Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  She sat there for a long time before she moved. Then she began rubbing her ankles where the thongs had bound her. Watching Yellow Hand cautiously, she slowly rose to her feet, her legs stiff and sore from the position she had been forced to sit in for hours. When she had regained the feeling in her limbs, she looked into his eyes and softly spoke. “You must let me go now, for I will never be your wife. I love Little Wolf. I can be wife to no other.”

  Yellow Hand almost cried out his frustration with the woman. He almost wished he had not come to desire her so. But he knew he must have her. So, if she must be broken like a wild horse, then he would break her. He was obsessed with her now, and the fact that she continued to reject him frustrated him to the point of humiliation. He stepped up to her and slapped her hard across the face. She was knocked backward a step by the blow, but uttered not a sound. This infuriated him even more. He glared at her, his eyes like burning coals, and raised his hand to strike her again. She thrust her face forward to receive the blow, unyielding in her defiance. He hesitated but slapped her again, though not as hard as before. He growled in his anguish.

  “Let me go,” she said, her voice low and soft.

  “You will be my wife.”

  “No,” she replied.

  In response, he took the rawhide thongs and looped one end around one of her wrists. With the other end, he tied her to his own wrist. He then bound one of her ankles to one of his own. “We will sleep together as husband and wife. This way we will be married.”

  She struggled at first but soon realized he was too powerful to resist. When he had tied them together, she stood passively for a moment. Mistaking her calm for resignation to her fate, he reached for her. When she reacted, it was so sudden he was taken by surprise. Moving as quickly as a serpent strikes, she reached under his arm and grasped the long scalping knife in his belt. His first thought was to protect himself so he jumped backward, throwing his free hand up to defend against the attack. To his surprise, she did not strike out at him. Instead, she thrust the knife deep into her own body with a force that sank it almost to the handle.

  The blow caused her to gasp in pain. Then, her words straining through her pain, she uttered, “You will sleep with a corpse. I go to join Little Wolf.”

  Yellow Hand was horrified. Rain Song’s frail body slumped and, even though she weighed little more than one hundred pounds, the dead weight was enough to cause him to stumble. He was barely able to maintain his balance as the mortally wounded girl sank to the ground.

  Stunned by her desperate and final act of resistance, Yellow Hand could only stare in shocked confusion, unable at first to believe his eyes. Forced by the rawhide thongs to stand in a stooped position, he had to withdraw his knife from the wounded girl’s body in order to free himself. One last involuntary gasp from Rain Song’s lips was the only sound she made when the blade was withdrawn. Then she lay still. Shock, followed by astonishment, and finally anger tore through Yellow Hand’s brain. He grimaced as he sawed the bonds that held him to the girl. When he was free, he stood over her body, unable to look away from her. Suddenly his humiliation and rage became overwhelming, and he roared out in anger. He did not interpret Rain Song’s ultimate sacrifice as testimony to her love for her husband. To him, it was a stark insult to his prestige as a warrior and a leading member of his tribe. As relentlessly as he had pursued her before, he now viewed her body with disgust. In a fit of anger, he took the still-bloody knife and prepared to slash her throat. Hump, also stunned by the girl’s impulsive actions, now blurted out the words that saved her life. “She’s not dead.” It was enough to stay the executioner’s hand, as Yellow Hand harnessed his anger long enough to see for himself.

  * * *

  Perhaps if Little Wolf had not taken the time to take the scalps of the two white men to Sleeps Standing’s burial platform, he would have been in his camp when Yellow Hand struck. Now, as he made his way down through the pines, he became immediately alert. Sensing something wrong, he stopped at the edge of the thicket and scanned the clearing by the waterfall. There was no sign of Rain Song or Sore Hand. The horses were nowhere in sight. It was unusual that both Rain Song and Sore Hand would be away from the camp at the same time.

  Aware now of the pounding of his heart, he searched the narrow ravine with his eyes, his anguish mounting with every second that passed. Moving slowly and quietly across the clearing, he was almost to the edge of the water when he discovered Sore Hand’s body, lying at the base of a twisted laurel near the edge of the clearing.

