Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  When Rain Song sank down on her straw pallet, still silently sobbing, Tobin stood there and studied the tiny window above her head. After a moment, he turned and went into the front room of the jail. He returned with a flat stool. After breaking the legs off, he took the flat board seat and jammed it up into the window, blocking it completely. “Now, ain’t that better? Now you can sleep without no nightbirds bothering you.” This brought forth another throaty chuckle as he locked her door once more and retired to his cell.

  There was no more sleep that night for either of them. She could hear him moving around all through the night, checking the door and window. She knew he was watching for Little Wolf. She had been puzzled at first when Tobin did not rush outside in an attempt to catch her husband before he could escape to the river. As she thought more on it during the sleepless night, it became apparent to her why he did not. He thought he might have hit Little Wolf, but he wasn’t sure, and wounded or not, Little Wolf was far too dangerous out in the open. On the other hand, the jail was built like a little fortress, with boards of solid pine four inches thick. The only windows were the ones in each cell, and one more over the front door, and they were no larger than a large baking sheet. Tobin knew the building was impenetrable. He could simply stay put and be safe from attack. Little Wolf would have to burn him out, and he knew he couldn’t risk that with his wife inside. So he could afford to wait until sunup when he could see anyone lying in ambush.

  Dawn came, and Tobin studied the trees behind the building for a long time until he was certain there was no one there. Only then did he leave the building to investigate the area behind it. With rifle in hand, he scanned the expanse between the buildings and the river. When he was sure Little Wolf was no longer there, he turned his attention to the tracks around the trees and in the clearing. He smiled when he sighted a small string of blood droplets near the largest of the pines. There wasn’t much. He might have easily missed them, drying on the pine needles, had he not been scouting the ground so thoroughly. “By God, I nicked him,” he muttered, pleased that he had drawn first blood. “Well, the game’s on now. He knows where she is. It’s up to him to come and get her.”

  Back inside again, he propped his rifle against the wall and lit a fire in the small stove. When Blanton’s boy came with Rain Song’s breakfast, he would send him to the river to fetch water for coffee. He was not concerned about Little Wolf now that the sun was up. There was no cover close enough to town to afford concealment for anyone with a notion to take a shot at him. This didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep a sharp eye anytime he left the jail, though.

  As for his prisoner, she remained huddled in a corner of the cell, her head down, pining for her man, he figured. She didn’t even look up when he informed her that he had caught Little Wolf with at least one shot. She still did not respond when Blanton’s boy brought her breakfast. Tobin sent the boy to the river for water. He usually had him empty Rain Song’s toilet bucket as well, a chore the boy despised but was too afraid of the sinister tracker to refuse. On this morning, the contents of the bucket were on the floor, since Tobin had upended it to use as a stool the night before. Tobin stood staring at the Indian girl for a few moments before leaving to walk down the street to Blanton’s for his own breakfast. She did not move from her position in the corner. He knew that as soon as he locked the front door and left, she would wash herself and eat her breakfast, and no doubt clean up the mess he had made on her floor.

  Blanton looked up from the table when Tobin walked in. He took another sip from the coffee cup in his hand, saying nothing as he watched the huge man pull out a chair and settle himself heavily. As always during this daily routine, Blanton’s face wore an expression of extreme irritation. He may not have been aware of the obvious display of his feelings, but it did not go unnoticed by Tobin. It was a source of mild amusement for Blanton’s unwelcome guest—it always pleased Tobin to irritate people.

  “Where the hell’s my breakfast?” Tobin growled.

  Blanton did not answer him, but got up and walked to the back door. Opening it, he called out, “Frances, he’s here—wants his breakfast.” Blanton, along with his wife and son, lived in a small house behind the saloon, no more than ten or twelve steps from the back door of the barroom. He came back and sat down at the table again. “She’ll bring it,” was all he said to Tobin.

  “I’ll have some of that coffee,” Tobin said and studied the saloon keeper as he reluctantly, but obediently, got up to get it. He’s getting a little too sassy, Tobin thought, I might have to put a little fear of the devil in him. It had been a few days since Tobin had damn near beaten Johnny Blevins to death, and the big scout suspected Blanton was getting too secure in his relationship with him, just because he was feeding him. Tobin decided he didn’t feel like expending the energy to soften Blanton’s head up a little. Maybe tomorrow.

  “What was all the shooting last night?” Blanton asked as he watched Tobin gulp down his breakfast.

  Tobin looked up from his plate and hesitated a second. “Varmint,” he said and returned his attention to his food.

  “Varmint?” Blanton grunted. “Shore sounded like a heap of shooting. What kind of varmint was it?”

  Tobin paused again, gravy dripping from his whiskers. “The kind that ain’t none of your business.” He glared at Blanton.

  Blanton blanched. “I was just making conversation,” he stammered.

  “Well, don’t. When I feel like making conversation, I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  Blanton stood inside the saloon door and watched as Tobin stepped off the walkway and headed back toward the jail. He halfway wished he had the guts to take his shotgun and shoot the huge scout in the back. He had a feeling Medicine Creek was not going to be rid of Tobin after he caught that Cheyenne renegade. Hearing a footstep on the walk behind him, he turned to see Arvin Gilbert approaching. Blanton smirked. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the rats scurried out of their holes now that the cat was gone. No doubt Ike Frieze would also be along any minute now, as soon as Tobin was inside and Ike could safely pass the jail without having to confront the brute.

