Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  No sooner had the words left his lips when the mountain above them erupted in a massive rock slide. Started by a single boulder the size of a washtub, it gathered loose shale and boulders, building as it came crashing down the steep slope, catching larger boulders in its path until, within seconds, it appeared the entire mountain was sliding away. Horses screamed and reared back. Men cried out in alarm, fighting to remain in the saddle. In the wink of an eye, the column of cavalry was plunged into chaos as horses got sideways on the slope, trying to turn around on the narrow trail. First one, then another trooper parted company with his mount and was sent sliding and tumbling down the mountainside, clutching desperately at scrubby pines as they were swept past them.

  Brice, at the head of the column, barely escaped being whisked down the mountainside by the slide that passed before him like a tidal wave of earth, boulders, and shell rock. He managed to hold his horse steady, backing him up to a wider place in the trail before turning around. Paul Simmons was in front of him now, struggling desperately with his mount.

  “Hold her back, Paul! Don’t let her try to run! Hold her back!” Glancing back over his shoulder, Brice could now see that the slide was not spreading toward them. They were safe where they were, if they could calm the horses. “We’re all right here. It’s behind us,” he called out to the troopers still struggling to control their terrified mounts. “Take it real slow.”

  Looking down below him, he counted four horses and riders scattered in various places along the steep slope. Only one horse had tumbled all the way down to the edge of the lodgepoles. Its rider was making his way down to recover his mount, sliding on all fours to keep from building momentum. The horse, however, appeared to have broken its neck because it lay still, not moving, its head bent at a peculiar angle. It was pure luck none of the men were killed, Brice thought.

  He ordered the men to start inching their way back down the trail toward the pine forest. Even though the slide had ended, the trail before them was buried, cutting them off from Yellow Hand, who was stranded on the other side. He’ll have to find his own way down, Brice mused.

  Yellow Hand, watching the sudden slide from the safety of the gulch, sensed there was a reason why he was spared but was now unable to get back to the column. He looked quickly around him. All was quiet ahead. He looked back at the wall of dirt and rock that now blocked his way back to the column. Something told him that the rock slide was no accident. His eyes darted nervously back and forth across the rocks above, straining to catch a glimpse of anything moving. Seeing nothing, he had no choice but to continue on, following the gulch, hoping it would lead to a way down the mountain.

  Behind him, on the other side of the rock slide, he heard Lieutenant Paxton calling out to him, telling him that they would wait for him at the base of the mountain where they had camped the night before. Yellow Hand heard it, but the message held no importance for him at that moment. His one concern now was Little Wolf. The Cheyenne had cut him off from the soldiers for one purpose only, and Yellow Hand’s senses were alive now as he tried to pinpoint the likely spot where Little Wolf might be lying in ambush.

  He dismounted. Holding his pony’s bridle, he moved cautiously down the rocky gulch, walking close to the wall of rock on one side, and using his horse to shield his other side. As he moved farther along the narrow rock corridor, he could no longer hear the sounds of the troopers behind him. It became as quiet as death, with no sound now except the low moan of the wind sweeping through the boulders above. Yellow Hand would admit no fear of any mortal, yet he had an uneasy feeling that left a metallic taste in his mouth. At every step, he expected the rifle shot that was bound to ring out at him from somewhere. Why did it not come? He felt a rivulet of sweat trace its way from his armpit down his side. He stopped and stared hard at the trail behind him. Where was the Cheyenne dog? The cautious, uneasy feeling became anger, and his face twisted with rage as he frantically searched the cliff’s above for sign.

  Rounding a sharp turn in the stone corridor, Yellow Hand discovered that the gulch spread out into a shallow ravine with scrub pines along the sides. He stopped and looked it over carefully, his gaze darting from tree to tree. It was the way down he had hoped for—the decline, though not gentle, was not too steep to ride his pony down without fear of going head over heels. Looking down toward the bottom of the ravine, it appeared there was a clearing in the trees. He looked all around him again, above and below. He could see no place that offered real concealment for anyone waiting in ambush. Could his senses have given him the wrong message? Maybe the rock slide was nothing more than a natural slide after all. Yellow Hand was almost disappointed. Maybe I won’t get the chance to kill the Cheyenne dog today, he thought.

