Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  Tobin spent over two hours in Medicine Creek. Arvin Gilbert described how they had found the former mayor, Puddin Rooks, dead in the alleyway, his throat cut, an arrow buried in his gut. He told him about Franklin Bowers, murdered in his own jail; Tolbert and Lonnie lying in front of their cabin, scalped. After an hour, Morgan Sewell drifted in for a drink and helped fill in any details Arvin left out. When he’d finally had one more drink of Blanton’s finest, this one paid for by Arvin, and nodded his farewells, Tobin felt he knew a great deal more about Little Wolf. His enthusiasm for the kill was growing with each hour that passed.

  * * *

  Tobin stepped down from the saddle. Leaving the buckskin to graze on the grass by the stream, he walked over to examine the pile of burnt timbers and ashes that were once a cabin. Burnt him out, Tobin thought, and he pictured in his mind the scene that must have taken place. Twenty or more vigilantes, according to what Arvin Gilbert had told him. It must have been a hot little party, with plenty of blood. Nothing like killing a couple of women to stoke the courage of a mob of storekeepers and farmers. He had an idea that if this Injun, Little Wolf, had been home at the time, things might have been a little different. He stood up and looked all around him. Right nice little valley, he thought. Good place to start a little ranch. When he climbed back in the saddle and started out toward the south end of the valley, it was clear to him that the man he hunted was probably as peaceful as any rancher before the good folk of Medicine Creek paid a call.

  According to what he had been told at Lapwai, the bodies of the two women and the one man were not found when cavalry patrols scouted the valley. He felt a curiosity to find the bodies, knowing they had been buried somewhere. Cheyenne, he thought, most likely he’d wanna build a platform for ’em, instead of putting ’em in the ground—and he’d wanna hide ’em from the white mob. As he crossed the valley floor at a walk, he studied the slopes that converged on the south end. Thick with pine and spruce, a line of foothills led to the higher peaks. “If it was me,” he said, “I’d wanna set ’em up on the leeward side of one of them hills.”

  He spent most of the rest of that afternoon searching for sign that might give him a trail to follow. There was an abundance of sign for game, both large and small, but nothing that hinted that a horse might have passed that way. It had been too long, he concluded. Tobin decided to give up the search and go on to the camp by the waterfall. The scouts at Lapwai had given him pretty good directions to that camp as well as to the mountainside where they had found Yellow Hand’s body. He turned the buckskin back down the mountain when, quite by accident, he stumbled upon the gravesite he had been seeking.

  The buckskin was not at all comfortable with the three bodies on the makeshift scaffolds, and he balked when Tobin spurred him closer. Tobin, however, was not burdened with the superstitions of his Indian mother, and he felt respect for damn little in a world where he feared no man, living or dead. To satisfy his callous curiosity, he dismounted and proceeded to climb up to the platforms.

  He found that he was not the first intruder to desecrate the grave. Scavengers had found the bodies, magpies probably, and had picked away at the rotting flesh exposed by a rip in the hide wraps. He only sought to verify the bodies as the victims of the vigilantes, and he was satisfied on that count within minutes.

  Descending from the tree, he discovered four scalps tied to the lower end of one of the poles. Four white scalps, he thought, payment on account. As he rode down the slope, he felt more and more confident that he was getting inside the mind of his man. The thought caused his heartbeat to quicken with the excitement of the hunt, and he unconsciously rested his hand on the stock of his rifle.

  The following day, Tobin spent little time at the mountain camp by the waterfall. He saw the beginnings of a permanent home the Cheyenne had started for himself and his wife, and the grave beneath the branches of the tall pine. Tobin knew his man now. He felt the fury of the Cheyenne warrior as he raced after Yellow Hand. The sensation fueled the excitement in Tobin’s mind. This was a man worth tracking down, a warrior of strength and cunning. This would be a kill equal to a grizzly or a mountain lion.

