Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  The two men sat in silence for a few minutes before Puddin got to his feet, mumbling something about needing to do something for Maggie. Bowers watched him as he made his way back toward the front door, stopping to exchange a few words with first one man and then another. Came in here all ready to demand one of my horses, the little turd. He can’t ride worth a shit anyway, Bowers thought.

  It was dark when Puddin left Blanton’s. There had been rain the day before and Medicine Creek’s main street consisted of a rank mush made of equal parts mud and horse droppings. Puddin had to shield his eyes from the glare of the bright lamps streaming through Blanton’s windows as he carefully stepped off the wooden steps and made his way along the street. “Damn!” he muttered as what appeared to be solid footing turned out to be a nasty puddle, and he hastily stepped back and went around it. He made his way past Arvin Gilbert’s General Merchantile, the windows dark now, and rounded the corner of the building.

  Puddin didn’t see the shadowed form standing in the alley between the general store and Morgan Sewell’s barber shop until he was no more than ten feet from him. Puddin glanced up, startled. “Whoa, mister. I dang near ran into you.” When there was no response, Puddin stopped in his tracks and squinted his eyes, straining to make out who it was. When he realized what he was actually looking at, he simply froze with fear. There before him in that dark place, he stood face to face with death in the form of a Cheyenne warrior, his bow fully drawn, the arrow aimed point-blank at his heart. The silence roared in Puddin Rooks’s ears and the terror that paralyzed his whole body left him too numb to react, except for a step backward in response to the blow to his chest. He looked down in horror at the arrow shaft buried deep in his lungs. Dropping to his knees, he began to whimper as he felt his life draining from his body.

  Unmoving after releasing the fatal arrow, Little Wolf watched, stone-faced and without emotion, as the first of his friends’ murderers slowly sank to the ground, gasping feebly for breath. Watching the whimpering little man, Little Wolf could not help but recall the scene as Sore Hand had described it—and he wondered if Puddin was feeling the same horror that White Moon and Lark had felt as he carved them up.

  After a few moments, the Cheyenne warrior, moving without haste, walked over and slit the dying man’s throat. Then he took his scalp. Before he left, Little Wolf ripped Puddin’s shirt away and, with his knife, carved one solitary mark above the arrow shaft. He made no attempt to extract his arrow. He wanted those who found the man to know it was Cheyenne.

  * * *

  Henry Blanton was the first to realize that Puddin Rooks might be a victim of foul play. After eleven o’clock came and went and Puddin still had not returned home, Maggie became worried and sent their fourteen-year-old boy to the saloon to fetch his father. It had been several hours since Puddin had said his good-nights and started for home. Since home was no more than a twenty-minute walk, Blanton saw the need for concern. He questioned the few hangers-on at the bar, as well as the five still playing poker at the back table. No one had seen Puddin since he left earlier in the evening. Blanton sent the boy to get Sheriff Bowers.

  Bowers was just retiring for the night, but he pulled his boots back on and accompanied the boy back to Blanton’s. With a lantern and several of the men at the saloon, they retraced the path Puddin would have taken to return home. It didn’t take long to discover the body of the late Puddin Rooks. His boy had passed within ten feet of the body, failing to see it in the dark alleyway.

  The murder of Puddin Rooks was a discomforting event for the people of Medicine Creek. It had been some time now since the threat of Indian trouble had disappeared. Now, right in the middle of town, their mayor was brutally slain, and by all indications it was the work of Indians. More than one of Medicine Creek’s citizens had already been by the sheriff’s office to express their concern, much to Franklin Bowers’s irritation.

  Sam Tolbert and his partner, Lonnie Jacobs, were among those who came into town upon hearing the news. After stopping by Morgan Sewell’s barbershop to view the body, they went to the jail to talk with the sheriff.

  “Morgan said Puddin had an arrow in his chest,” Tolbert said. “What kind of arrow was it? Nez Perce?”

  Bowers shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know, maybe. I don’t know one arrow from another.”

  “I might,” Tolbert said. “When I was in the army, I rode against enough Sioux, Arapaho, and Cheyenne to know one of them when I seen it.”

  Bowers reached behind him and pulled the arrow from under the table. “Here it is.”

