The one person Little Wolf was most concerned with failed to respond to the town’s emergency. Little Wolf watched the door of the jail intensely, waiting for the burly scout to show himself and provide the opportunity Little Wolf waited for. Surely, Little Wolf thought, the town’s sheriff would respond to the fire. Still, there was no reaction from Tobin, even when Blanton’s son was sent down to the jail to fetch him. From a position closer now that would afford a clear shot at the door, Little Wolf watched as Blanton’s boy banged on the solid door of the jail, yelling at the top of his lungs. In a very short time, the boy was silenced by a gruff voice from inside that obviously told the lad to button his lip and get the hell away from his door.
His plan had failed. Little Wolf now understood the singleness of purpose the big scout had. Tobin was totally unconcerned with Blanton’s loss, and he was smart enough to realize that the fire was possibly set to lure him into the white Cheyenne’s rifle sights. Little Wolf was disappointed, but not discouraged. How long, he wondered, would the people of the town tolerate their sheriff’s reticence? With the patience that had come with many drawn-out battles with the army, Little Wolf resolved to test the will of Medicine Creek to demand action from Tobin.
* * *
Ike Frieze trudged wearily back to his stables. Near exhaustion, his face and arms were black with the soot and smoke from the saloon fire. With the other men of the town, he had tried to tote water from the river in an effort to keep the fire from spreading to the front of the building. When it became apparent that this was a useless effort, he, along with Blanton and his son, dashed into the raging building to carry out anything they could. When the whiskey barrels went up, they knew they were finished. There was nothing left but to stand by and watch it burn.
By his watch, it was two-thirty when Ike was awakened by Blanton’s shotgun. He glanced at his timepiece as he approached the stables—it was almost five o’clock. It would soon be daylight. In about two and a half hours, Blanton had been wiped out. Ike shook his head sadly to think how devastating a similar disaster would be to him. Then, as if just noticing the grime on his hands, he walked around the building to the horse trough to wash his face and arms.
The water was cool and refreshing and he splashed it liberally on his face and neck. Realizing that his whiskers had been singed by the flames, he dunked his head in the water. The hand that clamped down on the back of his neck had the strength of a vise, and Ike was helpless to pull his head from the water. It had happened so suddenly that he had not had time to take a breath and he realized he was drowning. Even with his arms and legs flailing in an attempt to save himself, his desperation was not of sufficient strength to escape the trap he was in. He could hold his breath no longer.
A moment before sliding into unconsciousness, he was suddenly lifted out of the water trough and brought roughly to his feet, gasping for the cool morning air. At the very threshold of death moments before, he was concerned only with gulping great lungfuls of air. When he recovered his senses to a degree, the next sight that met his eyes almost sent his confused brain reeling. It was him! Little Wolf!
Ike had never seen the notorious Little Wolf, but he knew with certainty that this painted savage that stood towering over him in the gray predawn light could be no other. The sight was so terrifying to him that he could utter no sound except a feeble whine that seemed to simply ooze from his trembling lips. He knew he was about to meet death. Paralyzed by his fear, his body sagged and would have collapsed, had not the Cheyenne supported him with one hand around his throat.
“Stand up,” Little Wolf commanded, his voice low and hard as iron. “I am not going to take your worthless life now. I have a purpose for you.” Upon hearing the words that he was to be spared, the frightened little man summoned enough strength to support himself. Still holding him by the throat, Little Wolf backed him against the side of the barn. “The big scout is holding a Cheyenne woman in his jail. I will burn this town to the ground if she is not set free. You must tell the others this. Do you understand?”
Ike nodded his head up and down frantically, unable to find his voice. Barely able to believe he was still alive, he could not look into the eyes that bored into his face with determined intensity. Instead, he hung his head and continued to nod his understanding of Little Wolf’s warning. When he was released, Ike slid down the wall of the barn to a sitting position and remained there long after Little Wolf walked to the corner of the corral and leaped onto his pony. The shaken little man was still sitting there when the tall Cheyenne rode unhurriedly into the hills behind the stable as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the trees.
* * *
Tobin opened the door slowly, his eyes searching the hills behind the buildings across the street from the jail. He knew it would be one hell of a lucky shot if he got hit from that distance. But that didn’t mean he’d count out the possibility. Stepping out on the wooden walk, he looked hard up and down the street before starting toward Blanton’s.
When he walked up, Blanton, Arvin Gilbert, Ike Frieze, Morgan Sewell, and several men whose names he didn’t know were standing by the still-smoking ruins that once were a saloon. Blanton had saved everything that could be salvaged, which amounted to very little. His face was a mask of dejection as he poked at a smoldering piece of timber with his toe.
“Well,” he said when he saw the huge scout approaching, “here comes the sheriff.”
Tobin ignored the hint of sarcasm in Blanton’s tone. Instead, he glanced toward the house, now standing naked behind the blackened timbers of the saloon. Looking back at the gathering of men, he remarked, “Looks like you had a little fire.” He said it as casually as if he’d said, Looks like you had a little rain.
Blanton looked dumbfounded, hardly believing the surly tracker’s indifference to his tragedy. He opened his mouth to retort but Arvin quickly spoke. “Tell him, Ike. Tell him what that damn savage said.”
