Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  The man who caused such serious thoughts in the mind of the Nez Perce scout knelt on one knee, watching the company of cavalry from a knoll some two hundred yards distant. The floor of the pine forest was so thick with needles that it had been impossible to follow Yellow Hand’s trail. He had been forced to scout the trails below the band of lodgepoles until he picked it up again. Because of this, Little Wolf had lost valuable time in overtaking the Nez Perce scout.

  When Yellow Hand’s trail led to the gathering of soldiers by the river, Little Wolf knew he would have to wait and watch for an opportunity. Working his way down closer to a smaller knoll where he could get an unobstructed view of the entire camp, he scanned the bivouac from side to side. He saw Yellow Hand, but there was no indication that his wife was captive in the soldier camp. He tried not to think about what this might mean, that Yellow Hand had killed her. The very thought twisted his guts into icy knots.

  He remained there on the knoll all night and followed the soldiers for a few miles the next morning, until he was sure that Rain Song was not with them and that the soldiers were returning to Fort Lapwai. There was little doubt in his mind now that Rain Song was dead. And the man who had killed her was riding back to the fort, surrounded by soldiers. There will be another time, he told himself and turned away, riding back to a gulch below his camp by the waterfall. There, he rounded up the three horses he had left to graze when he went after Yellow Hand. He would move them to a new place where he could make his camp, high up in the mountains. The soldiers would most likely continue to search for him, but probably in the valleys and foothills.

  He felt alone in the world now. The only person, friend or kin, left to him was his brother, Tom Allred. And even the memory of his brother was fading. It was his preference at this time to be alone with the mountains and streams. If Rain Song could not be at his side, then he preferred no one. He was as much at home in the mountains as the eagles and hawks, and it was there that he would dwell with the memory of his wife.

  With his horses on a string behind him, he made his way up through the lodgepoles, following an old elk trail until he emerged high up on a rocky divide. Riding parallel to the summit when the climb was too steep, he led his horses over steep bluffs of shell rock and sand that threatened to slide out from under him with every step. He pushed on, looking for a place that offered grass and water. High above the timber, there were only occasional patches of bear grass, a tough, sour grass that a horse would eat only if starving.

  This was new territory to him. He had not traveled into this part of the Bitterroots, toward the Idaho country. As the afternoon sun sank closer to the hilltops, it began to look like he would have to make a dry camp that night. Just as he was about to resign himself to this, he came to a gulch that led down into the trees. Following it, he was surprised to find a side gulch that led to a small meadow with good grass for the horses, and a busy stream coursing through it. This was what he had hoped to find. This was where he would make his camp.

  Little Wolf did not leave his new camp for two days. In the custom of his adopted people, he slashed his chest in his anguish over the death of Rain Song. He did not eat and only drank sparingly of the cool mountain stream. As all Cheyennes knew, death was a part of living. There had always been war between the different tribes. Since the westward invasion of the white man, this truth was even more pronounced, and since his boyhood, death was a constant trail companion. Little Wolf accepted this, but Rain Song’s violent death was almost more than he could bear.

  He looked at his horses. They were well fed and rested after two days in this secluded mountain meadow. It was then that he first felt his own need for nourishment and he decided it was time to take to the warpath once more. He would mourn for Rain Song no more.

  Although he had some dried venison still left in his saddle pack, he decided that he needed some fresh meat to restore his strength. He saddled one of the horses, and leading another to pack his meat, rode down through the band of lodgepoles, following the stream to the lower slopes. Before even reaching the high grass of the lower hills, he came upon an elk cow feeding in a clump of buck brush. He interpreted this as a good sign, and that the medicine he had made during the past two days was strong. After killing it, he skinned and quartered the cow and packed the meat on the extra horse. With part of the hide, he fashioned a crude bag to hold the head and hoofs. He hung the bag in a tree so that other elk and deer would know that he had not wasted his kill and would look favorably on his hunting in the future.