  Moving quickly then, his rifle ready, his eyes darting constantly from left to right, he went to his old friend’s side. Thinking him dead, he bent low over him and placed a comforting hand upon the old Nez Perce’s shoulder. Sore Hand’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. Little Wolf sat back, surprised. The old man was still alive, although barely.

  “Little Wolf?” The question was feeble and barely audible.

  “Yes, I’m here, old friend.” He waited only a moment, then asked, “Rain Song, where is she?”

  “Gone,” he gasped, straining to make the words. “The army scout, Yellow Hand…took her…”

  Before Little Wolf could ask more, the old man’s eyes fluttered again, then opened wide as if staring into death’s cold face. His final breath escaped in a long sigh, and then he was gone.

  Little Wolf, suddenly weary, sat down beside the old man. Sore Hand had evidently been mortally wounded for hours, but the old Nez Perce had clung desperately to life, determined to stay alive until Little Wolf found him so he could tell him that this was Yellow Hand’s work. Gazing into the faithful old man’s face, he silently thanked him, then gently closed Sore Hand’s eyes. “Sleep, my friend,” he whispered.

  Though anxious to go after Rain Song, Little Wolf remained long enough to bury his old friend. He knew it was important to the old man to have his body returned to Mother Earth so that his spirit could roam freely in the land of the dead. He felt it was the least he could do for one who had been so true a friend to him and Rain Song. At least Yellow Hand had not scalped the old man.

  When Sore Hand’s body was safely interred beneath the branches of a tall pine, Little Wolf started out after Yellow Hand. The trail was not hard to follow. He suspected that Rain Song had made every effort to mark it whenever she could, judging by the occasional broken branch. His senses alive and ever searching, he hurried after them, watching the trail before him for a possible ambush. Yellow Hand was cunning. He had watched the Nez Perce scout when the soldiers searched for him after he had rescued Rain Song from the fort. He might be clever enough to lead him into a trap.

  After leaving his camp by the waterfall, Yellow Hand had doubled back toward the river, seeming to head in a general direction that would take him back to the fort on Lapwai Creek. But before reaching the river, the trail abruptly turned again into the mountains, leading up into a stand of pines that covered most of a low ridge. She had been here—he was certain of it. The pieces of cut rawhide, some with blood on them, along with the tracks around the tree, told him she had been tied there. There were other tracks that told him there were two who held her captive. There was a struggle, evidenced by a great deal of blood on the ground. Devastated, he sat back on his heels and tried to form a picture in his mind of the events that had happened there. She had been carried away. Someone was badly wounded. Was it her? She might be dead, but then why would they take her body with them? Perhaps to display, hoping to entice him to come after her.

  Under the crushing weight of his despair, he gave no thought to his own safety. He didn’t care if a bullet found him at that moment for, without her, his soul was already dead. In his mind, he could see her, alone and crying out for him, and he wanted to slash his own body in his grief.

  After a few minutes, he forced his mind back to concentrate on the task before him now. He would find her, whether she was dead or living. These two, Yellow Hand and his accomplice, must pay for what they had done, even if it took the rest of hi
s life. Following the trail left by the four horses, Little Wolf set out again, a warrior with only one thought: revenge.

  9

  “Hell, we’re just wasting our time here, Sergeant.” Brice stood up and walked out into the open. “It’s pretty damn obvious the renegade isn’t coming back to this camp.”

  Sergeant Baskin got up from the shallow rifle pit he had fashioned behind a small tree. He dusted himself off and walked out to join the lieutenant. “Yessir, I’d have to agree with you. We got here too late to catch him. Looks to me like Yellow Hand must have found this camp a lot sooner than he let on when he met the column yesterday. I wonder what the hell he was doing all that time.”

  “Who knows?” Brice answered. He was a little irritated that the company’s best scout had apparently waited for some time after finding Little Wolf’s camp before reporting to him. Long enough, he noted, for the Cheyenne to bury whoever’s body was in the grave and leave. He looked all around the clearing by the waterfall then shook his head, disgusted. “We’d best get going, I guess. Maybe we can catch up with him. We’ll follow the trail the scouts picked up leading off down the ravine.”