  He climbed up into the saddle and sat there for a long moment. He was convinced then that there had been no danger of attack. If Little Wolf was lying in wait for him, this would have been the moment, when he was sitting on his mount, exposed to anyone in the rocks above. There was still no sound save that of the wind. He prodded his pony and started down the ravine toward the clearing.

  Although the slope was not dangerously steep, still Yellow Hand had to hold his pony back in an effort to keep from building too much momentum. His pony, nimble though he was, almost stumbled several times as he planted his front legs stiffly before him in the loose gravel, his rump high behind him. Yellow Hand almost lay on his back at times in order to remain in the saddle.

  At last, the slope leveled off enough to enable him to sit more easily in the saddle. The pony, upon feeling solid ground beneath his hoofs once more, broke into an easy run, almost a full gallop. Yellow Hand did not hold him back as he made for the cover of the trees and the clearing behind. Free of the burning anticipation of the bullet he felt was certain to come minutes before, Yellow Hand nevertheless deemed it prudent to seek the safety of the tall pines. He did not like the feeling he’d had while exposed on the slope above, a feeling that a rifle’s sights were trained on his back. He was anxious to remove himself from that position and once again take on the role of the stalker. He would wait to pick up the renegade’s trail again.

  The rawhide rope was all but invisible against the background of pine needles on the floor of the forest. Not more than two feet off the ground, tied firmly between two stout pines, it was impossible to see by a rider riding recklessly into the shade of the trees. Yellow Hand’s first thought, when he was suddenly hurled into midair, was that his pony had been shot out from under him. In the confusion of that split second, it did not register in his mind that he had heard no gunfire. He was more concerned with trying to break his fall so as to minimize his injuries. He landed hard, rolling to lessen the impact. As soon as he could recover his senses enough, Yellow Hand scrambled to his feet, still dazed by his fall. Looking into the lodgepole forest, he blinked his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the shade. Suddenly his whole body stiffened.

  There he was! Standing before him, his feet planted wide, coolly watching the efforts of the confused Nez Perce scout to gather his senses. In the midday darkness of the lodgepole shade, he appeared as a demon, naked from the waist up, his face painted with red and white stripes leading from his nose across his cheeks. He stood squarely, seemingly as tall as the pines around him. For the first time in his life, Yellow Hand experienced raw, undiluted terror.

  His senses clear now, sobered by the spectre before him, he glanced around to determine his chances for survival. His pony, having recovered from his stumble, was now several yards down the trail, past the menacing figure planted before him. Yellow Hand’s rifle was still in the saddle boot. There was a pistol in his belt, but the rifle leveled at his midsection acted as the deterrent that kept him from reaching for it. There was no place for him to run. A bullet would find him before he took a step in any direction. After a few frantic thoughts, he resigned himself to his execution and began to mumble a low death chant.

  “Shut up!” Little Wolf spat in the Nez Perce tongue. “Stop your cowardly
whining, killer of women and old men. It is not time to sing your death song yet.”

  Mistaking Little Wolf’s intention, Yellow Hand was not surprised that his captor meant to torture him, killing him slowly. “I am a warrior. I deserve to die with dignity,” he blurted.

  “Do not talk to me of dignity. You have the dignity of a coyote.” He motioned with his rifle. “Take the pistol from your belt and throw it to me.” He anticipated the thoughts running through the doomed man’s mind. “Take it out with your left hand, slowly. If you try to use it, I promise you your death will take many days.” When Yellow Hand drew the pistol and tossed it at Little Wolf’s feet, Little Wolf reached down and picked it up. He opened the cylinder and ejected the bullets, then tossed the gun aside. “Now the knife.” When he had relieved him of all his weapons, Little Wolf said, “We will now see if you are a warrior, as you claim.”

  A bewildered Yellow Hand looked on, astonished, as Little Wolf ejected the shells in his own rifle and tossed it aside. He then took his own knife and threw it into the trees where he had thrown Yellow Hand’s. It was plain to him then what was to occur and it left his mind in a state of confusion. He had a chance to save his life, but there was a feeling deep inside his soul that told him he did not want to fight this painted demon before him. He stood motionless, watching Little Wolf as he stepped closer to him.