  After another day at his new camp, fed and rested, he was ready to fulfill his promise to Rain Song and Sore Hand. The slashes on his chest were already scabbing over and were now only a minor irritation. He felt the strength that had carried him through the many battles with the soldiers in the Black Hills and on the Powder, the Rosebud, and the Greasy Grass. He cleaned and readied his weapons and painted his face as he had when he and Sleeps Standing had plunged into the mayhem that was Little Big Horn. This time, however, he was not riding against the soldiers. This time, he rode against one man only—Yellow Hand. Even in this time of sorrow and vengeance, Little Wolf had no thoughts of vengeance toward more white men. He felt that he had punished the guilty ones for the raid on his ranch in the valley. Yellow Hand was the only target on his mind. If others got in the way, then it would be their misfortune.

  In final preparation, he tied two eagle feathers in his long dark hair. One of them was badly singed and he was careful to avoid stripping the tattered plume with the rough rawhide cord. The feathers were among the few things he had salvaged from his burnt-out cabin after the Vigilance Committee had paid their call. They had originally been presented to him by the great Lakota spiritual leader, Sitting Bull, and he always wore them in battle. He turned the horses loose, knowing they would not stray from the lush grass of his campsite. It was time. He would not wait for Yellow Hand to look for him.

  10

  For the second time in the last two miles, Rain Song slid from her horse’s back and fell to the ground, reopening the ragged wound in her side. Hump had pushed the horses relentlessly in an effort to put distance between them and Little Wolf, and finally Rain Song became too weak to hang on. The sullen Nez Perce rode on for thirty yards before realizing the horse he was leading was riderless. When he looked back and saw Rain Song’s frail body lying in the trail behind him, he became angry. He yanked his pony’s head around so forcefully that the animal screamed in pain.

  Galloping back to the wounded girl, he expressed his anger with his whip, slashing her legs and buttocks with the stinging rawhide. When this attack did not provoke response, he paused and sat staring down at her, wondering but not really caring if she was dead. After a moment, she groaned and struggled to get up, but her efforts were in vain. She was too weak to rise.

  Hump climbed down from his pony and squatted by her side, his dull, expressionless eyes fixed upon the wounded girl while he speculated on her chances of survival. Yellow Hand had instructed him to take the girl to his uncle’s lodge on the reservation where she could be cared for until she recovered from her wound. Looking at the half-delirious young woman, he wondered if it was worth it. It would be much easier to leave her here to die. Still, Yellow Hand was a dangerous man when angered. He stood up and looked back the way they had come. There was no sign of anyone following. He was certain the white Cheyenne had not picked up his trail.

  “Get up,” he said and prodded her with his foot. She only groaned and rolled over on her back, revealing a blood-soaked buckskin dress. He stared, dumbfounded, not certain if the woman would live or die. Hump was a dull-witted brute and was uncomfortable with the prospect of having to make a decision. But he feared Yellow Hand’s wrath, so he decided he would deliver the girl to his uncle, even if she was a corpse by the time they arrived. He cut down two young trees and fashioned a travois to carry Rain Song the rest of the way to the reservation.

  It was well after dark when Hump rode into
the circle of lodges, leading a horse and travois. The injured woman on the travois had not made a sound during the last three hours, so Hump was not sure if she was alive or dead. At this point, he was unconcerned. He had delivered the woman to the tipi of his uncle. Consequently, in his mind, he had done Yellow Hand’s bidding and had nothing to fear from his cousin.

  Inside the tipi, seated at the back of the lodge as was befitting the head of the family, Two Horses paused to listen. He was sure he heard a horse approaching. Moments later he heard his name called. His wife, Broken Wing, pulled the entrance flap back far enough to peep outside.

  “It’s Hump,” she said, dropping the flap again while she looked back at her husband. “He has something on a travois.” She noted the strained look of irritation on Two Horses’s face. Hump was not a favorite nephew, a feeling shared by Broken Wing. He was a powerfully built young man, but was somewhat simpleminded and Two Horses tolerated him only because he was his brother’s son. Two Horses sighed wearily and got up from the fire. He flashed a tired grimace toward his wife as he lifted the flap and went outside.

