“The preacher’s right,” Arvin admitted reluctantly. “We’re not murderers here. We’re just gonna run him out of town.”
“But if he wants to put up a fight,” Jake interrupted, “we’ll by God give it to him.”
* * *
Rain Song waited for the baleful Tobin to leave as he always did each morning. She did not understand why he lingered this morning. After stepping outside the jail door to urinate off the walkway, as was his custom, he stood there for a long time, watching the crowd of people at the far end of the street. She could not see them, but she had heard them mulling about in loud voices all during the night, and she knew that the crowd must still be in the street. After a few moments more, Tobin came back inside and picked up his rifle. Looking it over to make sure it was loaded, he propped it up by the door while he checked his pistol. She had no notion as to what was about to occur, but the usually dour giant of a man seemed to be amused by something he had seen in the street. He even paused to look into her cell, a hint of a grin on his face.
“Looks like you might have to go without your breakfast this morning,” he said, chuckling to himself. Then he moved to the front door and cracked it enough to see the street outside.
The committee of six strode purposefully down the middle of the street, a cloud of dust kicking up from their boots. Leading them was Arvin Gilbert, Jake Bannister close at his elbow, the blacksmith, Jacob Schuyler, on the other side. Behind them, Blanton and two others followed. All were armed with pistols. At a safe distance, the rest of the crowd milled about in the dusty street, waiting to see the eviction.
Seeing no sign of the ominous half-breed but noticing the cracked door, Arvin halted his posse short of the step up to the walk. “Tobin,” he called out, “step outside, we have something to say to you.” He glanced quickly to his right and left to make sure the other five were still behind him.
Tobin did not answer at once, causing Arvin to call out again. Just before he called for a third time, Tobin spoke, his voice a low rumble from the dark interior of the jail. “Well now, ain’t this a nice little visit? Which one of you is bringing my breakfast?”
“They ain’t gonna be no more breakfasts,” Blanton blurted, before Arvin held up his hand to silence him.
“Step outside please,” Arvin said. “We’re here representing the people of Medicine Creek and we’ve got something to say to you.”
To a man, all six backed up a step when the door opened and Tobin came out, his rifle hanging down at his side. He smirked as his ominous gaze passed slowly from man to man, then came to rest on the mayor. “The people of Medicine Creek’s got somethin’ to say to you,” he mocked. “Well, they damn sure better say it quick. I ain’t got time to fool with the likes of you.”
Arvin was shaken by the mere presence of the malefic brute, but, bolstered by the support he felt he had behind him, he was determined to issue his stern mandate. “It is my responsibility as mayor to inform you that you are no longer acting sheriff.” When Tobin simply stared at him and made no reply, Arvin was encouraged to expound. “You’ve brought nothing but destruction to this town, and we’re ordering you to vacate these premises at once.” He paused, feeling the uneasy shuffling of the committee behind him. Still Tobin was silent. “And take that Injun woman with you.” Satisfied that he had delivered his message with stern authority, he stood, feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded across his chest in a no-nonsense manner, and waited.
There was not a sound except that of a horsefly that had flitted over to investigate the confrontation. Tobin shifted his penetrating gaze to each man—measuring, evaluating.
Jake Bannister was at Arvin’s ear. “I told you he ain’t gonna listen,” he whispered. “Tell him if he don’t go peaceful, we’re gonna run him out.”
Tobin could not hear Jake’s words, but he answered him anyway. “Well now…I reckon it’ll be for me to say who leaves town and who don’t. I don’t plan to leave till I’m good and ready, so I reckon you boys is gonna have to kill me.” He paused to let his words sink in. Pleased with the nervous shuffling they caused, he demanded, “Who’s man enough to do the job?” He pointed his rifle at Arvin. “You? You little dried-up weasel. You?” he suddenly shifted his rifle to Blanton. He snapped his gaze back to Arvin. “Now I’ll tell you something, Mr. Mayor. I’m telling you to get out of my town. If you ain’t out of here by sundown, I’m gonna come looking for you. Is that clear?”