  Tolbert took the arrow and studied it for only a moment before announcing, “Cheyenne.” He glanced up at Bowers.

  Bowers’s expression did not change. “I figured it might be.” There was no comment from any of the three for a few moments. None was necessary, as they were all thinking the same thing.

  Finally Lonnie put it into words. “We shouldn’t have killed them people.”

  “We should have killed ’em all,” Bowers quickly corrected him. “We should have stayed there and killed that son of a bitch when he came back.”

  “I figured he’d run,” Lonnie said, glancing nervously over his shoulder even as he said it.

  Bowers was unmoved. “Well, I expect he might, now that he’s had his revenge. But I tell you this, I hope to hell he ain’t. Ain’t nobody coming in my town and murdering somebody and living to tell about it.

  The sheriff’s confident bluster served to reassure Lonnie somewhat. “Yeah, I expect he ain’t fool enough to hang around here after what he done to poor ol’ Puddin. I guess he went after Puddin because he was the mayor.” He shook his head and added, “Poor ol’ Puddin.”

  “Just the same,” Tolbert cautioned, “it wouldn’t hurt to keep a sharp eye out. This ain’t no ordinary Injun.”

  “They’re all ordinary Injuns,” Bowers said, his face a twisted mask of contempt.

  * * *

  On a tree-covered ridge south of the little valley where he had built his home, Little Wolf made his way up through the pines to the platforms Sore Hand had constructed. He tied Puddin Rooks’s scalp to the platform at Sleeps Standing’s feet. “This is just the beginning, my brother. You will be avenged, I promise you that.” He stood for a few minutes, listening to the moaning of the wind in the pines. It seemed to be mourning the loss of his childhood friend. After a time, he leaped upon his pony’s back and headed for his camp by the waterfall. There was work to be done, but first he must rest. He had ridden through most of the night and he was tired.

  * * *

  Franklin Bowers emerged from the darkened stable into the dusky light of twilight. He carried his rifle cradled across his arms. Pausing to look to his right and left before proceeding, he then turned toward Blanton’s. It had been some time since he had made regular patrols around the little town, but he deemed it prudent for the time being, what with Puddin Rooks’s demise two days before. This Little Wolf fellow was more than likely long gone from this territory, but Injuns were sometimes unpredictable, especially those who were born white. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a closer watch over the town.

  Ike Friese’s stables were at the far end of the town and Bowers had felt a desire to check on his three new horses. Otherwise, he would not have included the stables on his walking patrol. Indian ponies or not, he had to admire the unusual spotted breed. Ike promised to have his boy start breaking them the next day, and Bowers intended to spend some time watching the process. Everything seemed peaceful enough in Medicine Creek as he expected, although there seemed to be a lot more of the town’s citizens wearing their guns these days. Whole town’s scared of one damn Injun, he thought to himself.

  The regulars had thinned out for supper when Bowers stepped through the doorway at Blanton’s. Henry Blanton was polishing some dust off the mirror behind his bar. When he caught Bowers’s reflection in the glass, he turned around and greeted the sheriff.

  “Howdy, Sheriff. Want your usual?”

  “I reck
on,” Bowers replied, propping his rifle against the end of the bar.

  “Looks like you’re toting a little more artillery tonight.”

  Bowers grunted, then replied, “I reckon. It’s mostly for show, so the townsfolk will think they ain’t gonna get scalped in their beds.”

  Arvin Gilbert, standing at the end of the bar, slid his glass down to their end to join in the conversation. “Looks like folks has got Injuns on their mind again, Sheriff.” When Bowers’s only reply was a grunt, Arvin waited a moment, then began again. “I’d say it was a right nice service we had for ol’ Puddin yesterday.” Blanton solemnly nodded his agreement. Bowers’s expression remained unchanged. “Anybody say what Maggie plans to do now?” Again there was no response from Bowers. “It’s a real shame, I swear it is.” No one spoke for several minutes. Bowers finished his drink, picked up his rifle, and started to leave. Then Arvin blurted out the one thing that was really on his mind. “I swear, Sheriff, a lot of the folks coming in my store the last couple of days have been kinda concerned about this dang Injun attack.”

