Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  Little Wolf knelt to examine the many tracks on the trail south of the settlement of Medicine Creek. There had been no need to track the white men and his stolen horses up to that point. He knew where they were going. But here, where the trail forked off to the west, the posse had met another group of riders. He signaled for Sore Hand to come take a look. He said nothing while the old Nez Perce looked closely at the pattern of hoofprints.

  Sore Hand looked up at him. “Soldiers,” he stated.

  Little Wolf nodded agreement. The heavier army mounts left a distinct pattern and a consistent spread that indicated horses walking in a uniform file. “They met these horses,” he said, indicating the prints they had been following. “They stopped to talk.” Sore Hand nodded agreement and both men followed the soldiers’ trail for a few yards, walking slowly, their eyes glued to the ground. Of special interest to Little Wolf was the single set of unshod prints falling in the center of the soldiers’ tracks. It was a clear message to him. “The soldiers took Rain Song with them.” Sore Hand agreed.

  “They take her to the reservation at Lapwai,” Sore Hand said.

  Little Wolf straightened up and turned to look in the direction of the settlement. The anger that had torn at his soul was still burning brightly, but he had disciplined himself to rein it in, allowing his mind to operate rationally. Following the trail of the white men who had murdered his friends, he had not allowed himself to form mental pictures of what might be happening to Rain Song. Now, his mind was eased a fraction by the knowledge that Rain Song had been handed over to the soldiers. She would probably not be harmed, but merely taken to the reservation.

  In one graceful movement, he jumped on his horse and turned away from Medicine Creek. “We’ll go to get Rain Song first. I’ll come back to settle with the white men after she is safe.”

  Holding to a fast walk, Little Wolf and Sore Hand reached the eastern slope of the Lapwai Valley after riding four hours. They circled around the fort, keeping the ridge between them and the garrison below, and rode on toward the agency. Sore Hand persuaded Little Wolf that it would be best if he went in alone. He knew many of the people on the reservation, and he would find out where Rain Song was and return with her. There was no need, he insisted, for Little Wolf to be seen there. Many of the Nez Perces scouted for the army and might report Little Wolf’s presence there. Little Wolf reluctantly agreed and waited near the creek while Sore Hand rode down to the agency.

  It was well after dark when Little Wolf saw Sore Hand’s form appear in the brambles near the creek. He walked to meet his friend, alarmed to see that the old man was alone.

  “She is not there,” Sore Hand said as soon as he slid down from his pony. “I saw Two Kills. He was a friend of my brother. He said they have been told of Rain Song, that she was being held in the soldier fort. He said the soldiers know that she is your wife.”

  “We’ll go to the fort,” was all he replied, but Little Wolf’s mind was churning with the realization that the word was now widespread about his true identity. For two years, he and Squint Peterson had kept to themselves in the mountains and no one seemed to be even mildly interested in knowing who they were. Squint showed up in town occasionally to trade for supplies. He had a few nodding acquaintances but no one got close enough to pose questions about who he was, or where he came from. In this part of the country, it wasn’t anybody’s business what your past was. A good portion of the people who wandered into Medicine Creek were there because they were running away from something.

  But that had all changed overnight for Little Wolf. No longer could he expect to be left alone as long as he minded his own business. He was now seen as a threat to the settlement. Worse than that, the army now knew that the escaped Cheyenne warrior, Little Wolf, was at large in this territory. He was once again the hunted, and Rain Song was the bait they were using to set their trap. He blamed himself for not warning Rain Song of the importance of keeping his name secret. She could not understand the white man’s ability to send information over such great distances. In her mind, the Little Bighorn was far away, too far for people here to know him.

  As he made his way up the creek, letting his pony walk slowly to avoid stumbling in the dark, his mind turned naturally to his Cheyenne and Arapaho upbringing. His father, an Arapaho warrior married to a Cheyenne woman, lived with his wife’s people and trained his adopted son in the Cheyenne tradition. Little Wolf now called on that tradition and silently prayed to Man Above to guide him. After riding for no more than a mile from the creek, he abruptly pulled his horse up to a stop and waited for Sore Hand to come up beside him.