  Baskin nodded and, walking out into the center of the clearing where he knew he could be seen from the rocks above the waterfall, he signaled the pickets. Brice waited while the rest of his patrol were called in from their ambush positions and the horses were brought up. When they were mounted, he signaled the two Nez Perce scouts out in front.

  There were tracks from several horses leading out of the ravine and across the narrow valley. The scouts seemed to think that the fresher tracks indicated that one rider, Little Wolf it was assumed, had trailed someone else from the valley. They followed the trail for most of the afternoon until Brice called a halt to make camp for the night. At daybreak the following morning, they were mounted and back on the trail. Before the sun had made a decent showing, they came upon the pine grove where Rain Song had been wounded.

  Brice studied the dried blood on the pine needles while the two Indian scouts searched the area carefully, trying to piece together enough fragments of information to determine what had taken place there. After scouting the thicket and small clearing, they could only speculate what had happened. Someone had been bound to the tree. There had been a struggle of some kind, resulting in bloodshed. Both scouts agreed that one of the ponies was the red sorrel Yellow Hand rode—the horse was distinguishable by a slot in his front left hoof.

  Brice turned to Sergeant Baskin. “So this is where he ran off to instead of leading the column to Little Wolf’s camp. Didn’t you tell me Yellow Hand was sniffing around that little Cheyenne girl?” It didn’t take much more than a moment’s thought before the picture became crystal clear. He glanced up at Baskin. “What would you say the odds were that the person tied to this tree was that little Cheyenne girl?”

  “I’d say they were pretty good. He could have found the woman in Little Wolf’s camp and run off with her.”

  Further speculation prompted them to come up with a pretty complete notion as to who they were now trailing. The tracks leading away from the thicket told them that Little Wolf was tracking Yellow Hand, although it appeared Yellow Hand had a fair start on the Cheyenne. The trail led them farther up the side of a long mountain ridge and then descended into a wide ring of timber. The tall lodgepole pines were growing so close together that the column had to enter the timber single file. Even then, it was difficult to get the horses through in some places. The trees towered up to the sky, shutting out the sunlight, and the trail soon became impossible to follow. The pine needles on the floor of the forest were so thick that tracks disappeared. The scouts halted and confessed that they were unable to pick up the trail again. Brice ordered the column to rest while the two Nez Perces scouted in vain for some sign of the horses they had followed since the day before.

  “Whaddaya wanna do, Lieutenant?” Sergeant Baskin stood ready to order the patrol out again. “Push on?”

  Brice didn’t answer for a moment as he considered what they had found there. “No,” he finally said. “You can tell ’em to mount, but we’re going back to the river to hook up with the rest of the company, if we can find a way out of this damn timber.”

  Baskin was surprised. “You ain’t gonna keep after him?”

  “No, unless you can follow a trail with no tracks. We’re running out of our supplies anyway. We were supposed to rendezvous with the captain this morning.”

  “What about Yellow Hand?”

  Brice looked Baskin in the eye and stated, “Frankly, it would serve the bastard right if Little Wolf catches him. From what I’ve seen here today, I hope he does.” There was no question in Brice’s mind that the white man turned Cheyenne would have to be brought to justice for the murders of four citizens of Medicine Creek. But, in his own mind, he could not say that he blamed Little Wolf for taking the action he did. If the so-called Vigilance Committee of the settlement had left the man alone in the first place, there would have been no killings. Who could blame the man? They had killed his family and burned him out, and sought to kill him too. If it were me, Brice thought, I might have done the same as he.

  * * *

  When Brice’s patrol approached the designated rendezvous point by the river, they found the rest of the company already waiting for them. Leaving Sergeant Baskin to see to the watering of the horses, Brice reported to Captain Malpas. He found the captain seated in the shade of a willow tree by the water. Paul Simmons was also there, and the two officers were talking to the scout, Yellow Hand. The fact that the scout was back with the company was surprising to Brice. He had somehow expected him to still be up in the mountains, either trying to catch Little Wolf, or elude him. Yellow Hand’s cousin, Hump, was nowhere to be seen.