  Bowers stopped and cocked his head around to look Arvin straight in the eye. “Is that so? But you ain’t concerned yourself, are you, Arvin?”

  Knowing the sheriff had a hair-trigger temper, Arvin was hesitant to confront Bowers with what worried him. But he felt he should say something about it. “No, ’course not, Sheriff. I’m just passing on some of the things people have been saying. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “What have they been saying, Arvin?” Bowers was already showing signs of getting testy.

  “Well, they say they’re wondering why you don’t go out after the killer instead of just planting ol’ Puddin in the ground and letting that be the end of it.” When Bowers’s look of impatience immediately turned into a menacing glare, Arvin hastily reminded him, “Now it ain’t me talking. I’m just telling you what I hear.”

  Bowers didn’t like for anyone to tell him how to do his job. The truth of the matter was nobody hated Indians more than he did, and his first reaction was to hunt the savage down and skin him alive. The morning after Puddin Rooks was killed, he scoured the alley between those buildings but could find no evidence that an Injun had even been there, let alone in what direction he headed afterward. He liked to think he was a practical man, and his practical side told him that he didn’t have a fart’s chance in a windstorm of finding Little Wolf. Another thing his practical side told him was that there was the possibility the savage might be waiting for someone to follow so he could bushwhack ’em. At any rate, the son of a bitch was long gone by now. These thoughts he kept to himself. To Arvin, he said sarcastically, “Maybe I’m just settin’ around waiting for him to come get another one so I can catch him when he does.” He turned and walked out the door, leaving Arvin and Blanton to speculate on his comment

  Bowers paused to relight his cigar as he looked up and down the muddy street of the mostly darkened town. All buttoned up for the night, he thought. Walking past Arvin Gilbert’s general store, he drew his lip up in a snarl at the thought of the gutless little man. The town was full of men like Arvin Gilbert, and they all expected him to tuck their little asses into bed every night and protect them from the boogie man. And they expected him to do it for damn little pay. That reminded him of his conversation with Puddin Rooks the night he was killed. The greedy little bastard, suggesting that he should get one of his horses. Well, he thought, His Honor, the late Mayor Rooks, is more than likely riding a bony mustang bareback through the streets of hell just about now.

  The jail was dark since there were no occupants in the cells on this night. Bowers stepped inside and struck a match to light his way to the lamp on the desk. Once the lamp was lit, he turned the wick down a bit and replaced the chimney, leaving his rifle lying on top of his desk. He turned toward the cell doors. “Jesus!” he blurted and stumbled backward when he was confronted with the terrifying spectre before him. The tall, sinewy bulk of a Cheyenne warrior in full war paint stood poised, bow drawn fully, the arrow aimed at Bowers’s stomach.

  In spite of his terror, Bowers tried to react. He looked furtively at the rifle, now out of his reach, and then reached for the pistol on his side. No more than three seconds elapsed from the time he turned to face Little Wolf, to the instant his hand rested on the handle of his .44. It was one second too long. The jolt of the arrow slamming into his belly caused Bowers to let go of the pistol before it had even cleared the holster.

  Bowers gasped, his face twisted in pain as he stumbled backward until he crashed against the front door. He stood there for a long moment before his legs became weak and he slowly slid down the door to a sitting position on the floor. The stoic expression of his executioner never changed as he methodically notched a second arrow and unhurriedly drew his bow. Watching in horror, Bowers put his hands up before his face, trying to protect himself. He screamed in agony when the solid thump of the arrow in his chest drove him back against the door again.

  The dying man struggled to pull his pistol again, his hand weak and slow as the arrows in his body burned his insides like hot pokers. Little Wolf did not seem concerned as Bowers managed to pull the weapon from his holster. The warrior calmly stood over the sheriff and placed his foot over Bowers’s wrist, pinning it to the floor. Bowers struggled, but had no strength to free his hand. As Bowers strained to get loose, he squeezed the trigger, causing the pistol to discharge. Little Wolf kicked the weapon from his hand. The loud discharge of the pistol did not seem to cause any sense of urgency on the part of the fierce avenger. Unhurriedly, he ripped Bowers’s shirt open and carved two long marks on the dying man’s chest. Bowers only whimpered when he felt the knife rip into his flesh. Little Wolf did not bother to cut his throat before taking Bowers’s scalp. When it was done, he stepped to the door and listened.