  Hump raised his hand in greeting, then gestured toward the travois behind him. “Yellow Hand told me to bring her to you to take care of her wound. He will come for her in a few days.”

  Seeing this was the only explanation the surly Hump was to offer, Two Horses grunted a reply and walked over to the travois. There he discovered, to his astonishment, a half-dead Indian woman, barely able to open her eyes. He looked back at Hump for some further explanation. The scout’s face was without expression. Two Horses turned back to the woman on the travois. In the darkness outside the tipi it was still obvious that the black stains covering the front of her dress were blood. He called for Broken Wing to come outside.

  Broken Wing, upon examining the injured girl, immediately took charge. She instructed Two Horses and Hump to carry Rain Song into the tipi, admonishing the clumsy Hump to be gentle. “She is not a deer carcass,” she scolded as she held the entrance flap aside for them.

  While Broken Wing tended to the wounded girl, Two Horses and Hump went outside where Two Horses questioned his nephew about their unexpected visitor. After Hump told him of the events that had brought Rain Song to his lodge, Two Horses reluctantly agreed to look after the girl until Yellow Hand came for her. Hump remembered the one thing that Yellow Hand had stressed—that neither the Indian Agent nor the soldiers must know about the girl. Satisfied that he had completed his assignment, Hump left, planning to return to Captain Malpas’s company of troopers in the morning.

  Broken Wing was concerned but not overly stressed to learn the identity of their guest. It would not be possible to keep her presence secret in the small circle of lodges. But the white agent never came to their village, so it was unlikely he would ever find out. Like Hump, Yellow Hand had never been a favorite of hers. They, like many of the Nez Perce warriors, had chosen to turn from the old ways of their fathers and ride as scouts with the soldiers at the fort. Unlike Hump, Yellow Hand enjoyed a reputation of skill and cunning that gave him power among the soldiers and, consequently, created a sense of fear in the reservation of Nez Perces. In spite of her disapproval of her husband’s two nephews, she did not hesitate to administer to the wounds of this unfortunate young woman who had landed in her lap.

  “She is Cheyenne,” Two Horses stated as he watched his wife working to close the ragged wound in the woman’s side. “She is the Cheyenne woman the soldiers held captive in the fort, the one the white Cheyenne warrior snatched from the soldiers.”

  Broken Wing nodded, then asked, “Is her husband dead?”

  “Hump was not sure, but he is certain that he will soon be. The soldiers have found two of his camps and Yellow Hand is leading them on his trail.”

  Broken Wing smiled knowingly. “So Yellow Hand has decided to take the woman for himself.” She paused to look into the woman’s face. “I can see why he wants her. She is a pretty thing.” She sent her husband outside while she stripped Rain Song’s dress away and covered her with a soft robe. Rain Song’s eyelids fluttered rapidly as if awakening from a deep sleep. Broken Wing laid a cool hand on her brow. “Don’t be afraid. You are safe now.”

  * * *

  “Damned if I’m not getting tired of these useless patrols. An entire Indian village could hide in these hills and we couldn’t find them. If that renegade’s got any sense at all, he’s so far away from this territory by now that we’re just wasting time and rations.”

  Brice grinned at his complaining friend. In his opinion, Paul Simmons was the least likely candidate to wind up in a cavalry regiment. Paul didn’t like horses and, for the most part, they didn’t like him. It seemed that even the most gentle of mounts would be tempted to take a nip at him, somehow sensing his dislike for them. Consequently, he had gone to a great deal of expense of time and his personal finances to find the one mount that held no grudge toward him. She was a fine-looking animal, a chestnut mare with white stockings named Daisy, and his greatest fear was that Daisy might be shot out from under him.

