Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  When he rode in from the California coast back in ’68, there was a village of Nez Perces living in the upper valley. The Indians welcomed him and the thirty-odd families that pushed through the mountains along with him. They lived in peace with the Indians for half a dozen years. Puddin had brought a milkcow and two pigs with him. The sow was carrying pigs at the time and it was Puddin’s intention to start up a hog farm and slaughterhouse and sell his pork products to the families he felt certain would someday settle the valley. His intuition proved to be reliable, for the little settlement of Medicine Creek soon began to bulge with newcomers. The valley was fertile, with good bottom land along the river, and before long, the white settlers began to crowd the peaceful Nez Perces until they moved their village even farther up the valley, beyond the north pass.

  Puddin was a prominent citizen from the beginning due to a healthy demand for the pork he produced. Of special popularity was his liver pudding, a delicacy always in demand by the people of the settlement. He soon established a reputation for the salty dish, hence the nickname “Puddin.” When the settlement became big enough to be called a town, it was only proper that Puddin be elected mayor, him being one of the founders.

  Puddin was proud of the little town and rightfully so. From a collection of a few families in covered wagons to a bonafide settlement of three hundred souls, Medicine Creek boasted two saloons, a general merchantile store, a barbershop, a livery stable, a jail, and a church. Two years before, the Indians gave them a little trouble, but with the help of General Howard and his troopers, they were driven out of the river valley entirely, leaving the valley open for more development.

  These were the thoughts that occupied Puddin Rooks’s mind as he stepped up on the plank walk in front of Blanton’s, a saloon and official meeting hall of the town council and all other committees.

  “Well, here’s the mayor now.” Henry Blanton sang out from behind the bar as Puddin walked through the door. “You’re gittin’ behind, Puddin. The rest of the boys has already got two or three drinks up on you.”

  “Howdy, boys,” Puddin greeted the gathering of men standing at the bar. There was a general acknowledgment from the row of drinkers. “Henry, lemme have a shot of that firewater there and a glass of beer.” He turned around and leaned up against the bar while he waited for Blanton to pour his drink from a dark brown bottle with no label. He nodded toward Franklin Bowers, who returned the gesture. Then Puddin turned to take the shot glass from Henry Blanton. With one abrupt motion, he tilted his head back and tossed the whiskey down, then quickly chased it with a gulp of beer. With clenched teeth, he skinned the fiery liquid down until it settled to burn a hole in his stomach. “Damn,” he said, “that’s stuff’s bad. I wish I had a barrel of it.”

  Franklin Bowers sidled over. “I reckon we better get down to business while these fellers are still on their feet.”

  “Frank’s right,” Puddin announced. “We better get the meeting started.” He nodded toward Lonnie Jacobs. “Lonnie, you and Tolbert called for this meeting. Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what’s on your mind?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what we got on our minds. Me and Tolbert run up on a nest of Injuns back in the mountains, not more than a good day’s ride from here.” He went on to describe the little horse ranch in the secluded valley and the Indian inhabitants observed there. The initial reaction from the gathering of men was one of irritation, what with the fear of Indian attack having been recently snuffed out. One indignant voice after another complained that there might still be some of the original inhabitants remaining.

  “Dammit,” Puddin Rooks exclaimed, “when are we gonna see the last of them thieving beggars?” His question was answered in a chorus of disgruntled voices. “Where did they come from? Are they some of that bunch that left with Chief Joseph? Or some of that bunch over at Lapwai?”

  Tolbert spoke up. “They ain’t neither one. These ain’t Nez Perce. They’s Cheyenne Dog Soldiers.”

  This brought a stunned silence over the barroom. “What the hell are you talking about, Tolbert?” Franklin Bowers demanded. “Cheyennes? This far west? How do you know they were Cheyenne?”

  Tolbert went on to tell of his identification of the renegade Cheyenne warrior, Little Wolf, so close to their homes and loved ones. “He’s a white man, raised by the Injuns,” he said. He told them that the army had been led to believe that the notorious outlaw had been killed while trying to escape from an army guard detail, which reportedly took him back to Fort Lincoln to be hung.