  He spent several hours studying the trail leading from the site of Yellow Hand’s execution. His senses honed and receptive, he combed through the multitude of tracks left around the tree where the body was hung. The cavalry patrol had effectively obliterated all sign that might help to follow Little Wolf. Still, due to the ruggedness of the mountainside, there were only two directions open to the Cheyenne, and he rejected the one that led back down through the lodgepoles. He knew his man would make his way along the slope, above the treeline.

  Tobin had not ridden far before finding what he was looking for—distinct evidence of sliding hoofprints where Little Wolf’s horse had struggled to cross an area of loose gravel and sand. Tobin smiled to himself, knowing he and the Cheyenne were of a like mind. Two more hours of slow, hazardous travel brought him to a rocky divide. Crossing over, he came to a deep ravine that led down toward the trees. Following it down, he soon came to a tiny meadow, dissected by a rushing stream that originated in the snow-capped peaks above. This was where Little Wolf had camped, and for more than one night, according to the sign—long enough to hunt and prepare food.

  “This is where you’re making up your mind,” Tobin said softly. “What are you gonna do? What direction are you going in?”

  Tobin was confident that Little Wolf had satisfied his lust for revenge. Now he was probably making a decision as to what to do with the rest of his life. He had to be fairly sure that the army could not have followed him this far, so he had to figure he was in the clear. Tobin smiled to himself when he thought about it. It would make his job a little easier.

  He spent the rest of the day scouting the Cheyenne’s former camp. From the sign he pieced together, he concluded Little Wolf had four or five horses. He could see where they had fed on the meadow grass. He was looking for a trail out of the clearing where the tracks of all the horses led in the same direction, rather than random comings and goings. This would tell him which way he had headed when he didn’t intend to return. He had it figured that the renegade would strike out across the mountains, maybe on the Lolo Trail, headed for the safety of Canada. There were a great many Indians living wild in the mountains, like the Nez Perces. Flatheads, and the Kutenai, and the army knew they couldn’t flush them all out. Furthermore, Little Wolf was a marked man. Being a white Cheyenne, specifically wanted by the U.S. Army, Little Wolf would most probably flee to Canada out of the army’s jurisdiction.

  After searching the secluded mountain meadow for almost an hour, Tobin finally found the trail he was looking for. It confirmed his gut feelings about the man he tracked. Little Wolf was indeed headed northeast. It was Tobin’s guess that his man would cross over the Bitterroots, through the valley of the Flathead, then across to the eastern slopes of the Rockies. It was going to be hard for a man driving four horses to cover his trail the whole way.

  Tobin pushed the buckskin hard. From the tracks leading up through an old game trail, he concluded that Little Wolf had no more than a day’s start on him. He could make that up in two days if he kept the buckskin hard after him. After one day’s travel, it appeared that Little Wolf had intercepted an Indian trail leading through the mountains toward the valley of the Flathead. Tobin slept very little, starting out each morning at first light and pushing on until dark. Tobin knew he was gaining on his prey as he came upon each of Little Wolf’s campsites, but the Cheyenne was making better time than he had anticipated.

  It was not until several days later that he came down the slopes and struck the Flathead River. He followed the trail along a deep gorge with the waters of the river rushing and crashing against huge boulders on the steep sides of the gorge. The trail was little more than a narrow footpath in some places. He could well imagine the difficulty involved in driving four horses through.

  As Tobin pushed his horse even harder, the buckskin began to s
how signs of fatigue. Leaving the river, the trail led through a broad valley, lush with grass and thistle, and early summer blooms of flowers. The fragrance of the blossoms was lost on the single-minded scout, so intent was he on cutting the distance between himself and Little Wolf. He whipped his horse mercilessly when the weary animal tried to pause to graze on the sweet thistle. Although feeling no sympathy for the horse, Tobin knew that he would have to stop soon or he would be on foot. He cursed the buckskin for his weakness.

  Emerging from a low hill covered with pine and larch, he came upon a small grassy clearing where several springs converged to form a sizable stream. Tobin pulled up short. There, in the meadow below him, were four horses grazing on the sweet spring grass. Tobin could not suppress the smile that formed on his grizzled face. He knew Little Wolf had to stop to let his horses feed sometime, especially after the difficult travel through the heavy forests of the mountains.

