Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  Brice laughed, causing Paul’s frown to deepen. He knew H Company probably made the same complaints, thinking E Company didn’t pull their share of the almost daily patrols. “You need to work some of that whiskey out of your system anyway. The captain’s doing you a favor.”

  “Dammit, Brice, do you always have to be so damn cheerful about these details?” He rode along in silence for a few minutes before mumbling, “This is a damn fool trip today at any rate.”

  Brice didn’t answer his friend’s comment, but he was thinking that Paul might be right in his assessment of their mission. He had only met Tobin once, and that was when he rode into Lapwai with an air about him like rules were for the other fellow. Brice didn’t like him from the start. Baskin had said there’d be trouble anywhere that man showed up. And, if Arvin Gilbert was to be believed, it sure looked as if Baskin was right.

  Maybe the situation with the renegade Cheyenne had called for drastic action, and Colonel Wheaton had a lot of faith in this man Tobin’s abilities as a scout. From what talk he had heard from Baskin and some of the enlisted men who had ridden with him against Joseph’s Nez Perce, Tobin was unequaled as a tracker—but he was also unequaled in pure meanness. When Arvin related the events of the past week in Medicine Creek, Baskin didn’t doubt it one bit. Brice wasn’t sure whether he was being sent to save the town from Little Wolf or Tobin. It appeared that both were intent on destroying the settlement. He would just have to see when he got there. The one order that was crystal clear, however, was to advise Tobin that the army wasn’t paying him to lie around Medicine Creek on his backside while Little Wolf was still at large.

  * * *

  The column struck the road to Medicine Creek at a point about three miles south of the settlement. By Brice’s watch, it was half past one o’clock when his troopers filed past the charred remains of the general store. Morgan Sewell came out of the barbershop, followed by Jacob Schuyler—his arm in a sling—as the column came to a half. Seeing the column of soldiers, the Reverend Norsworthy scurried across the footbridge from the other side of the river. Within minutes, other frightened townsfolk emerged from the buildings where they had sought to avoid the ominous bully ensconced in their jail. Brice was struck by the small number of people that gathered. Medicine Creek looked for all the world to be a ghost town, a vast difference from the thriving little community he had observed the last time he was there. What Arvin had told him appeared to be true—the people were holed up like frightened rabbits.

  “Want me to dismount ’em?” Sergeant Baskin asked.

  “No,” Brice quickly replied, “we’re going straightaway to the jail, if Tobin is still there.”

  “Oh, he’s there, all right,” Morgan piped up. “He don’t ever leave there except to look for something to eat.”

  “All right then, let’s go talk to him.”

  “Talk to him?” Jacob Schuyler exclaimed. “You can’t talk to him. Shoot the son of a bitch!”

  Brice ignored the blacksmith’s comments and signaled the column forward. He had his orders, but he also knew that he would evaluate the situation and carry them out as he saw fit. According to the information he had been given, Tobin was holding the entire town hostage. Brice found that hard to believe. The man was, after all, in the employment of the army. If he expected to be paid, he would follow the orders passed on to him from Colonel Wheaton. Of greater concern to Brice were the two fires in the community. There was little doubt who was responsible for them. His job, as he saw it, was to provide sentries to guard against any further attacks from the renegade, Little Wolf.

  Looking as huge as a bull moose and wearing an amused smirk on his whiskered face, Tobin was standing outside to meet them when Brice halted the column of troopers in front of the jail. He watched unconcerned as Brice ordered the men to dismount and form a line while the handlers took the horses. Brice stepped up on the plank walkway.

  “Well now, howdy-do,” Tobin sneered, “looks like somebody went crying to the soldier-boys.”

  Ignoring the sneer, Brice said, “I’ve got orders from Colonel Wheaton to give you, Tobin. You’re to leave Medicine Creek at once and proceed to go after the renegade. This was what you were hired to do. Furthermore, the people of Medicine Creek have requested the army’s help in seeing that you leave.”