Arvin was frozen with the shock of Tobin’s ultimatum. Blanton stood open-mouthed and confused. The three men behind Arvin stepped back nervously, unsure what to do. Of the six, Tobin had kept his eye on Jake Bannister. And, when Jake suddenly reached for his pistol, Tobin’s rifle cut him down before he had a chance to level his arm.
In the chaos that followed in the next few minutes, things happened so fast that Arvin would find it impossible to recall exactly what had happened. All he could say for sure was that it sounded like a small war. Tobin did most of the shooting. When his rifle split the morning stillness, Jake Bannister went down, his pistol firing harmlessly into the dirt at his feet. Terrified, Blanton stepped backward and stumbled over Jake’s body. This was all that saved the saloon keeper. Had he not gone over backward, Tobin’s next two shots would have found their mark in his chest.
Cocking and firing as rapidly as he could, Tobin could not be sure of the damage himself, holding his rifle hip high and pumping one bullet after another at the scattering committee. He turned back quickly, looking for Arvin, for he had an intense desire to do in the irritating little mayor. But Arvin was already down, lying beside Jake Bannister’s body, so Tobin shifted his rifle back to bear on the others, now running frantically toward the cover of the buildings. Blanton, seeing his chance to escape, gave not a thought toward firing his weapon. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and ran between the buildings, not stopping until he reached the river. Out of the corner of his eye, Tobin detected Blanton’s movements and whirled back around. Taking careful aim with the rifle, he pulled the trigger only to hear the metallic click of the firing pin on an empty chamber. Cursing, he dropped the rifle and pulled the pistol from his belt, but it was too late. His .45 slugs dug into the corner of the jail, ripping splinters out of the corner post.
Jacob Schuyler, who had fled as soon as the shooting started, peeked around the corner of the post office and fired a couple of wild shots at the enraged scout. Since Jacob was reluctant to expose much of his body, the shots landed harmlessly in the gable above the door of the jail. He received a .45 caliber slug in his shoulder for his trouble. Yelping in pain, he disappeared behind the building.
In a matter of minutes, it was over. Still impassioned to spill blood, Tobin strode after the fleeing vigilantes, throwing shots randomly at any piece of target he could spot. At the end of the street, near the still-smoldering ruins of the general store, the crowd of spectators dispersed like so many chickens at the sight of a fox. Soon, Tobin was alone in the street. He turned around in a circle, looking for a target. There was nothing more to shoot at, so he sent a couple of bullets through the window of the barbershop.
Satisfied that he quelled the attempted coup, he walked to Henry Blanton’s little house and kicked the door open. There, huddled in a corner, he found Blanton’s wife. Breakfast was still on the table untouched. Fixing Mrs. Blanton with a scorching gaze that dared her to make a sound, he scooped up the entire setting, using the tablecloth as a sack, and strode out the door with it over his shoulder.
Out in the street again, he started back toward the jail and the two bodies left lying in the street. As he approached, one of the bodies stirred. Tobin stopped and took a hard look. It was Arvin Gilbert. As he watched, Arvin suddenly scrambled to his feet and ran toward the stables at the end of the street.
“Why, that little skunk,” Tobin mumbled and pulled his pistol once more. He fired three shots at the panic-stricken little mayor, but Arvin was too far away for Tobin’s pistol to find the mark.
Tobin was
sorely disappointed to see that the mayor was not dead. He remembered seeing him go down when he started spraying the street with rifle fire. In truth, the mayor was not wounded at all. Faint heart had saved his bacon that day—for Arvin had actually fainted when the shooting exploded around him. His explanation later that day, when the committee reconvened, was somewhat different, however, saying that he had dived for cover in an attempt to get off a shot.
Afraid and confused, Rain Song pressed her body as tightly as she could manage against the corner of her cell. She did not know what the shooting outside the jail meant, only that it was loud and accompanied by a great deal of shouting. She could not see outside since Tobin had blocked the window. Tobin had exchanged words with some men of the town just before the shooting started. She could not understand the words spoken, but she feared the gunfire might have involved Little Wolf. Now she ached for some word that he had not been part of the shooting. It hadn’t lasted for very long. And soon after it stopped, Tobin came back.