  Little Wolf knew that he could have easily killed the scout as he stood there defenseless, cutting him to pieces with his rifle. But that would not have satisfied the burning hatred he had for this man. In his grief for his wife and the rage he harbored for the man who killed her, he knew that he would not be content with ending the murderer’s life with a bullet. That would be far too merciful. He had to kill him with his bare hands, rip the life from him, as Yellow Hand had torn Rain Song away.

  Yellow Hand geared himself to fight for his life, moving a few steps to his right and then waiting for Little Wolf to approach. Little Wolf closed then, his body tensed and ready to spring, like a mountain lion preparing to kill. Yellow Hand made the fatal mistake of looking into the Cheyenne’s eyes. They were cold, unblinking, measuring, and Yellow Hand felt his body shudder. He had seen his own death in Little Wolf’s deep dark eyes.

  In the next instant, Yellow Hand bolted, making a desperate dash for the trees where Little Wolf had thrown the knives. Little Wolf was on him instantly, overtaking the terrified man before he had cleared the narrow trail, sending him sprawling with one blow between his shoulder blades. Like a cat, Little Wolf showed no mercy in his attack. Yellow Hand tried to roll away from him, but Little Wolf was on top of him in a heartbeat, his hand clamped on the helpless man’s throat with the force of a puma’s jaws. Slowly, he clamped tighter and tighter. Yellow Hand flailed at his tormentor, trying to break his grip. Little Wolf ignored the blows, clamping down tighter and tighter on Yellow Hand’s throat until the Nez Perce could hear the crunching of his own windpipe as it collapsed under the fierce pressure. Consumed by the fury within him, Little Wolf clamped down harder and harder until the object of his terrible vengeance ceased to struggle. Even then, he did not release his death grip on Yellow Hand’s throat, staring trancelike at the bulging eyes that looked up at him but no longer saw.

  After what seemed a long time, he sat back on his heels, still staring at the body of the Nez Perce scout. The storm that had raged inside him was at last stilled and he sat there on the ground, exhausted. Vengeance was not to be a balm for his tormented soul, however. At that moment, he missed Rain Song more than ever.

  * * *

  The late afternoon melted into dusk and still there was no sign of Yellow Hand. Brice told Sergeant Baskin to have the men make camp there by the stream since it would soon be dark. They would wait until morning for the scout to show up. Paul strode up from the stream where he had been washing away some of the grime that had covered him when the rock slide sent clouds of dust swirling around the troopers. He stood there listening as Brice gave Baskin his orders. When the sergeant walked away, Paul sat down against a willow and stretched his legs out before him.

  “I swear, Brice. Do my legs look like they’re trying to bow a little? I’ve got to get transferred out of this damn cavalry.”

  Brice laughed. “You know, they do look like they’re beginning to curve a little.” He couldn’t resist teasing his friend a bit, although Paul’s legs were as straight as the day he was assigned to the 1st Cavalry.

  “Damn. If I don’t get my desk job, I’ll end up bowlegged as hell. I’ll be like Baskin there. He’s so damn bowlegged he can take a dump standing up and he won’t even get any on his boots.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Paul. You’ll get your ass shot before that happens.”

  “You really know how to cheer a person up, don’t you?” Turning serious for a moment, he asked, “What do you suppose happened to Yellow Hand?”

  “I was wondering myself. He might still be trying to find a way down that mountain, and might have had to cross over to the other side to find a way down. If he doesn’t turn up by morning, I suppose we’ll have to go looking for him.” It riled Brice that he was bound to look for Yellow Hand. He had never cared much for the aloof Indian scout before the incident with the Cheyenne woman. Since then, he had developed a rather strong dislike for him. But he couldn’t very well order the troop back, leaving Yellow Hand to fend for himself. That wouldn’t set a very good example for the rest of the Nez Perce scouts.