  “What about the matter of Jake Bannister’s murder?” Arvin Gilbert stepped forward to express his concern. He stepped back immediately when the dangerous tracker snapped his head around to fix the little mayor with a stare that could almost cut glass.

  “Shut your mouth, you little snot,” he warned, then shifted his eyes back to Brice. “That was self-defense. Everybody saw it. The good citizens here tried to settle my gizzard, only they wasn’t quite up to the job.”

  Unfortunately, this was the same accounting of the incident that Brice had been given, that Bannister went for his pistol and Tobin was quicker with his rifle. He had been ordered to rid the town of Tobin, not arrest him, although it would have given him pleasure to do it. To Tobin he said, “Get your tack together and be on your way. You were hired to do a job. Go do it, and leave these people alone. And, in case you get any contrary ideas, my orders are to bivouac my men here indefinitely. This town will be under military protection.” Brice’s orders were for fifteen days only, but he saw no need to spell that out for Tobin.

  Tobin said nothing for a full minute. He just stood there defiantly, as if the lieutenant’s words were bouncing harmlessly off his tremendous bulk. Inside, however, his liver was burning with the resentment he felt toward all army officers, and especially this young pup who had the gall to order him to do anything. When he spoke, it was a low, ominous rumble, making his words sound like a warning.

  “I ain’t ready to go just yet. I’ve got unfinished business here. You go on back and tell your daddy you brung the message, like you was told. I’ll be along when I catch his white Cheyenne for him.” He shifted his gaze toward Arvin Gilbert, singeing him with a fiery stare. “I was gittin’ close to trappin’ him, but he ain’t likely to come if he sees all you soldier-boys in town.”

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I’m ordering you to vacate this building and get your ass out of town.”

  Baskin could almost swear he saw sparks flash in the big tracker’s eyes, and he was afraid Tobin was about to lash out at Brice. He does and he’s dead meat, he thought. Without waiting for an order from Brice, he quietly turned and ordered the men to unsling their weapons. The move was not lost on Tobin.

  Like a cornered panther, Tobin’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, wanting to strike out. But the line of troopers, their carbines at the ready, gave him pause. He strained to keep his temper from flaring. “Well, now,” he said, “I call this kind of queer. I don’t work for you anyway. Colonel Wheaton hired me.” He began to feel his anger boiling up inside him. “And I’ll tell you something else, sonny. He hired me because I get the job done, and I always do it my way.” He was glaring directly into Brice’s eyes now. “I’ll decide who goes and who stays. I ain’t in your damn army, so take your soldier-boys and get the hell out of my way, or I’ll show you trouble your mama ain’t never told you about.” He started to turn back toward the door.

  “Sergeant Baskin, if he goes through that door, shoot him.”

  “Yes, Sir. Be a pleasure, Sir.”

  Tobin was stopped dead in his tracks. He jerked his massive head around to fix his predatory stare on the young lieutenant. He didn’t speak as he plumbed the depths of Brice Paxton’s cold iron gaze, unblinking and determined. Tobin recognized a bluff when he saw one—he was a master of the bluff himself. But there was no bluff in the eyes of the young soldier. He shifted his gaze briefly to Sergeant Baskin. The sergeant appeared ready, even eager, to follow his lieutenant’s order. Running roughshod over a half dozen nervous civilians was one thing. Calling a bluff in front of an army firing squad was another. Tobin was fearless, but he was not foolis
h.

  “Goddam you, sonny. You got the drop on me this time, but you ain’t heard the last of this.”

  Brice casually turned his head toward Baskin. “Sergeant, you and the men heard him threaten me.” He turned back to Tobin. “They’ll testify to a court martial in case you give me the slightest cause to shoot you. Now, let’s go inside and get your things together. I want you out of here in fifteen minutes.”

  Tobin was smoldering. He could not remember wanting to kill a man more than he did at this moment. His fists clenched, the muscles in his neck standing out like knotted cords, he considered striking the young officer down and risking the firing squad. Only the leveled rifles of the line of troopers and the callous expression on Baskin’s face held him in control of his emotions. After a long, tense moment, when both sides were a hair-trigger away from exploding, Tobin relaxed, conceding the contest. There would be other chances, he told himself. He would see to it.