  He tied his horse in the trees and, with his rifle ready, made his way down to a willow thicket where he could get a closer look at the camp. Other than the blackened spot where a campfire had recently burned, there was no evidence of his prey. Figuring Little Wolf was most likely hunting in the foothills beyond, Tobin settled himself to wait for the Cheyenne’s return. In one sense, he was reluctant to see the chase ended. Maybe he had overestimated Little Wolf. Part of him had hoped the white Cheyenne would provide more of a challenge than the simple drygulching he now planned. He did not hear the silent tread of the moccasins behind him, and was unaware of the warrior’s presence until he felt the cold hard barrel of a rifle press against his skull.

  The blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He was stunned to find he had been outfoxed by the man he tracked. Tobin was not accustomed to being outfoxed by any man. He let his rifle drop to the ground immediately and raised his hands. “Hold on,” Tobin sputtered. “Hold on! I don’t mean you no harm.”

  Little Wolf took a couple of steps back. “Turn around. Stand up.” He watched as Tobin slowly turned and rose to his feet, his arms still raised above his head. Little Wolf examined the huge man silently for a few moments, then asked, “Why are you following me?” If the man was an army scout, it was not evident to the warrior.

  In the few moments Tobin paused to formulate a story, he assessed the man standing before him now with a rifle pointed at his gut. They had told him that Little Wolf was a white man, but dressed in buckskins, he could have passed for either Indian or mountain man. Tobin had not been prepared for the physical appearance of the man. He was taller than he had expected, straight and sinewy. Tobin re-evaluated his foe. “Why, neighbor, I weren’t following you a’tall.” He endeavored to effect an innocent expression. “I was just fixing to camp here myself and rest my horse up some. I didn’t know nobody knew about this spot but me. When I saw them horses, why, I didn’t know but what they was wild. But I see they’s yourn.” He paused to gauge the effect of his words on the menacing figure before him. Since he was still alive at that point, he felt somewhat encouraged that the Cheyenne was uncertain about him. The one thing Tobin counted on was that Little Wolf was not a bloodthirsty murderer at heart, out to kill every white man who crossed his path, and would kill only if given a reason.

  Little Wolf lowered the rifle slightly, though not taking it off Tobin completely, ready to use it in an instant if necessary. “You can go,” he stated simply.

  Tobin didn’t require extra time to decide whether the warrior facing him would empty the rifle into his gut if he made one false move. Holding the smile on his face, he moved very slowly. The Cheyenne watched intently as Tobin reached down to retrieve his rifle.

  “I’ll tell you what, mister. I’m right glad I run into you.” Tobin made a big show of taking his rifle by the barrel and propping it on his shoulder, completely unthreatening. “One man alone in this territory ain’t the best thing in the world.” He paused for a response from Little Wolf. There was none. “Maybe we could share a camp for the night. I shore could use the company. I ain’t had nobody to talk to in a month of wandering around in the mountains, looking for elk. It’s getting nigh on to sundown and my poor ol’ horse is plumb wore out. When you get right down to it, I could use a night’s sleep without one eye open for a change. Whaddaya say? A little company for just one night?”

  Little Wolf took a long look at the stranger, making no attempt to hide his skepticism. Could the huge white man be telling the truth? Was he only an innocent hunter? His horse back in the trees had been ridden hard. The man brought no packhorse to carry meat back. Finally Little Wolf said, “I camp alone.”

  Tobin effected a genuine look of dismay on his grizzled features. Putting on his best version of a worried man, he pleaded. “Look here, mister. I shore would appreciate it if you’d let me share your camp. Truth of it is, I got me a little place about twelve miles back yonder in the mountains and it’s gittin’ too close to dark to make it back tonight. And I ain’t much at finding my way through these mountains in the dark. I’ll be on my way at sunup.”

  Little Wolf was not completely convinced even though the man did appear to be sincere. There were very few white men that he trusted but this huge man reminded him of the one white man he had trusted more than any other—Squint Peterson. Like Squint, this man was big, almost half as wide as he was tall. There was really no reason to suspect that anyone this far away from Lapwai would know the army was chasing him. He finally decided he would allow the man to camp with him, but he would keep a sharp eye on him anyway.