“Looks like your man burned another building down last night,” he said as he shoved the door shut and locked it.
He seemed to be in a good mood, pleased with himself. She had not seen him in such high spirits before. He carried a sack made of checkered cloth that he dumped in the middle of the floor, chuckling as he did so. She was surprised to see that it contained food—boiled meat and beans, plates and all, and panbread still in the skillet. His mood was such that he broke off a piece of the panbread and shoved it through the window in the heavy cell door. She scurried over at once and picked it up from the floor where it had fallen. She went back to her corner to eat. She could hear him chortle to himself in the other room and she knew for certain that he must be touched in the head. How long, she wondered, before he would take a notion to kill her?
On the south end of the settlement, close by the banks of the river, a gathering of some seven members of the Medicine Creek Vigilance Committee—all that could be found of the crowd that had gathered earlier—stood talking under the trees. In light of what had occurred earlier that day, it was not felt to be safe to hold a meeting in town. Not even the church was considered to be sanctuary from the evil presence in the jailhouse. All seven present lived in or close by the town, otherwise some of them might have scattered with the others to escape the wrath of Tobin.
It had been a dreadfully misfortunate day for the citizens of Medicine Creek. After Tobin’s assault with his rifle, the toll was one dead and one badly wounded. And every man there marveled that the casualties had been that light.
“It’s a wonder he didn’t kill us all.” Morgan Sewell said.
“He may yet,” Blanton answered. “I know I thought I was dead meat. I heard two shots go right over my head. Damn!” He shook his head and looked at Arvin. “I thought you was dead, the way you was just laying there.”
“I know, I know,” Arvin quickly replied, avoiding Blanton’s eyes. “I reckon I just outsmarted him. I do wish I could have gotten a clear shot at him though.”
“A clear shot?” Morgan looked up surprised. “The man’s as big as a barn and he was standing in the middle of the street!”
Arvin looked uncomfortable. “There was a lot of lead flying around out there. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to decide what we’re gonna do.”
“I’ll tell you what we better do.” This was Blanton. “The only thing we can do. We can’t go up against that man—I reckon we damn sure proved that this morning. We better send somebody over to Lapwai and get some help from the army. Hell, that’s what they’re supposed to be here for.”
This was met with immediate nods and grunts of approval. There were some disgruntled complaints that this idea was a mite late in coming. It should have been acted upon to begin with, when Tobin first took over their jail.
The question to be decided next was who should ride to the fort to seek help. Arvin immediately said it was his responsibility to go since he was mayor. When Blanton reminded him that Tobin had ordered him out of town before sundown, Arvin vehemently denied this had any influence upon his actions one way or the other.
“Well, it would mine,” Morgan Sewell commented. “I ain’t no damn hero. Arvin, you better go, all right. And you’d best send your wife and boy over to my place.”
“All right then, who’s going to ride with me?” Arvin said. “I’d like two more men, so the army won’t think it’s just one man complaining.” When there were no immediate volunteers, he turned to Blanton. “How about you, Henry?”
Blanton shook his head. “I reckon I’d best stay close to home. He’s liable to come lookin’ for his victuals, and I can’t leave my wife alone to deal with him.”
In the end, it was Arvin and two young single men who had no families to worry about. They saddled up and left immediately after their little meeting was over. Lapwai was little more than a half day’s ride from Medicine Creek and, even though it was now afternoon, the days were long enough to allow them to reach the fort before nightfall if they didn’t tarry.
19
Lieutenant Brice Paxton sat down on his cot and pulled his boots off. He stared accusingly at the rough stitching that pulled a hole together in the toe of his sock. There was an angry red welt directly under the stitching that would soon have become a blister had he walked much farther that day. The weather had been dry and the day had been hot, causing him to walk his horse often. He found it rather ironic that a cavalry man got blisters from walking. He would try the sock on the other foot tomorrow.