  “I’ve changed my mind, old friend. I will go back up in the mountains tomorrow and talk to the spirits. I will eat nothing so that my mind will be clear. It has been a long while since I made medicine and I think it’s a good idea to ready myself for war.”

  Sore Hand thought this a very wise thing to do. They rode into the hills until they found a suitable place for Sore Hand to camp while Little Wolf went off alone to meditate. The next morning, before the sun rose over the hills, Little Wolf rode out.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Brice Paxton lifted the flap of his tent and stood outside while he watched the familiar rawhide-tough figure of Sergeant Lucas Baskin approaching from across the parade ground. Baskin had an odd way of walking, sort of rolling his feet to the outside with his toes out and his heels in, like a duck. Probably from too many years in the stirrups.

  Baskin was a good man, Brice decided, and a first-rate sergeant when it came to whipping a troop into shape. Judging by the direction Baskin came from, Brice guessed he had been to the hospital to check on the woman and was now on his way to report to him. Someone called out across the parade ground as Baskin crossed in front of the infantry barracks and the sergeant responded with something Brice couldn’t make out from that distance—some of the constant ribbing that went on between the infantry troops and the cavalry, no doubt. At Lapwai, it was usually good-natured. Due to the overcrowded conditions, the barracks were not sufficient to hold all the troops assigned there, so E Company was billeted in tents pitched to the north of the barracks. Brice and the other officers were also billeted in tents apart from the troopers, in the southwest corner of the parade ground.

  “Looking for me, Sergeant?” Brice called out when Baskin approached.

  “Yessir. I thought you’d probably wanna know how our guest is doing.” When Brice nodded, Baskin continued. “Well, I just come from the hospital. I’ve checked on her twice already today.”

  “Well, how’s she doing?”

  “She just sits in the middle of the room all day, singing some kind of chant or somethin’. I tried to talk to her to see if she was gittin’ enough to eat, but I couldn’t make no sense outta what she said. I got Yellow Hand to go talk to her again and he said she was all right, that all that singing she was doing was a mourning song. She’s grieving for her sisters.” He paused to scratch his head, puzzled. “She ain’t causing no trouble, though, just making a lot of noise.” He paused again. “What if that buck of hers don’t come for her? How long are we gonna keep her in that room?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see what the captain says, I guess.”

  “I just posted one guard at that door. You think we need to put more than one guard on her?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. There isn’t but one door and the window is too small for anyone to squeeze through. One man ought to be able to handle it during the day. Nothin’s gonna happen during the day. Nighttime, that’s when we have to be ready. After supper I want you to post guards behind the hospital and on the other side of the guard house. And, Sergeant, they’ve got to stay out of sight.” He thought a moment. “And maybe it would be a good idea to have a couple of men hide out in the stables or the hay yard. He’d most likely come in that way, if he comes.”

  “Yessir,” Baskin replied, nodding his head up and down. He hesitated for a moment as if
about to ask something else, but then promptly turned on his heel and retraced his steps.

  “Baskin, pick good men. We want to catch this son of a gun.”

  “Yessir, I will, Sir.” You didn’t have to tell me that, Sonny, he thought to himself as he angled across the parade ground toward the E Company tents.

  Baskin picked a dozen men for the special guard detail. He planned to use six on duty at a time and let them alternate on two-hour intervals. A half dozen men should be sufficient to snare one Indian warrior, even if that warrior was Little Wolf. Any more than that would be too conspicuous, making it impossible for them all to hide in the shadows.

  The first night passed without incident, the sun rising to find the Indian woman still secure in the small room behind the hospital. As the daylight spread across the gray parade ground, Baskin’s special guard detail picked up their gear and headed for the mess tent. Since they were on special detail, they were excused from standing in the reveille formation. Baskin advised them that they would again be on the detail that night. He knew they wouldn’t mind because they would be excused from duty during the day.

