Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  Brice Paxton stood by silently while Colonel Wheaton expressed his disappointment with Captain Malpas’s failure to capture Little Wolf. Malpas openly cringed at the criticism, no doubt enhanced by the fact that the colonel was infantry and had no affection for cavalry officers in the first place.

  “I want you to find that savage, Captain, and I mean right now.” His eyes drilled holes through the captain’s forehead. “Is that understood?” Before Malpas could answer, Wheaton went on. “Do you have any clue where to look for him?”

  “Well, we think he’s got a camp somewhere in the mountains east of the settlement, but that’s a lot of wild territory, and he’s only one man. It’s not like we’re trying to locate a whole band of Indians. He may not stay in one place. We’re doing all we can, Sir. Yellow Hand is searching on his own, camping in the mountains himself. All we can do is cover the territory section by section and hope to flush him out.”

  “Very well, Malpas. Get on with it then.” He signaled an end to the meeting. As Malpas and Brice started toward the door, Wheaton added, “And, Captain, don’t take any chances with the murdering savage. When you find him, shoot him.”

  “Yessir.”

  Brice looked sharply at Malpas and then back at the colonel. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but aren’t we to attempt to capture him first?”

  Wheaton jerked his head up to look at the young lieutenant. “Son, I’m not aware that I stammered. I don’t intend to waste any effort on a rabid dog that goes around killing innocent people.”

  Brice felt he had to comment. “With all due respect, Sir, shouldn’t some thought be given the fact that a band of those innocent people went up there and burned this man out, killed his people, and abducted his wife?”

  Colonel Wheaton was not without compassion, but his practical side told him that Little Wolf would be tried and then hanged regardless. So why waste time if he was to be killed anyway? The Indian’s plight was a sad one, but Wheaton also believed strongly in the Manifest Destiny of the white man. It was only natural that the Indian would resist the white tide that was overrunning territory that he thought was his. The Indian’s time was over. He had roamed over the land long enough. Now he must give way so the country could become civilized. He could understand young Paxton’s concern, but he could not side with the savage. To Brice, he simply said, “I believe my orders are clear.”

  Brice didn’t move for a moment, then he snapped to attention and replied curtly, “Yes, Sir.”

  Outside, Malpas turned to Brice and said, “Get the whole damn company ready to march in the morning. We’ll go up in those hills and comb every ridge and valley for that bastard.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe we can find Yellow Hand while we’re at it.”

  “How many rations?”

  “Fifteen days.”

  * * *

  Yellow Hand slid down from his pony’s back and made his way up through the pines. He stopped short of a small clearing and peered at the burial platforms, one of them slightly higher up in the trees than the other two. Undecided as whether to go around them or not, he continued to stare at the bodies wrapped in hides. They were all recent burials.

  He decided to have a closer look, although there was nothing unusual about them except that they seemed to be quite barren of symbols and ornaments, and the hides that were used to wrap the bodies were burned in places, the edges singed. As he led his horse to pass within several feet of the platforms, something caught his eye and he stopped to look more closely. There, tied to the higher platform, were two scalps, both freshly taken by the look of them, one of them no more than two days before.

  He immediately looked all around him to make sure he was not being watched. He walked closer and, when his pony shied away, he jerked hard on the reins, forcing the animal to follow. He was not anxious to remain in the company of the dead himself, but he wanted to take a closer look at the scalps. They were white men’s. He could not say for certain, but his instincts told him that these scalps were the work of the Cheyenne warrior. He must be extra cautious now. Little Wolf might be close.

  Backing away from the burial platform, he carefully made his way around and up above the site until he found what he was searching for. A hoofprint, no more than a day old. Another few minutes’ scouting turned up a second print. He stood up and peered in the direction the prints pointed. They led across the ridge to the east. Yellow Hand’s pulse quickened. It was the first trail he had struck since losing the original one, when he had followed Little Wolf from the fort. Still on foot, he followed the line toward the top of a second, higher ridge, stopping often to look around him before starting again to follow the tracks.