  “Morning, Henry,” Arvin greeted the saloon keeper. “What was all the shooting about last night? Did Tobin say?”

  Blanton held the door for Arvin. “No, he didn’t say.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “I asked him—said it wasn’t none of my damn business.”

  Arvin looked worried. “There were an awful lot of shots, seven or eight at least. He was damn sure shooting at something.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that damn Injun mighta showed up.” Blanton poured a cup of coffee for Arvin. “You know, I don’t feel any too stout about that crazy son of a bitch using our town for a trap. A lot of innocent folks could get hurt before he catches that Cheyenne.”

  Arvin nodded solemnly. “We should have held off until that damn Injun came back to his shack. We shoulda killed them all. That was a big mistake. I’m blaming Bowers for that.”

  Blanton only snorted in reply. Arvin could blame Bowers if he wanted to, but Bowers wasn’t the only one who had been reluctant to sit around in the hills that day, waiting for the white Cheyenne to show up. The blood was up that day and most of the posse was eager to burn the rat’s nest and get on back to the comfort of their own hearths. If Arvin wanted to dwell on what they should have done, as far as Blanton was concerned, they should have just left the Injuns to hell alone. Then they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Arvin was dead right about one thing, though—Medicine Creek was just beginning to get a taste of the trouble coming their way from Mister Tobin, who was getting more demanding and sullen with each passing day.

  17

  Little Wolf knelt down on a flat rock that jutted out into the swiftly running stream. Cupping the cool water in his hand, he washed the dried blood from the long crease in his left shoulder. Tobin’s bullet had cut a shallow trench in his skin. There was no real damage, as
the injury was little more than a deep scratch. He had been lucky to catch the glint of moonlight on the rifle barrel in time to avoid taking the shot in his chest. The bullet wound was nothing when compared to the pain in his heart, knowing that he had been so close to Rain Song and unable to rescue her. He would have returned fire had the big scout not moved to the window Rain Song had called from. Little Wolf could not risk firing into the window for fear of hitting his wife.

  The night was not a complete loss. He now knew for sure that Rain Song was being held in the jail. He had wanted to try to talk to her—it had been so long since he last saw her. He wanted to tell her that he would come for her, that she mustn’t give up hope. But the big tracker was more alert than he had anticipated. No matter, she knew he was there, and she had to know that as long as he drew breath, he would come to her, even if it meant he had to kill the entire town.

  When he finished cleaning his wound, he moved back away from the stream into the trees and sat down to decide on a plan. The jail was too fortified to break into. Tobin was obviously staying put inside his fortress, knowing Little Wolf could not very well storm the building. That would be suicidal. He had to draw the huge man outside. He thought hard on it. His fighting would have to be done at night. He could not be sure how much support the big tracker had from the town, so he couldn’t expose himself to some storekeeper’s rifle fire. After a minute of thought, he decided that since the town had burned him out, it was only fitting that he return the favor.

  * * *

  Arvin Gilbert knew something was amiss as soon as he walked in the front door that morning. He went at once to the back door where his fears were confirmed. The door was closed, but it was not locked as he had left it. The bottom panel had been kicked in and the intruder had reached in and lifted the bar. He had been robbed!

  He walked quickly back to the front and stood in the middle of the store, looking around him. Some things were out of place, but there was no sign of wanton pillaging. The safe in the corner of his stockroom had not been disturbed, a fact that distressed him momentarily. Did someone know that he only kept a token amount of money in the safe? Hurriedly, he crossed over to the back counter. He crawled under the counter and lifted the floorboard. Brushing aside the straw and sawdust that covered the square iron box, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was still there! Just to make sure, he took a key from his watch pocket and opened the lock. Nothing was amiss. What was the thief after, if not the money?

  Returning to the front of the store, he began a careful inspection of his shelves. At first he was ready to conclude that nothing had been taken, but soon he began to discover the loss of first one thing, then another. After canvassing the entire store, he could say for certain what his losses were; a five-gallon can of kerosene, a block of salt pork, two boxes of rifle cartridges, and as near as he could figure, part of a bolt of cotton cloth. Later that morning, when he went down to the saloon, he puzzled over his robbery with Henry Blanton.

  “Whaddaya make of that?” Arvin asked his friend.

  Henry scratched his head thoughtfully. “It is a mite queer. You sure you ain’t missing nuthin’ else?”

  “Nothing I can find. I reckon whoever it was just wanted to do a little shopping for a few things. Hell, if they didn’t have no money, I’da give ’em credit for that much—I’da heap rather give it to ’em then have ’em bust up my door.”

  Blanton nodded, understanding. “You ought to make you a solid door like the one I got out back. That one’ll stand up to about anything short of dynamite.” He paused while he poured Arvin a cup of coffee. Then, grinning, he asked, “You gonna report the robbery to our acting sheriff?”

