby country school in Corvallis, Montana. We had been cooped up for a week as a cold wind had been blowing through our valley, and it had been too uncomfortable to be outside for any length of time. Nestled as it was between the Bitterroot and the Sapphire mountain ranges, our valley had acted as a tunnel for the ceaseless moaning winds, and we were heartily tired of the relentless moving air that had battered us day and night. So on that first still day, after the wind had died down and not even the new grass stirred and the aspen trees has quit shaking, we were anxious to be outside.
On this Saturday, the schoolyard was empty. There were no cars in the parking lot, and we had the place to ourselves. We parked our bikes and ran to the playground area. Hopscotch and the monkey bars beckoned. We were free to do whatever we wanted, and we could not contain our happy squeals as we ran amok. Two blocks over, the main street was quiet with few people out and about as most of the local people were at the monthly grange meeting. The sunshine seemed even warmer as we ran and hopped and flew along the monkey bars. At some point, I stopped and sat on a bench to tie my shoe and heard an odd sound, a rustling in the distance like something large was sweeping toward us. But I could see nothing. The wind had not returned, and the trees were still and silent. There was not a soul in sight. No one was running any machinery in the grassy meadow beyond the school. I could not account for the rustling noise. I called to my sister, and she ran over to where I was sitting. I asked her to listen, and cocking her head to one side, she did so. It was obvious by now that the noise was rapidly approaching, and we looked at each other, confused and unsure what to do in the face of this invisible and thus seemingly dangerous thing headed our way. The sound was that of a hundred horses moving quickly, leather creaking and harnesses softly jangling. No voices, no other noises, just this silent army on the move. Even as we stood there, paralyzed and staring wide-eyed at each other, the unbidden and unseen noise surrounded us, pushing us together in a breathless hug. In a matter of moments, the noise had rushed past us and faded in the distance until, at last, silence returned. Without a word, we ran to our bikes, jumped on, and pedaled home as fast as we could. As we put our bikes away, we shook our heads at each other, our code for agreeing that we would not be telling anyone about what had just happened, ever.
The Second Day
One hundred years before, on a mid-April day in 1877, the 7th Calvary of the United States Army resumed its march through the Bitterroot Valley, chasing Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce tribe south to Lola Pass where the soldiers hoped to capture the tribe and force them to a reservation in Oklahoma. The past week had been hard marching as the days had been windy and cold, and the soldiers and horses both were restless and tired of the constant keening of the wind as it chased them down the Valley. That day in mid-April, the wind had finally stopped and the sun had come out. Thin as it was, the sunshine was welcome, as was the stillness. It felt good to move without being buffeted about, to finally gather up the gear that been blown around, to eat a somewhat leisurely breakfast, and to break camp and move on. They mounted their horses and headed south toward Lola, at first laughing and calling to each other in the warmth of the new day, and then settling down into a steady pace. They passed St. Mary’s Mission in Stevensville without stopping, intent on putting some miles in while the sun still shone, only waving to Father Ravalli as they rode by. On they pushed, pausing only for water from the Bitterroot River in a meadow located near Corvallis, a small settlement south of Stevensville. The few hearty residents watched the troop as it saddled back up and wished them well. On the 7th Calvary moved, apace through the Valley, the horses’ hoofs pounding, the saddle leather creaking, and the harnesses softly jangling.
Note
It is said that on quiet April days in the Bitterroot Valley, when conditions are just right, you can hear the 7th Calvary passing through on its way to capture Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce tribe, the ghostly troop never stopping or talking, the only sound that of the pounding hoofs and the creaking leather and the jangling harnesses of the horses.
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