  At the top of the second ridge, he paused to check his backtrail before climbing out on a rock overhang to look out across the valley beyond. A rare moment of sadness washed over him as the thought came to him that this country was once the country of his people, the Nez Perce. This wild and beautiful land, these untamed mountains that stood up against the clouds—how could the white man claim they were now his? The land belongs to no one. The land is the land.

  He shook his head as if to clear it of useless musings. It would do no good to dwell on such thoughts. The day of the Nez Perce had passed. He, Yellow Hand, was fortunate to be held in high esteem by the soldiers. The few moments of melancholy passed as quickly as they had come, and once more he became intent on his search for Little Wolf. For, when he found him, Rain Song would be there also. When he had slain the Cheyenne warrior, the woman would come to him. She would be foolish not to. His medicine was strong with the soldiers. She would be the wife of an important man.

  * * *

  No more than eight or nine miles from the burial platforms, as the hawk flies, a surging mountain stream forced its way through the rocks. It gathered strength as it tumbled past the tree line, speeding recklessly toward a narrow gorge, where it plunged some two hundred feet below into a deep green pool. The sides of the gorge were steep, hiding the clear pool from even a short distance so that very few human beings had discovered the place. Little Wolf had found it quite by accident one year before while following a wounded mule deer.

  Now, Rain Song sat working at an elk hide by the side of the pool. She glanced up frequently at Little Wolf and Sore Hand as they sat before the fire talking. Since she was still in mourning for her sisters, her hair was not braided, but loose and wild about her face. The scars on her breast and arms, stark evidence of her mourning, were almost healed, and she waited for Little Wolf to tell her that she had mourned enough.

  She paused in her work and sat gazing at her husband. This is a good place, she thought. Why can’t we forget about the white men at the settlement and just live here as we are now? She feared for her husband’s safety. He seemed overly reckless in his passion to avenge the death of his friend and her sisters. Maybe, if he would stay here, the soldiers would forget about him in time and they could remain here, free and away from the rest of the world. He must have felt her warm gaze, for he glanced in her direction. Meeting her eyes, he got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the water.

  “Little One, I think you have been in mourning long enough.”

  His remark brought a wide smile to her face. Good, she thought. I will oil and braid my hair and make myself pretty. Then maybe he will not be so anxious to leave us again to track down the white murderers.

  He reached down and laid his hand on her hair. His touch was affectionate, but when she looked up into his eyes, she saw that his thoughts were far away. Rain Song knew where his mind was, and she feared that his obsession might cost him his life. Looking down at her, he spoke at last.

  “I must go now. I have rested enough. The elk should be enough food until I return. Sore Hand will look after you.”

  “Why must you go again?” she pleaded. “You have killed two of the white men. Isn’t that enough? Sleeps Standing’s spirit must feel avenged. He wouldn’t want you to risk your life anymore.”

  He looked at her wi
th patient eyes. “You don’t understand. It goes deeper than the mere killing of two white men. It is the whole settlement that is guilty of this crime. The town should be killed for the evil they have done.”

  Rain Song looked alarmed. “You are intent on killing everyone in the town?”

  He shook his head, still patient. “No, but I will kill the leaders of the town. Then the town will die on its own. Already I have killed the mayor and the sheriff. There are others that were leaders in the attack on our home. I know who two of them are. I have seen them while I watched the town. They do a lot of boasting and they ride two of my horses. They must pay.”

  “Please stay here with me. You have taken the town’s leaders. That should be enough.”

  “No. I made a promise to Sleeps Standing that I would take two lives for each of our lost ones. I must finish what I have started. Then we will leave this place and find somewhere to live in peace.” Looking into her big dark eyes, his heart could not help but melt a little. He reached down, taking her by the elbows, and lifted her to her feet. “Maybe you are right. I’ll rid the earth of these last two vermin and then I’ll consider it done. I vowed to kill six of them, but after these two, the rest of the men are toothless dogs, shopkeepers, and clerks anyway. These four are the leaders of the murderers.”