  At once there was a general undercurrent of alarm. “How many?” Bowers wanted to know. When told that they had seen only three men and three women, there was an immediate sense of relief, even some laughter.

  “It ain’t just six Injuns,” Tolbert warned. “It’s Little Wolf. He ain’t just no ordinary Injun.”

  “Didn’t you say he was a white man?” Arvin Gilbert asked.

  “Yeah, I did. But you might say it’s more like he used to be white. For my money, he’s a hundert-percent Cheyenne and the rankest buck of the pack at that.”

  Arvin scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Surely you can’t be talking about that wild-looking white feller that comes in my store, lookin’ to trade.”

  Tolbert shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I don’t know about that—I reckon it could be. I ain’t never seen the feller you’re talking about. But I didn’t see no other white feller out there.”

  “Well, I’ll be…” Arvin’s voice trailed off. “He never seemed to be looking for no trouble, sort of a quiet kind of feller.”

  “Don’t let that fool you,” Tolbert quickly replied. “He’d as soon gut ya as look atcha.”

  Franklin Bowers held his piece for a few moments while this latest bit of news circulated the saloon. Bowers didn’t like Indians and he had a special dislike for half-breeds. But at the bottom of his list were white men who turned Injun. He had heard of the Cheyenne warrior Little Wolf, but he didn’t know until that day that Little Wolf was really a white man. His hand absentmindedly fell to rest on the handle of his Colt .45 while he considered the prospect of a Cheyenne renegade living right under his nose.

  The noisy discussion continued in the crowded barroom until Puddin Rooks banged on the bar with his empty beer glass. “Let’s hold it down for a minute, fellers, so we can decide what we oughta do about this. Franklin, you been kind of quiet. What do you think? You reckon we ought to do anything about it, or has ol’ Tolbert and Lonnie got us worked up over nuthin?”

  Tolbert started to protest, but Bowers silenced him with a hand raised in check. When he spoke, it was without emotion, masking the deep hatred burning inside him for all things Indian. His voice was soft and deep, almost a monotone. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think we’ve got ourselves a problem that’s coming, if it ain’t already here. From what Lonnie and Tolbert says, I suspect there ain’t but a handful of ’em hiding out up there. But if we don’t burn ’em out of there now, pretty soon there’s gonna be a whole valley full of their friends and cousins. And then it’s gonna be just like the Nez Perces all over again, only this time it’s gonna be Cheyennes.”

  Arvin Gilbert spoke up. “Freighter come through here last week told me ol’ Dull Knife’s Cheyennes broke out of the reservation down in Oklahoma territory and was trying to head back to the north. Maybe this is some of his bunch, come over our way.”

  “Naw, I don’t think so. You said this feller has been holed up in that little valley for a year or two.” He paused to reconsider. “’Course, some of them other Injuns Lonnie and Tolbert seen mighta come from Dull Knife’s bunch. That’s the very reason we need to get rid of that nest before more of ’em move in.”

  Morgan Sewell, the town’s barber and physician, stood quietly drinking a beer, listening to the discussion. He was confused on one point. “Tolbert, are you sure this feller you saw is Little Wolf? Seems to me I heard that the leaders of that trouble they had down at Fort Robinson was Dull Knife and Little Wo
lf. But they was both old Injun chiefs. This feller you say is Little Wolf is a young feller, according to what Arvin says, and a white man at that.”

  “Damn, Morgan, you think there ain’t but one Injun named Little Wolf?” Tolbert began to get worked up. “Dammit, I know who I seen, and his name is damn shore Little Wolf. And he’s damn shore the son of a bitch I seen at the Little Horn.”

  Franklin Bowers put his hand on Tolbert’s arm to calm him down. “Ain’t nobody doubting you, Tolbert. You’re right, there’s a lot of Injuns with the same name. The Little Wolf we got here is the one we better get rid of. Then there won’t be but one of ’em with that name. I ain’t worried about the other one.” He gave Puddin Rooks a long glance, prompting the mayor to make an official move.

  “All right, then. Sheriff, you’re saying we ought to form a posse to go clean up this bunch. Is that right?”

  “It is,” Bowers returned.