  * * *

  Inside the eight-by-twelve converted storeroom, Rain Song got up from the pallet she had slept on and moved to the one small window. From it, she looked out on the parade ground with frightened eyes. A bugle was blaring and many soldiers came from the buildings and the tents and formed lines before a tall flagpole. There was a great deal of shouting by some of the soldiers and the bugle blared some more. Then there was more shouting and the soldiers broke from the lines they had formed and most of them ran toward the tents again.

  Rain Song did not understand any of it. At first, she thought the soldiers were forming to have a dance, like the warriors of her tribe danced before hunting or going on the warpath. That thought caused her to despair because she feared that they were going out to hunt down Little Wolf. There were so many of them! When the soldiers did not jump on their horses and gallop out right away, she was even more puzzled. It added to her despair when she realized that most of the soldiers would stay here at the fort. How could Little Wolf come for her with so many soldiers there? She should not have told the Nez Perce scout that Little Wolf would come. She feared she had caused them to set a trap for him. Why had she so naively thought she could speak freely to the Nez Perce scout? He was now the army’s man.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind her. A soldier with a white apron tied around his waist entered the room with a tin plate of food. He placed it down on the floor and stood looking at her for a few moments, a broad grin on his face. Over his shoulder, Rain Song could see the guard outside the door, peering at her. The man in the apron said something to the guard and they both laughed. She did not understand the words, but she recognized the smug expressions. She turned toward the wall and remained there until she heard the door close again.

  “She’s a purty little thing, ain’t she?” the mess attendant commented to the sentry as he pulled the door closed behind him.

  “I guess,” the sentry replied, “fer an Injun. I ain’t paid much attention to her.”

  The mess attendant laughed. “Boy, you ain’t been out here as long as I have.” He started off toward the kitchen, shaking his head and still laughing. “Nossir, you ain’t been out here nearly as long as I have.”

  As soon as the door was closed, Rain Song moved quickly to pick up the plate of food. She seated herself in a corner of the small room, her back pressed tightly against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible while she hurriedly ate the salt pork and beans. Like a caged animal, she paused frequently to listen to the sounds outside her prison. There were many sounds, all strange to her, and frightening to one who could not understand but an occasional word of the language.

  She was left alone for over an hour. No one opened the door to look in on her and she heard no one talking outside. After a little more time had passed, she heard the sentry speaking to someone, but she could not understand the words.

  “What are you doing back here, Barnhardt?”

  “I gotta pick up the squaw’s plate.”

  Inside the room, Rain Song heard the bolt slide and, moments later, the door swung open. She looked up to see the man wearing the apron standing in the open doorway. He stood there for a long moment, his eyes fixed upon her, a grin spread across his face.

  “Did you enjoy your breakfast, sweetie?” Barnhardt cooed, glancing at the empty plate. “Peers like you et ever’ last crumb of it. I bet you got a healthy appetite for ’bout every’thin, ain’tcha?”

  Rain Song did not understand what was said, but she was frightened by the man’s tone. She backed into the corner again and waited for him to leave. But he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave the room. After ogling the frightened girl for a few moments longer, he glanced back at the open door. The sentry was facing the other way, unconcerned with what was going on inside. He moved closer to her.

  “I bet them bucks had a good time with a purty little thing like you, didn’t they? You ever done it with a white man?” He reached out and took her arm.

  Rain Song drew back, trying to pull her arm away, but Barnhardt’s grip was too strong. The man was filthy and he smelled of sweat and dirty dishwater. She tried to pull back into the corner, but he pressed his body firmly against hers. “No!” she insisted, using one of the few English words she knew.

  “Well, you can talk after all, only that ain’t the right word. ‘Yes’ is what you need to be saying.” She struggled to separate her body from his. “Take it easy, sweetie. I ain’t gonna hurt’cha.” He tried to pull her skirt up with his free hand.