  Rain Song knew it was useless to plead further. He had made up his mind. At least she could be happy to know there would be no more killing after this last mission. She walked with him to his horse and stood with him while he checked his weapons and ammunition. When he was ready, he took her into his arms and embraced her. Then, after a few words to Sore Hand, he was gone.

  * * *

  Lonnie Jacobs sat down on a three-legged wooden stool outside the door of the log cabin he shared with Sam Tolbert. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a square plug of chewing tobacco. Eying it carefully, he took a few moments to pick off the pocket lint that had accumulated on it before cutting off a chew with his pocketknife. A half-empty bottle of Henry Blanton’s cheapest rye whiskey sat beside him on the ground. It was still a good three hours before the sun would set beyond the hills on the western side of the valley. Although there was plenty of daylight left, Lonnie and Tolbert were not fond of working long hours on their little cattle ranch. To them, drinking was a full-time job and it didn’t leave much time for working a ranch. That was a truth easily verified by anyone taking a casual look at the place.

  Working up his chaw until he was ready to spit, Lonnie watched with a bored expression while his partner walked over from the corral. “You know somethin’, Tolbert, I’m damn shore sick of settin’ around this little valley. I’m thinkin’ ’bout moving into town.”

  Tolbert had heard this talk on more than one afternoon. “Is that so?” he replied. “And do what?” He reached for the whiskey bottle beside Lonnie.

  “Well, seems to me the town is needin’ a new sheriff, and that’s right up my alley.”

  “The hell you say,” Tolbert snorted.

  Lonnie propelled a long brown stream that landed a good six feet distant in the dust. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and the hand on his trouser leg. “’Pears to me Franklin Bowers had hisself a nice little deal going before he cashed in. I don’t see no sense in letting some other damn gunman come in and take it.”

  Tolbert looked hard at Lonnie for a few moments. “You’re serious, ain’t you?” He scratched his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “You know, that wouldn’t be a bad deal at that. Why, hell, we could run that town.”

  “We? Who said anything about we?”

  Tolbert handed him the bottle, smiling as he did. “We’re partners, ain’t we? You’d need a deputy.”

  Lonnie grinned. “Yeah, I would.”

  They sat and considered the possibility for the better part of an hour. Lonnie on the stool, Tolbert on the ground beside him, the bottle passed between them. After a while, a thought occurred to Lonnie. “You know, Tolbert, we’d best get over to the stable and put our rope on Bowers’s horses before Ike claims ’em. He’s got three of them Appaloosas and a right nice bay and them horses might as well belong to us.”

  Tolbert was quick to agree. “We’d best ride in there in the morning and let folks know how things are gonna be from now on. There might be some objections to us taking over the sheriffing.”

  Lonnie snorted. “Who’s gonna stop us? Morgan Sewell? Arvin Gilbert? Hell, there ain’t one in the bunch with any sand.” He was about to say more when Tolbert interrupted him.

  “Now, who the hell’s that?” he said, squinting his eyes as he looked into the setting sun, which appeared now to almost sit on the mountaintops.

  The two had become so engrossed in their plans to take over the town of Medicine Creek that they were not aware they had a visitor until he was already at the corner of the corral. Lonnie shielded his eyes with his hand. The glare of the sun framed the outline of a rider but it was almost impossible to make out his features until he walked his pony right up to the cabin.

  Lonnie got up from the stool and took a few steps to the side to get the sun out of his eyes. Tolbert didn’t budge from his position leaning against the cabin. “Mister, you must be lost,” Lonnie said. He took a few more steps to the side, looking hard at their visitor. The man was a stranger to him. Tall, sitting straight in the saddle, he wore buckskin trousers and a coat that looked a size too small. His hair was dark and long, worn Indian style, flowing out from under a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. The man’s clothes didn’t seem to fit him, a fact that didn’t strike Lonnie as being odd. Very few men were well tailored in this part of the mountains. It was the stranger’s expression that struck Lonnie. It was cold and hard, like the rugged mountains behind him. Lonnie noticed that he had a Winchester resting across his thighs. It made him wish that his own rifle was not leaning against the wall inside the door of the cabin.