When Arvin nudged him forward, Ike found himself standing almost toe to toe with the ominous scout, a position he was not especially comfortable with. It was the second time in the span of a few hours that he had looked directly into the eyes of death. Nevertheless, he pulled his shoulders back and stammered his message.
“He said you’d best let his squaw go. Said if you didn’t, he’s gonna burn the whole town to the ground.” Having said his piece, he stepped back between Blanton and Morgan Sewell.
Tobin grinned. He didn’t give a damn if Little Wolf burned down every building on the street. He knew there was one he wouldn’t set fire to, not as long as his wife was in the jail. He also figured that, when he didn’t budge, Little Wolf would become more and more frustrated, and get bolder and bolder until he got careless. That’s when Tobin would get him. In the meantime, all Tobin had to do was sit cozy and wait him out.
The grin faded from his face when he looked back at the group of men before him. “I ain’t got time to stand around here. Where’s my breakfast?”
Blanton’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Arvin, who appeared to be as shocked as he was. “Why, god-a’mighty, man—I’ve just been burned out!”
“I can see that, but the house is still standing. The damn kitchen’s in the house, ain’t it?”
As fearsome as the beast was, his callousness was too much for Arvin Gilbert to ignore. He stepped forward. “Now see here, Mr. Tobin, Henry’s got more important things—”
That was as far as he got before the giant man struck out like a timber rattler, clutching Arvin by the throat. “Damn you, you little weasel! I’ve had about all I’m gonna take of your little mealy-mouth whining.” He shoved Arvin back into the men standing behind him. “We made a bargain. I’d stay in the jail and you’d see to my grub. Now, I’m hungry and if you don’t get that woman of yourn to cooking right now, I’m gonna visit her myself.” He glared at Blanton. “By God, she’ll cook then.”
The men of Medicine Creek were stunned. They stood in shocked silence for a few moments before
Blanton, his limbs trembling with rage, dutifully turned and went to the house to tell his wife to fix Tobin something to eat.
Tobin turned to leave. “Bring it down to the jail—and tell her to hurry up or I might help that damn Cheyenne burn this town down.”
Arvin called after him. “What about what Ike said? That Indian means business. You’re gonna have to let the woman go. It’s not worth risking our homes and businesses for one woman.”
There was no answer from the huge man. He considered cracking Arvin’s skull, but he decided to ignore him this time. There would be time for that after the renegade Cheyenne was taken care of. But he made a mental note to skin the irritating little rodent before his business was done in Medicine Creek.
The group of stupefied men watched the departing bulk of their hostile sheriff in stunned silence. They made up the core of the Vigilance Committee, and if there had been any question before, there was no doubt now that theirs was a serious problem. Something was going to have to be done about it. When Tobin first rode into town and took over the jail, it was plain to see that he would be a difficult man to deal with. Now it was apparent that he could not be reasonably dealt with at all. He knew no law but his own selfish agenda, and he had not a care for right or decency. Arvin was right when he said the man was little more than an animal.
“What are we gonna do about that man?” It was Morgan Sewell who posed the question that was foremost in every man’s mind.
A homesteader named Jake Bannister, who had witnessed the confrontation just taken place, spoke. “I know what you do when you got a mad dog roaming the streets. And I say we sure as hell got us a mad dog here in Medicine Creek.”
Morgan turned to face him. “What are you saying, Jake? That we should just shoot him? In cold blood?”
Jake shrugged his shoulders as if hesitant to put it that bluntly. “All’s I’m saying is, we got a committee to handle things like Injun trouble and other lawlessness. If the situation calls for drastic action, then so be it.” He looked around for support. “We just do what we have to do.”
There were a few nods of agreement but no one spoke out for a long moment. Arvin, feeling it his responsibility to lead, finally posed the question before them. “Are we talking about a firing squad? Or one man to do the job? I don’t know if I like the idea of a planned murder. Maybe we should give him a strong warning from the committee—let him know we won’t stand for any more of his behavior.”
Blanton spoke up. “Are you crazy, Arvin? You can’t give that murderer any warning. He’d kill us all!”
“Well, he’s gonna kill us all anyway before it’s over—either him or that damn Cheyenne he’s trying to catch,” Morgan replied. “I say we all get our guns and go down there and order him out of town. He ain’t likely to stand up to all of us.”
“What if he still won’t go?” Arvin asked.
“Then shoot him down where he stands, same as you would any mad dog,” Jake Bannister answered.
Arvin shook his head slowly. He was not comfortable with the way the discussion was headed. The impromptu meeting was interrupted for a few moments when Blanton’s wife called for her son to come get Tobin’s breakfast. They watched as the boy walked away, holding a tin plate piled high. Arvin’s brow was furrowed with concern. “This is serious business we’re talking about here. I think we better have another meeting to decide what action we’re gonna take. I don’t want us to go off half-cocked.”
At least there was general agreement on that point. It was also decided that action would need to be taken soon, so a meeting was planned for that evening. Since their usual meeting place was now little more than a pile of ashes, it was decided to gather in Arvin Gilbert’s general store.