  “A lot of good that would do,” Arvin snorted. Then, as a precaution, he looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. For such a huge man, Tobin could move uncommonly quiet.

  “It’s all right,” Blanton said, chuckling, “he’s done been here for his load of rations.”

  * * *

  Even though he had remarked to Blanton that it would do no good to report the break-in to their new sheriff, Arvin still made it a point to be at the saloon when Tobin ambled in for his evening meal. He waited until the surly brute had finished his second plate of side meat and beans before approaching him.

  Tobin eyed the mayor with a glance that might have been reserved for a cockroach. He harbored no tolerance for weakness of any kind, and he saw a weakness in Arvin Gilbert that disgusted him. He made no efforts to disguise his contempt for all the citizens of Medicine Creek, but Arvin was especially revolting to him. So, when the mayor stepped up to his table and paused, waiting to be acknowledged, Tobin simply leered up at him from under bushy black eyebrows. Arvin almost lost his courage and was about to turn around and leave the surly brute to scowl alone.

  “What the hell do you want?” Tobin growled, his voice rumbling up from deep in his powerful chest. It stopped Arvin in his tracks.

  “Why, nothing—that is, I was just going to pass the time of day,” he lied. Summoning up his resolve, he blurted, “Well, there was something.” He almost faltered when Tobin cocked an eyebrow at this, but figured he had gotten this far, so he spit it out. “Somebody broke into my store last night—busted the back door.” When Tobin continued to glare at the little man, making no reply, Arvin began to sputter, already sorry he had even mentioned it. “Well, you know, you being sheriff and all—like you said—as long as you’re using the jail.” When his words were still met with silence, he made one more attempt to assert his authority. “As mayor, it is my responsibility to insist that the sheriff look into these matters.”

  Still Tobin did not respond. The only sign he showed that indicated he had even heard the mayor’s timid protest was a darkening of his already stormy countenance. After a moment during which Arvin stood frozen, not knowing whether to say more or simply turn and remove himself, Tobin slowly rose from his chair. “I ain’t got time to fool with your piddly little problems,” he said gruffly as he brushed by the embarrassed little man and left the saloon.

  Voices that had been low and subdued the entire time the baleful scout had sat at the back table noisily eating his supper, once again gained pitch and substance as the tension eased. Arvin turned around to find every eye in the place on him. What do they expect? he thought. I can’t challenge the brute. Looking toward the bar, he met the broad grin of Henry Blanton.

  “We used to think Franklin Bowers was hard to get along with,” Blanton said. “What are we gonna do about that devil?”

  Arvin had no answer for him. He shook his head slowly, and shrugging his shoulders, abruptly turned and headed for the door. Feeling mortified to have been treated with such disrespect—and in front of a good number of his friends—Arvin simply wanted to go home and hope to forget about the incident.

  * * *

  It had been a typical spring season in the river valley and Medicine Creek had received a normal amount of rainfall. But during the last few days, as summer approached, it had been uncommonly dry. Even the ruts in the usually muddy street were beginning to dry out. Homesteaders were already complaining about their crops. With a stout breeze blowing from the south that rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods, conditions were prime for disaster.

  Like a shooting star, the flaming arrow traced a brilliant arc across the dark moonless night and came to rest solidly in the dry shingles of the saloon roof. The solitary figure on the knoll behind the buildings paused to judge the effectiveness of his first arrow before preparing the second. Seeing that the kerosene-soaked cloth had effectively spread the flames to a sizable area of the dry shingles, he carefully ignited another arrow and launched it. Like the first, it spread rapidly across the dried-out roof, which had become like tinder over the last few rainless days.

  After placing several more arrows at intervals along the roof line, he was confident that the kerosene rags had done their work. The townfolk of Medicine Creek had long since retired to their beds for the night, and by the time the
building would be blazing hard enough to waken the saloon keeper and his family in their little house behind, it would be too late to extinguish it.

  Little Wolf felt no compassion for the man who owned the saloon. He wasn’t certain Blanton was among the burning and murdering riders who stormed down on his little ranch. Even if Blanton wasn’t, he still supported the deed, even fed the half-breed scout who held Rain Song captive. Little Wolf was not concerned with individuals in his mission to rescue his wife. From his point of view, there were only two distinct personalities—the town of Medicine Creek, and Tobin. They were both his mortal enemies.

  Leading his horse in the dark, he made his way along the base of the hills that guarded the eastern side of the valley to a point opposite the jail and south of the stables. Here, he tied his horse and sat down to wait. From this vantage point, he could see the front door of the jail.

  The roof of the saloon burned for more than half an hour before the interior structure caught fire and major flames began to reach up into the nighttime sky. It seemed like only seconds after this that the alarm went out. The saloon keeper, a nightshirt tucked haphazardly into his trousers, ran hysterically back and forth from the front of the burning building to the back. After a moment, he ran into his house and emerged seconds later with a shotgun, which he fired into the air—three shots, which was the town’s distress signal. In a matter of minutes, people from several buildings poured into the dusty street in response to the alarm. A bucket brigade was hastily organized, but it proved to be a fruitless effort. The river was too far away and the buckets of water that were passed along were too few to have any effect on the flames.