  “Anybody else have anything to say? Are we all agreed on it?” Puddin paused and looked around the room. No one spoke against the action. “All right. Franklin, how many do you think it’ll take?”

  “I’ll take as many as can ride, but I have to have at least twenty.” He paused. “Everybody’s welcome but the preacher. Don’t even tell him about it. We don’t need him getting in the way of our business.”

  There was no shortage of men willing to ride with the sheriff. They had ridden before to take care of other problems, and more than a few of them were presently farming land that had been home to the Nez Perces before they were driven out. Of the twenty-seven citizens assembled in Blanton’s saloon, all but one, Morgan Sewell, were ready and willing to ride. Morgan begged off, saying he had to stay close to home because his wife was about to deliver a third child. Of course Blanton had to remain behind. It wouldn’t do for the saloon to be closed.

  After an additional hour or so of drinking and discussion, the Vigilance Committee meeting broke up and the members dispersed to their homes to gear up for an early morning departure. Their mission, as seen in their minds, was one critical to protect their homes and families from possible savage invasion.

  2

  “The elk are moving back up the valleys. I want to hunt while there are so many of them in the mountains.”

  Rain Song smiled at her husband. “Maybe you can kill a young one that has fattened up on the spring grass.” She helped Little Wolf as he gathered his weapons and supplies and packed them on the pack horse tied at the cabin door. “Are you going alone?”

  “Yes. Since Lark may have her baby any day now, I think Sleeps Standing would rather stay close by. And I want Sore Hand to take care of the horses.”

  Rain Song laughed. “Why does Sleeps Standing concern himself? He won’t be of any help when the baby comes. What do men know of having babies? When the time comes, White Moon and I will help Lark with the child. Sleeps Standing will most likely be in the way. Why don’t you take him with you? He’ll go if you ask him to.”

  “I know. I’m leaving him here for my sake, not Lark’s. He is so anxious to have a son, I think he might drive me crazy before we got back.”

  “He shouldn’t worry. I believe it’s a son. She’s carrying the baby too high to be a girl.”

  He smiled down at her. She is probably right, he thought. She usually is. How could one so young, and seemingly innocent, know so many things? He paused a moment to look into her eyes. Dark and mysterious, they seemed to reflect the thoughts of his soul. He wondered if she knew the power she held over him. “Well,” he finally said, sighing, “if I don’t get started, we may not have any meat for you to cook.”

  She walked with him to his horse. Sleeps Standing was waiting there, talking to Sore Hand. The old Nez Perce nodded and handed the reins to Little Wolf.

  “Where will you hunt?” Sleeps Standing asked.

  “I think I’ll go up through the north pass and back down to the river on the other side. That was a favorite spot of theirs last spring. If the elk are there, I should be back in three days.” He stepped up into the saddle and settled himself, then smiled down at his Cheyenne friend. “Maybe you’ll be a father when I get back. Rain Song seems to think it’ll be a boy.”

  A broad smile lit up Sleeps Standing’s face. “Lark thinks so, too. She is so big, I think it might be a buffalo.”

  Little Wolf laughed. “Maybe we can raise buffalo along with the Appaloosas.” He started to leave, but paused when Rain Song placed her hand upon his leg. They exchanged meaningful glances, all that was necessary between them. Then she stepped away and he wheeled the spotted horse and started toward the head of the valley.

  * * *

  A little more than half a day after Little Wolf led his pack horse down through the narrow pass that separated two steep mountain ridges, a party of twenty-two heavily armed members of the Vigilance Committee crossed the western slope that guarded his little valley. Of the twenty-six who had originally agreed to ride, four had begged off with various excuses. Franklin Bowers was not concerned. Twenty-two should be more than sufficient to handle the problem, and he preferred to leave behind any who might feel a bit squeamish about the business at hand.

  The one man he insisted had to come along was the mayor. Puddin Rooks was of little value in a real fight, but Bowers wanted the mayor’s presence to give the mission an official blessing. Everybody was hot to act and ready to shed any amount of blood and plunder while the extermination was taking place, and that’s what it was, an extermination. But Bowers knew from experience that, after the deed was done and things cooled down, then people found their religion again and started pointing fingers, looking to disassociate themselves from the slaughter. And the fingers usually pointed at the sheriff. In the end, it always turned out that he was the one who led it, that he was the one who did all the killing, that he was responsible for all of it, no matter if there were a hundred who willingly participated. That’s the way it had been in Silver Creek and again in Twin Forks, and the reason he drifted into Medicine Creek. Well, he thought, this time it’s the committee that’s doing the business and the mayor is here to give it sanction.