The meeting got started a little sooner than usual due to the fact that Arvin could not provide the whiskey and beer that was normally consumed in Blanton’s saloon. Though early in starting, the meeting went on later in the evening than most sessions of the vigilance committee. No one was anxious to confront the dark and fearful man holding the town hostage. But after much heated discussion for and against, there was general agreement that the town could not survive with Tobin ensconced as sheriff. The question to be debated and decided upon was exactly what action the committee should take. Part of the group favored an execution-style ambush, giving the sinister scout no chance to defend himself. Most of the debate for this group was led by Jake Bannister. However, a larger portion of the committee—influenced by the passionate rhetoric of Reverend Norsworthy and the pleading of Arvin Gilbert—voted to visit their unwelcome guest in sufficient number to guarantee no resistance. Half a dozen men, armed and determined, should be enough to force the brute to leave town, they reasoned.
As Arvin so eloquently phrased it, “It’s our town. We built it from the ground up with our own sweat and muscle. We’ve banded together before in times of trouble. If we stick together, no one can defy us, not even an evil coyote like Tobin.”
So it was decided. The meeting broke up around ten o’clock, after a committee of six men were selected to confront the surly half-breed early the following morning. “Before breakfast,” Blanton requested. “I don’t aim to feed that mean son of a bitch one more time.”
18
Under the cover of a thick clump of young willows close by the bank of the river, Little Wolf sat on his pony. He watched as the group of citizens that had assembled in the general store filed out of the building and went their separate ways into the night. He waited while the storekeeper doused the lamps and locked the door, then hurried the few hundred yards down the road to his house.
“I am returning the kerosene and cloth I borrowed from you,” he murmured softly and nudged his horse forward. When he approached within seventy-five yards of the building, he reined his pony up and dismounted. Soon, a flaming arrow bored its way through the deep night sky and found its mark in the roof of the general store. More arrows followed. When he was satisfied that the fire was spreading, he unhurriedly climbed on his horse and rode back to the willows to watch.
For the second time in as many nights, the citizens of Medicine Creek were summoned from their beds to fight a fire—some after having barely settled in their blankets. As before, an attempt was made to hand water from the river, but the results were much the same as had befallen Blanton. Arvin managed to save some of his merchandise before the flames became too hot and drove him out. He was unable to rescue his little iron box under the back counter, the flames having caused burning beams to fall directly down from the roof at that point. Reluctant to tell his neighbors of his main concern, he could only hope that the metal of the box would protect its contents.
Little Wolf watched the chaotic scene from a safe point across the river, after having to leave the willows when the bucket brigade formed. He gazed impassionately at the frantic attempts of the men of Medicine Creek, intent upon assessing the effectiveness of his attack—although it was impossible not to be reminded of what Sleeps Standing and his wife had suffered at the hands of these same men. “Now we will see,” he said softly and turned his pony toward the hills.
Sleep did not come easily for Little Wolf that night. He worried about Rain Song’s safety, although his common sense told him the big tracker would be served best by keeping his hostage alive. It was no use telling himself that he must rest. There were deeper thoughts that troubled him. As he lay there, looking up into a black sky sprinkled with tiny points of light, he thought about the path he had traveled to come to this point in his life. His had been a life of war and violence, and always the threat of massacre rode with his people. Yet he did not regret having been found by Spotted Pony. Looking back, he would have chosen no other path.
Now his thoughts returned to the people of Medicine Creek and the crimes they had committed against his family and friends. It was time to make new medicine and call on the power and spirit of the grizzly again. He would rest now and prepare himself for battle.
* * *
Daw
n found a troubled group of townfolk still milling around the burned-out shell of Arvin Gilbert’s General Mercantile. There was no thought of sleep for the heartsick mayor of Medicine Creek. He had been effectively wiped out. He had managed to save the contents of his precious iron box from the ashes, but the gold there would not be enough to replace all of the stock he had lost. Morgan Sewell laid a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of sympathy, and Arvin just shook his head, fighting the urge to cry.
No one had even suggested sending for their sheriff this time. And no one was surprised that he again did not bother himself to offer assistance. As the sky began to brighten, Arvin became more and more angry. Damn Sam Tolbert! Damn Lonnie Jacobs! He wished with all his heart that the two had never stirred up the town over the discovery of the Cheyenne warrior. “He wasn’t doing anybody any harm out there anyway.” He didn’t realize he had spoken the thought aloud until Sewell said, “What?”
“What?” Arvin echoed. Then, pulling his thoughts back to the group of men around him, he said, “We’ve got to get that bastard half-breed out of our town now! Let the damn woman go before that Injun burns us all out.”
His words were met with unified accord. It was time for action, time to take their town back. All six of the selected Vigilance Committee were present and all were ready to get to their task. Jake Bannister stepped forward to check that every man was armed. Those who weren’t borrowed a gun from one of the other men on the street. It resembled a lynch mob in preparation, causing Reverend Norsworthy to raise his hands in caution.
“We mustn’t lose sight of the decision made last night, my friends. The purpose of the committee is to rid our town of this evil man. He must be allowed to get on his horse and go peacefully.”
Medicine Creek Page 23