  “Damn!” Barnhardt cried out in pain as the barrel of Brice Paxton’s Army Colt cracked down on his forearm. Not knowing at first what had hit him, he turned to defend himself, his face a mask of unbridled rage. Ready to strike back, he raised his fist as if to deliver a blow, but was immediately subdued when he discovered his attacker was an officer.

  “Get your sorry ass out of here and don’t come back!”

  Brice stepped back to make room for the thoroughly chastised mess attendant, who wasted no time in doing as he was ordered. Barnhardt only glanced up once and was met by the scalding glare of the young lieutenant. If he had any thoughts bordering on insolence, he quickly discarded them. Had it been any of the other officers assigned to Lapwai, a surly cur like Barnhardt might have flashed a brief show of defiance. But Brice Paxton was a solidly built man who had a reputation for enjoying a good brawl, as any of the enlisted men who served under him could testify. This was only one of several reasons he was a favorite among the men of E Company.

  Brice followed Barnhardt to the door and watched to make sure he headed back to the kitchen before he turned to address the sentry on duty. “Dammit, Prentice, you’re not standing out here just to keep that woman from getting away. You’re supposed to keep trash like Barnhardt from bothering her.”

  Not waiting to hear Prentice’s apologies or excuses, Brice turned back to the frightened young Indian woman, still huddled back against the corner of the room. He tried to indicate through his limited knowledge of sign that he was sorry for the incident with the mess attendant. She could not understand what he was trying to say, but from his demeanor, she could see that he meant her no harm. She nodded her head and managed a weak smile for his efforts, knowing that he had acted to defend her. He backed out of the room and closed the door.

  After leaving the converted storeroom, Brice went directly to the kitchen. Barnhardt, seeing the lieutenant enter, tried to slide unobtrusively to the rear of the room behind a table stacked high with cooking pots. Brice paid no attention to him, looking instead for the mess sergeant.

  “Gentry,” he called out upon spotting the sergeant, “I don’t want that man going anywhere near the Indian woman again.” Without looking in his direction, he pointed to the man slinking behind the kitchen pots. “Send somebody else over there to take her food. And I be
tter not hear about anybody else bothering that poor girl. Do I make myself clear on that?”

  “Yessir,” Sergeant Gentry answered, his expression unchanged from the stoic countenance that generally graced his round face.

  * * *

  Yellow Hand approached the sentry, who was now standing closer to the storeroom door and looking intensely alert since Lieutenant Paxton’s reprimand.

  “What do you want, Yellow Hand?”

  “Lieutenant Paxton wants me to talk to the woman,” the scout replied, his voice without emotion as usual, giving a constant impression of indifference.

  Private Prentice stepped aside, permitting the scout to enter, but he was still aware of the lieutenant’s reprimand. “All right, but make damn sure you don’t bother her none.”

  Yellow Hand did not reply but glanced nonchalantly at the sentry as he reached for the door latch and entered the room. Prentice stood behind him and made sure the door stayed open before returning to his post.

  Rain Song looked up quickly when the door opened. At first alarmed when seeing the doorway filled by a figure in army trousers and boots, she then recognized the dark and sharply defined features of the Nez Perce scout who had talked to her earlier. She lowered her gaze and waited for him to speak.

  “The lieutenant asked me to talk to you,” Yellow Hand started. “He wants to be sure you understand that the soldiers mean you no harm and he is sorry the man from the kitchen offended you. That soldier will bother you no more.”

  Rain Song nodded, indicating that she understood. “I know that he is a good man.”

  Yellow Hand stood silently studying the young Cheyenne woman for a long moment. He could not help but admire the fawnlike eyes that gazed unblinking at him now. She was a handsome woman, worthy of a warrior chief. His thoughts were interrupted by her question.

  “Why do the soldiers keep me here in this little room?”

  “They hope that your man will try to free you. It is him they want. If you were allowed to go to the agency, it would be too easy for him to come for you there.”