  Bowers looked upon himself as an exterminator and he was damn good at his job. He had no patience for people who preached peaceful co-existence with the red man. The Injuns had squatted on the land long enough. It was time they were pushed out of the way of the white man’s natural right of progress. Manifest Destiny, they labeled it back east in Washington. Well, he had no use for politicians any more than he did for Indians, but he was right there in bed with them on the issue of Manifest Destiny.

  * * *

  Sam Tolbert appeared on the ridge and waved the party up. He waited in a cluster of pines while Bowers and the rest of the men caught up to him. As soon as Bowers pulled up, Tolbert started talking.

  “Just like I said, they’re down there all right, pretty as you please. I left Lonnie and Purcell down the other side of the ridge a piece to keep an eye on ’em.”

  “How many?” Bowers asked.

  “I didn’t see but five of ’em, the three women and two men. I didn’t see Little Wolf, but that don’t mean he ain’t around.”

  “Well, I’d like to get ’em all while we’re at it.” He turned to Puddin Rooks. “We’ll leave the men here while I go back down the ridge with Tolbert. We’ll watch ’em for a while and wait to make sure they’re all there. When I’m ready, I’ll send back for you.” Puddin nodded. “And, Puddin, don’t let ’em start no damn fires. I don’t want to signal the damn Injuns that we’re here.”

  After crouching behind a small boulder for a long while, Bowers pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and stared at it. It was almost four o’clock. “Dammit, we’ve been settin’ here for almost an hour and a half.” He looked at Tolbert, who was watching the valley below from behind a twisted pine trunk. “Tolbert, are you sure you saw that white man down there?”

  “Shore I’m shore,” Tolbert shot back, the irritation plain in his tone.

  “Wer
e you sober when you were here?”

  “As a damn judge. You ask Lonnie. He saw the son of a bitch too, same as me.”

  His answer did nothing to ease Bowers’s irritation. He wanted the king rat of this little camp of vermin. It was getting late and Bowers was determined to move on the camp before darkness found them still in the steep mountain passes that guarded the little valley. It was already too late to make it back to Medicine Creek that day. He at least wanted to get clear of the mountains before making camp.

  “Hell,” he finally blurted, “he ain’t there. Even a lazy buck wouldn’t lay around in the cabin this long. He’d have to come out for something to eat.”

  Lonnie Jacobs moved over next to him. “Well, whaddya wanna do?”

  “What do I wanna do?” Bowers got to his feet. “What I came out here to do. I wanna take a piss and then I’m going down there and burn them lice outta there.” He motioned toward Purcell. “Go on back and get the rest of ’em. And tell ’em to keep it quiet. I don’t wanna give any of ’em time to run off.” He watched as Purcell made his way back up the slope.

  “What about Little Wolf?” Tolbert asked. “I thought he was the stud buck we was after.”

  Bowers thought about it for a few moments before answering. “Well, you’re right. He is the one we want, but I reckon when we burn his nest out, he’ll most likely hightail it as far away from here as he can. He’ll damn sure know we won’t tolerate his kind around here. He can haul his ass back down to Fort Robinson with the rest of his Cheyenne trash.”

  “I don’t know…” Tolbert started, his voice trailing off. Of the committee, he was the only one who had actually seen Little Wolf before he and Lonnie had stumbled upon the Cheyenne’s ranch, and that was at the Little Big Horn, when Little Wolf had been stunned by a bullet and was in captivity. And he had heard many stories about the notorious war chief of the Cheyennes from fellow soldiers who had faced Little Wolf in battle. From what he had heard, Little Wolf was no ordinary fighting man. He glanced up at Bowers to find the sheriff glaring at him. Tolbert shrugged his shoulders and said, “I reckon you’re right. He’s a mean one. I hope he runs, is all I’m saying.”