  Paul’s dislike for horses was not the only thing that made him out of place in a cavalry unit. He despised long expeditions in the field which, lately, were constant. Ever since Colonel Wheaton had been thoroughly chastised by his superiors for letting the Cheyenne renegade slip through his fingers, the company had been ordered out on one patrol after another.

  “Paul, how the hell did you end up in the First Cavalry anyway?”

  “Damned if I know,” Paul shot back. “Because I was near the bottom of my class at The Point, I guess. I had my mind set on a desk job in Washington.”

  Brice laughed. “Well, maybe you’ll get there yet.” He liked Paul even though the two had very little in common. Contrary to Paul’s dislike for the field, Brice thrived on it. He enjoyed being out in the hills away from the routine of the fort. Garrison life in general was boring to him, and life at Lapwai was even more intolerable. The fact that the fort was originally built to accommodate no more than two companies made it vastly overcrowded, with Companies E and H sharing space with the 2nd Infantry Regiment. There were only two small duplexes provided for the officers’ quarters, which made it necessary for E Company’s officers to live in tents in the Southwest corner of the parade ground. As far as Brice was concerned, life was better in the field, even if the rations were somewhat lacking.

  Paul was about to complain further when Brice silenced him with a raised hand. Both officers looked up ahead to where Yellow Hand sat on his pony, signaling. “He may have found something,” Brice said and spurred his horse into a canter.

  The patrol had been following an old Indian hunting trail for the better part of the morning, leading up through a dense stand of pines. The lodgepoles on either side of the trail were thick, seemingly impenetrable, with the floor of the forest as much as a foot deep in pinestraw. There had been no particular reason to follow this trail, aside from the simple fact that it had not been searched before.

  When the column caught up to Yellow Hand, Brice saw that the trail had finally emerged from the dark forest of pines only to descend again across a rocky ridge toward a narrow gulch. As soon as Brice had pulled up beside him, Yellow Hand got off his pony and led it a few yards up the trail. Brice dismounted and followed.

  “Here,” Yellow Hand grunted, pointing to hoofprints in the soft sand and shell rock. He got up and walked a few yards farther, where he pointed to a pile of droppings. Picking up some of the manure, he held it out for Brice to see. “Fresh, maybe two hours.”

  Declining to take the sample, Brice nodded and said, “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think it’s Little Wolf?”

  Yellow Hand shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be.”

  “Well, let’s follow it and see who it is.”

  Yellow Hand nodded and climbed back in the saddle. The tracks he had found left the trail and led higher up in the rocky bluffs above them. Brice could hear a few low remarks in the ranks behind him, questioning the wi
sdom in continuing to climb up the steep mountain. He ignored them. Before long, the trail became so steep that it was difficult for the horses to climb without sliding in the shifting gravel. The soldiers had to sidle along the slope to prevent the horses from going over backward and taking an unfortunate rider on a wild tumble a quarter of a mile down to the trees below. Brice now began to question his wisdom in leading the column along a route so treacherous. He glanced up at the summit of the mountain, several hundred feet above them. Glancing back at Yellow Hand in front, he could see that the scout’s Indian pony was having no easier time of it than the heavier army mounts.

  From his position high above the single line of blue shirts inching their way across the slope, Little Wolf sat passively watching the troopers laboring to traverse the precarious terrain. He had purposely left a trail they could not possibly miss, and now he waited patiently for the Nez Perce scout to pass a point directly below his position. When Yellow Hand reached that point and entered a narrow gulch, Little Wolf rose to one knee and prepared to go into action.

  Brice Paxton glanced nervously at the trees below. This is crazy, he thought. Up ahead some forty or fifty yards, he could see that Yellow Hand appeared to have reached more solid ground. Encouraged, he called back to Paul Simmons, “If you can stay in the saddle for a few minutes more, it looks like there’s solid footing ahead.”

  “The question is, can I stay in the saddle a few more minutes?” Paul answered. He hesitated when Daisy sank over her fetlocks in the loose sand and shell rock. “I hope to hell we don’t have to go back this way.”