  Tobin could put on a front as well as any man, and he performed brilliantly for Little Wolf, seeming to be a simple soul with no thought save a good meal and some friendly conversation. Little Wolf had met men like that before who spent long lonely months in the mountains, starved for human companionship. Tobin appeared to be openly impressed when Little Wolf led his horse down to the campfire, a fresh blacktail deer carcass across the saddle. Tobin talked the entire time Little Wolf silently cut the meat and placed strips of flesh on the fire to roast.

  For his part, Tobin was patient. He had put on a convincing performance and he was content to wait for his chance. Little Wolf never seemed to take his eye off of his guest, even when Tobin went up to fetch his horse. Tobin credited the Cheyenne’s caution as a natural habit. Had Little Wolf not been so physically intimidating, Tobin would have made a bolder move. As it was, he thought it more prudent to wait until the Cheyenne relaxed his guard. In the meantime, he could enjoy a good supper and take his ease by the fire.

  As darkness filled the little valley, Tobin got up to stretch and said he was tuckered out. He spread his blankets out away from the fire where he could be out of the firelight. Little Wolf made his bed on the opposite side of the fire, and the two men turned in. Both pretended to sleep, each keeping an eye on the other.

  The night deepened as the flames from the fire died away, leaving glowing red coals that eventually faded to gray-white ashes. Tobin blinked away the sleep that continued to threaten him. He could not afford to sleep that night. If he waited until morning, he might not get another opportunity to surprise the ever watchful Cheyenne. Along toward dawn, he heard an owl call in the distance and the faint murmur of a nightbird rustling in its nest. He forced himself to wait a little while longer, listening for any sound from the dark shadows on the other side of the long-dead fire. There was nothing. Beneath his blanket, he cocked the hammer back on his .45 Peacemaker. Moving surprisingly silently for a man so big, he slowly rose to his feet. Still there was no sound from the other side of the clearing. As Tobin stood there, the first faint rays of light crept over the hills. It would soon be light enough to see. Being careful not to step on any branches that had fallen from the firewood, he moved patiently, step by step, his pistol ready for any sudden reaction from the sleeping man in the shadows. It was not yet light enough to make out distinct shapes and forms, especially under the lower limbs of the pine where Little Wolf had made his bed. Tobin hesitated for an instant. He had a desire to see the e
xpression on the Cheyenne’s face just before he pulled the trigger, but decided against it. The Cheyenne was too dangerous to give even a split second’s warning. But, it was necessary to get close enough to make out the sleeping man’s form in the darkness. Carefully placing one foot after the other until he was sure he must be over Little Wolf’s body, he reached out and slowly pulled the lower pine bough aside. There was no one there!

  His immediate thought was that he had been ambushed. The blood froze in his veins when he heard a slight movement in the tree behind him. His reaction was automatic—he whirled around, dropping to his knee, firing at the same time. There was nothing there except his own empty bedroll and the silent pines. Something caught his eye, and he turned, ready to shoot again. It was a squirrel, scurrying to safety. Furious, his nerves stretched taut, he sent two bullets after the fleeing rodent. The act of frustration did nothing to soothe his anger, for he knew the renegade had bested him. Little Wolf was gone, having slipped away during the night. Then another sobering thought struck him, and he ran down into the meadow to find, much to his relief, his buckskin busily grazing alone. The other horses were gone.

  Over three miles away, making his way up along the lower slopes that framed the valley, Little Wolf stopped and listened. There had been three shots, the sound partially muffled by the hills. So, he thought, I was right not to trust that man. He was still uncertain whether the man was specifically after him or if he was just intent on killing him for his horses. He was sorry then that he had not taken the hulking man’s horse too, but there had been the possibility that he was telling him the truth. Little Wolf nudged his horse and continued toward the mountain pass that had brought him through these same mountains many moons before when he and Squint had first come to this country. Perhaps he had seen the last of the big man on the buckskin horse, perhaps not. He would watch his backtrail carefully.