  Paul was the first to spot his friend when he walked up. “Well, Lieutenant Paxton, I see you didn’t have any better luck than the rest of us.” He flashed his usual warm smile. “I’m glad you finally showed up. I was afraid we were going to have to search for you.”

  “Paul,” Brice simply returned. He was more interested in what Yellow Hand had to say. After he made an informal report to the captain, Brice turned to question the Nez Perce scout. “How about you, Yellow Hand? What kind of luck did you have?”

  “No find,” he said in his broken English, his face devoid of expression.

  “What about the woman Rain Song? Did you find her?”

  Yellow Hand studied the young lieutenant’s face for a few moments before answering. He sensed a hint of suspicion in Brice’s tone. When Brice repeated the question, Yellow Hand chose his words carefully. “No woman. Maybe woman dead. I think maybe Cheyenne kill her.”

  “I hardly think so,” Brice was quick to reply. “Where’s Hump? I don’t see him here.”

  Yellow Hand shrugged. “Hump sick, have to go home. I don’t know.”

  Turning to Malpas, Brice related the events of the previous day. “When the fugitive failed to show up at his camp, we trailed him to the mountainside where we found signs of some little set-to. Judging by the tracks that led away from there, my scouts were pretty sure there was a lone rider that followed after whoever was there in the first place. I figure that rider was Little Wolf.” He kept his gaze fixed on Yellow Hand to see his reaction. There was only a flicker in Yellow Hand’s eye, but it was enough to tell Brice what he suspected all along. Although he hid it well, Brice was certain the news that Little Wolf had trailed him caused Yellow Hand concern. “I’m guessing that person he was trailing was you, Yellow Hand, and I figure you had the girl with you. What I’m not sure of is what happened to her.”

  Malpas and Paul appeared confused. Malpas looked sharply at his scout. “What? You didn’t say anything about finding the Cheyenne girl.”

  Yellow Hand shrugged as if unconcerned. “Woman dead. She not matter.”

  “Did you kill her?” This from Brice.

  Yellow Hand turned to stare at the young lieutenant, his eyes squinted and surly. “No. Like
I say, woman dead. I don’t find her.” With that, he abruptly got to his feet and said, “I go now.”

  While the three officers watched the back of the departing scout, Captain Malpas spoke. “Paxton, if you could enlighten me on what that was all about, I’d appreciate it.”

  Brice gave a more detailed report on what he had seen on his patrol, including his suspicions that Yellow Hand had abducted the Indian girl from Little Wolf’s camp and taken her away and killed her. Probably because she wouldn’t consent to being his wife, he added. When he learned from Paul Simmons that the Indian had come into camp with an extra horse, he was even more convinced that Yellow Hand had been up to the devilment he suspected.

  Malpas found Brice’s comments interesting but, without harboring the compassion for the woman that his lieutenant obviously did, he shrugged it off. “Well, what does it matter? She’s just an Indian. As far as that goes, you didn’t find her body.” Brice and Paul exchanged quick glances but neither commented.

  * * *

  Yellow Hand walked off by himself to think about what he had just heard—that Little Wolf had trailed him from the camp by the waterfall. The thing that bothered him most was that he had not been aware of it. The fact that the white Cheyenne had not overtaken him before he was back in the soldier camp was not sufficient enough to ease the discomfort of knowing he was being stalked. It was a good thing that he sent Hump back to the reservation at Lapwai with the wounded girl. Hump was skilled in the ability to cover his trail. The Cheyenne would most likely follow Yellow Hand anyway, thinking he had the woman with him.

  Yellow Hand prided himself in his prowess as a warrior and he considered himself the best scout the army employed. But he had never been hunted before. He was always the one who tracked someone for the soldiers. Even when Chief Joseph’s people left the valley and made an attempt to flee to Canada, Yellow Hand had scouted for the army, feeling no allegiance to those Nez Perces who followed Joseph. He told himself that he feared no man. Yet this strange displaced white Cheyenne made him feel uneasy. He decided it best to remain in the company of many soldiers for a while until the renegade was caught, or he tired of trying to seek his revenge.