  Night passed and morning came bright and clear with a chill on the air. Still there was no sign of Yellow Hand. Now Brice feared the scout was in trouble. He called Paul and Sergeant Baskin over to discuss the best direction to start searching in. They decided it would be pointless to retrace their tracks of the day before. They would still be unable to pass the rock slide. Having that avenue closed to them, Brice decided to skirt the base of the mountain in hopes of finding a way up that would bring them past the slide and intercept the trail beyond that point.

  It took them all morning, probing the mountainside for a way up. But each time they climbed through the ring of lodgepole forest that circled the mountain, they were met with slopes so steep and shifting that they would have to turn back and try in another spot. Finally one of the troopers riding out ahead reported that he had found what looked like a trail through the pines and, from below, there looked to be a ridge high up above it that might be passable. This seemed to offer some possibility, so Brice ordered the column forward.

  The patrol weaved its way through the forest, following the game trail in single file. They had almost come to the upper edge of the thick stand of lodgepoles when the point man returned to meet the column, pushing his horse as fast as he could manage in the dense timber.

  “Lieutenant!” he called out as he reined up sharply beside Brice. He took a moment to quiet his horse before reporting his find. “I found him. It ain’t pretty.”

  The patrol followed the trooper up the trail to a small clearing less than a hundred yards from the upper treeline. The clearing had no doubt been caused by a fire some years before, because there were singed tree trunks scattered throughout the clearing, nearly covered now by knee-high bushes. Brice didn’t see it at first until the trooper pointed toward the right side of the trail. There, from the limb of a stunted pine, hung the body of Yellow Hand. The scout’s killer had used Yellow Hand’s whip to tie his ankles and hang him upside down. The scalplock had been taken, the skin around the crown of his head hanging jagged and loose from the scalping knife.

  “Damn,” was all Brice could manage at first. He dismounted to examine the body up close. Baskin moved up beside him. Paul remained in the saddle, seeing all he wanted without need for closer inspection. “Damn,” Brice repeated. He noted the dried blood that had formed from rips in the dead man’s throat and the small droplets of blood on the ground under his head. “Not much blood,” he said.

  “Nossir,” Baskin replied. “Looks to me like that devil crushed his windpipe, and damn near broke his
neck.” Looking around the body at the trampled bushes, he said, “Looks like there was a helluva tussle.”

  “Looks like,” Brice answered. He moved around behind the body. “What do you make of this, Sergeant?”

  Baskin stepped over beside Brice and looked at the ripped shirt of the late Nez Perce scout. It revealed areas of torn flesh on the dead man’s back and shoulders. He studied the wounds for a moment before answering. “Buzzards, or magpies maybe. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been here since yesterday afternoon. Hanging here in these trees, ain’t nuthin’ found him but the birds. It mighta been another day before the walking critters found him.”

  “Damn,” Brice muttered again. “Cut him down from there.” He stepped back as Baskin motioned for the first two troopers in line to dismount. “Let’s get him in the ground and then we’ll push on. Maybe we can pick up his trail.”

  “Yessir,” Baskin mumbled. The lieutenant knew as well as he did that their chances of following Little Wolf’s trail were the same as following a piss trail up the river. It was Brice’s notion that it would be fitting to bury Yellow Hand among the thick lodgepoles. The sergeant, having done his share of digging during his years in the army, persuaded him that it would be best to bury the Indian in the rocks above the treeline. “We’d be trying to dig through pine roots for the rest of the day,” he explained. So several of the troopers set to it and carved out a shallow grave a few yards above the trail at the head of a massive boulder. After Yellow Hand was laid to rest, they piled rocks on top to keep predators away.

  They made an attempt to pick up Little Wolf’s trail, knowing they could not expect much success. It was easy enough at first, for the tracks were obvious, leading up away from the trees. Above them, the peaks of the mountains stood high against the deep azure of the sky, their snowy crowns glistening in the afternoon rays of the sun. Breathtaking yet foreboding, they seemed to defy invasion by mortal man. The horse ain’t been made that can scale those cliffs, Brice thought, knowing the man they trailed would, out of necessity, have to descend pretty soon. Still, the trail led upward until they came to a vast field of solid rock. That was where the trail ended. Not surprised, Brice ordered the column to turn back.