  The only thing that saved Ike Friese’s life that night was his immediate panic at the sight of the body. Ike, on his way to Blanton’s Saloon for a little drink before calling it a night, was almost in front of the jail when he was startled by a gunshot from inside. He hesitated at first, not knowing whether it was something he should investigate or not. Franklin Bowers was a hard man to figure out. The gunshot might have meant a pistol had accidentally gone off; a prisoner might have tried to escape and Bowers shot him; or Bowers might have been in one of his ornery streaks and simply decided to shoot at a cockroach. Ike considered it for a few moments before deciding he had best find out if anything was wrong.

  He tried to open the door but something was blocking it. Exerting more force, he pushed it open a few inches and called Bowers’s name. There was no answer. He put his shoulder to the door and forced it open far enough to stick his head through. He immediately discovered the object that was blocking the door.

  The blood almost froze in Ike’s veins when he glanced down at the ghastly remains of Franklin Bowers. Ike’s eyes were wide with horror as he looked away from the two arrow shafts to see the last flickering spark of life in Bowers’s eyes. Though he was too far gone to speak, the sheriff’s eyes seemed to be trying to convey something. And then he was gone. Ike was completely unnerved. He backed out of the door in terror, stumbling and almost falling over the hitching rail. As soon as he regained his balance, he was off at a run to the saloon, yelling at the top of his voice.

  In the shock of discovering the body, Ike didn’t see the tall figure standing calmly in a darkened corner of the room by the cell door, his rifle raised and aimed at the horrified stable owner. As Ike ran to spread the news, Little Wolf paused to take the sheriff’s rifle and some ammunition from the cabinet behind the desk. He took one last, unhurried look at the man who had led the massacre in his valley, and then slipped silently out the door, disappearing into the night.

  8

  Colonel Frank Wheaton, 2nd U.S. Infantry, Commanding Officer, Fort Lapwai, Idaho territory, glanced up from his desk when his aide knocked and stuck his head in. “Sir, there’s a group of citizens from Medicine Creek that want
to see you.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “Indian trouble,” was the answer.

  Arvin Gilbert, Morgan Sewell, and Ike Friese filed into the room and stood before the colonel’s desk. Three other men had ridden over from the settlement with them, but they decided to wait outside. It was obvious to Wheaton, even before anyone spoke, that the three civilians were extremely concerned about something. He glanced from one to the other, noting that all three seemed to be wearing similar grave expressions. He turned back to Arvin Gilbert when it appeared that he was to be the spokesman.

  Arvin explained the reason for their visit, relating the two recent murders in the little settlement. Not only had the savage renegade brazenly walked into town and killed two people, he had taken the lives of the two most prominent men in the settlement, the sheriff and the mayor. The purpose of their visit, Arvin explained, was to seek protection. They had no law officer and the people were frightened. This savage was evidently hell-bent on killing the whole town one by one, and they needed the army’s protection.

  Upon hearing all the details, Colonel Wheaton was concerned, but he also held a stronger feeling—one of irritation. According to the citizens committee before him, there was little doubt the murders were the work of Little Wolf—the same Little Wolf he had sought to trap unsuccessfully. It was inconceivable, he thought, that one man could so brazenly go wherever and do whatever he pleased. Wheaton was irritated, and more than that, angry that the cavalry unit under Captain Malpas had been unable to track the renegade down, although there had been ongoing patrols, and Malpas had let his Nez Perce scout Yellow Hand range on his own. Wheaton had pushed the problem from the forefront of his mind. Now the savage was becoming more of a problem than ever before.

  After assuring the committee from Medicine Creek that the army would indeed come to their assistance, Wheaton sent for Malpas and Lieutenant Paxton. He promised Arvin Gilbert that he would send a company of infantry to bivouac near the town while cavalry patrols scoured the hills in an effort to find the renegade’s camp. Satisfied they were going to get the protection they requested, the men of Medicine Creek headed back to their homes.