  “Somethin’ we can do for you?” Lonnie asked, a hint of irritation in his tone, seeing as how the stranger had still not uttered a word.

  The stranger stared, unblinking, for a few moments before he finally spoke. “Those horses,” he said with a nod of his head toward the corral, his eyes never leaving Lonnie’s.

  Lonnie misunderstood. “Them horses? What? You wanna buy a horse?” He glanced at the Appaloosas, then back at the stranger. “I got a blue roan I might be willing to sell. But you ain’t got enough money to buy them Appaloosas.” He glanced over at Tolbert and gave him a wink. “Then, again, maybe you have. How much money you got?”

  The granitelike face never showed any emotion. “I’m going to take the horses. I’m not going to buy them.”

  This brought a thin smile to Lonnie’s face. “Well now, is that a fact? Mister, you’re about the dumbest horse thief I’ve ever run into. Me and ol’ Tolbert there, we’re pretty easygoing, but we ain’t in the habit of giving good horseflesh to every saddletramp that rides by.” The smile suddenly disappeared. “Is this somebody’s idea of a joke? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I’m the owner of those horses.”

  There followed a deathly silence as it dawned on the two partners who the dark stranger was. For a full minute, there was no sound. Lonnie was frozen by the stranger’s piercing stare. Tolbert, until that moment, had been unable to identify the warrior he had last seen at the Little Big Horn because of the sun in his eyes. Then, realizing that he was soon to be participating in his own death ceremony, Tolbert lunged for the door of the cabin. Before he made it to his feet, he was cut down by Little Wolf’s rifle. Tolbert fell heavily back against the cabin, shot through the lung.

  Lonnie was unable to move. His bowels were in the grip of fear’s icy hand. He wanted to run, but he could not. He dropped to his knees, his legs no longer able to support him. The bullet that he dreaded still did not come. All was quiet again, the silence even more pronounced after the sudden roar of the rifle. Now there was only the soft choking gurgle coming from Tolbert’s throat as he tried desperately to breathe. Lonnie�
��s chin dropped to his chest as huge tears began to fill his eyes.

  Slowly, Little Wolf dismounted and walked up to the broken man. Sickened by the sight of the cowardly murderer of his people, he grabbed a handful of Lonnie’s hair and jerked his head back so he could look directly into his eyes. Lonnie screamed, then started sobbing. “I didn’t have no part in it, I swear. I didn’t kill them women! I wasn’t even there!”

  Little Wolf lifted him by the hair until he was halfway up. Lonnie whimpered thinly, then suddenly grunted as he was doubled over by the force of the knife that sank deep into his stomach. Little Wolf withdrew the blade and stepped back to let the man fall at his feet. Feeling no need to hurry while the two white men lay mortally wounded, Little Wolf went back to his horse and took his bow from the loop of rawhide behind the saddle. He drew one arrow from his quiver for each man, a calling card to let the people of Medicine Creek know these men had paid for the senseless murders of Sleeps Standing, Lark, and White Moon. Tolbert, lying against the side of the cabin, was already dead, and did not move when the arrow smashed his breastbone and buried itself deep inside his chest. Little Wolf notched the other arrow and turned back to Lonnie. Lonnie was still alive but was no longer whimpering, his vocal cords paralyzed by terror and pain. His eyes were wide, almost bulging from the shock of facing certain death. Fueled by his passion for revenge on those who had slaughtered his longtime friends, Little Wolf was reluctant to end the white man’s torment. He stood staring down at the wounded man with eyes that burned with a cold flame. Finally, he drew the bowstring back and released the arrow that hastened Lonnie Jacobs’s departure. To complete the execution, he ripped each man’s shirt open and, with his knife, carved three long slashes on one man’s chest and four on the other.