Paul Simmons pulled the tent flap aside and stuck his head in. “Knock, knock, are you decent?”
“No, but I’m dressed. Come on in.”
Paul came in. He was carrying a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cup in the other. “How about a little something to scrape some of the dust from your throat?” Seating himself on a small stool, he poured himself a drink and handed the bottle to Brice. “I’ll furnish the liquor, but you’ll have to use your own cup.”
Without getting up, Brice reached over and picked up his canteen. He couldn’t abide the fiery liquid straight like Paul could. He needed water to chase it. Paul laughed at the face Brice made when he tossed the whiskey down then hurriedly swigged down a huge gulp of water.
“Damned if I don’t believe I’m wasting good whiskey on you.”
Brice shook his head rapidly as if to clear away the flames. “You might be at that. I swear, I don’t see how you can sit there and drink that stuff without a chaser.”
Paul laughed and tossed the rest of his drink down, a slight grimace the only indication of the burning in his throat. Brice had noticed a sharp increase in Paul’s drinking lately. It was a bad sign, and Brice knew it would only lead to trouble. But he didn’t feel it was his place to say anything about it. A good majority of the men drank too much—it was the only way for most of them to escape the boredom of life in the field. He also knew Paul felt trapped at Lapwai. He didn’t care for cavalry duty in the first place. He longed to be back East, in a desk job. But Brice knew, even though he genuinely liked the audacious young lieutenant, that Paul would never receive the appointment he so fervently desired. The army had already been reduced in regimental strength, and companies within regiments were seldom at full strength. He felt sorry for his friend, but that’s the way things were.
“Damn, I’m tired,” Paul said with a sigh, then shook his head as if baffled. “Tell me, just what was the purpose of that march up to Bugle Rock and back? I’d really like to know.”
Brice shrugged, not really caring. “I don’t know, just to keep the troops from sitting around getting bored, I guess.” He yawned and stretched his arms out. “Besides, you’ve been in the army long enough to know that most everything we do is for no purpose at all.”
“By God, I can’t argue with that.” He was about to say more when he was interrupted by Sergeant Baskin’s voice outside the tent.
“Lieutenant Paxton, Sir. Are you in there?”
Brice didn�
��t bother to get up from the cot. “Yeah, Baskin. What is it?”
Baskin stuck his head in. “Captain wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Yessir, now.”
“Shit. What about?” Like Paul, Brice was tired and he had just gotten comfortable.
Baskin could not suppress a smile, seeing the lieutenant’s reluctance to budge. “Three fellers from Medicine Creek just rode in. I ain’t heard what it’s about yet, but I reckon they’ve got some trouble.”
“Damn, I just got my boots off.” Brice complained.
“Shall I tell him you ain’t coming?” Baskin couldn’t resist baiting his lieutenant.
“Sergeant, you’ve got an ornery streak in you,” Brice said while pulling his sock on. “Tell him I’m on my way.” He glanced at a smiling Paul Simmons. “Did he tell you to fetch Lieutenant Simmons too?”
“He didn’t say.”
Paul laughed and playfully snapped a salute. “I’ll remain at my post, guarding the whiskey bottle.”
* * *
Brice was back in the saddle early the next morning, leading a detachment of twenty-two troopers, accompanied by Arvin Gilbert and two of his neighbors. The detail included no Indian scouts, as the purpose of their mission was clearly police work. Paul Simmons, aboard the ever-gentle Daisy, came along as second in command. With two riders out in front on the point, Brice and Paul rode side by side at the head of the column. Behind them, Arvin rode beside Sergeant Baskin. The other two civilians rode at the tail of the column.
“I swear, sometimes I think the colonel thinks there’s only one company of cavalry on the post.” Paul had not been in the saddle an hour before starting to complain. His mood was not particularly enhanced by the session he had had with the bottle the night before. “And Captain Malpas must think we’re the only officers that don’t have enough to do. Why in hell doesn’t H Company catch more of these details?”
Medicine Creek Page 24