  Brice followed the huge man through the doorway, into the dark interior of the jail. He stood behind Tobin as the scout gathered up his rifle and saddlepack. Brice did not see the woman at first in the dim light of her cell. When he did, he was shocked.

  “For the love of God…” he started, but was at a loss for words. It was the Cheyenne woman he had seen at Lapwai. But, in contrast to the hospital-like conditions she had been incarcerated in at the fort, her present conditions were appalling. She cowered in a corner of the tiny room, frightened and dirty. The stench of an unemptied slop bucket filled the cramped space with air that offended the nostrils. When she allowed herself to glance up, he noted a flicker of recognition in her almost glazed expression before dropping her eyes once more.

  Seeing a key hanging on the opposite wall, Brice took it and opened the cell door. Still afraid to move, she remained where she was for some seconds, even though Brice motioned for her to come out. She did not move until he stepped back from the cell door, and even then it was with slow reluctant steps. Brice motioned for her to go on out the front door. She moved cautiously by him, like a frightened squirrel, her hand shading her eyes from the bright sunlight.

  “I’m gonna be needin’ her,” Tobin said, his back to Brice as he picked up his rifle, his massive frame shielding his movements from Brice’s eyes. The thought ran through his mind that he might win this little tussle yet. He could easily overpower the young officer while Brice was distracted by the woman. Those thoughts were immediately quelled however, when he suddenly whirled around to find Brice’s pistol aimed at his gut. “I still need that woman.” Tobin repeated.

  Brice was of a notion to have him shot anyway. “You don’t need anything but to get your ass out of here, you filthy bastard. How can you treat a woman like that?”

  Tobin looked surprised at the lieutenant’s attitude, even slightly amused by his concern for an Indian woman. “She belongs to me and I aim to use her for bait. As long as I got that there woman, Little Wolf ain’t gonna be far away.” He thought it best to remind the lieutenant. “And that Cheyenne is sticking in your colonel’s craw something fierce. He ain’t gonna like it one bit if you go messing with my bait.”

  “Damn you, Tobin. You are one miserable excuse for a human being.”

  Outside now, Brice directed Baskin to detail two men to take Rain Song down to the river to let her clean herself. “I’ll try to see if I can get you some fresh clothes,” he said. She did not understand his words, but knew there was compassion in them. She nodded and went obediently with the two troopers Baskin called out.

  Tobin stood fuming for a few seconds, watching the woman as she walked between her two guards, heading for the river some twenty-five yards back of the jailhouse. “She’s my property. She can clean herself up, but I still need her. She goes with me.”

  “The hell she does,” Brice shot back. “You’re heading out of here alone.”

  Tobin didn’t push it any further. He was too badly outnumbered. But he made himself a promise that sooner or later, he was going to look Brice up when he didn’t have a column of troopers to protect him. “What about my horse? Are you gonna put me afoot to boot?”

  “No,” Brice said.

  “I’ll be happy to fetch him for you, Lieutenant,” Ike Frieze piped up, only too happy to be rid of the animal. He turned to leave, then paused. “I reckon the army’ll be responsible for his feed bill.”

  “Maybe. I’ll see,” Brice replied and waved him on. He turned when Paul Simmons nudged his elbow.

  “What are we going to do with the woman, Brice?”

  “I don’t know—take her back to the reservation at Lapwai, I guess. We can’t just set her free.”

  All was quiet on the main street of Medicine Creek, except for a low buzzing of hushed conversation among the townspeople who had gathered to witness the eviction of Tobin. Tobin paced back and forth before the door of the jail like a caged lion, cursing softly to himself and leering at the solemn line of troopers in the dusty street, all waiting for Ike to return with Tobin’s horse.

  * * *

  Private Otis Blankenship was not at all disappointed to be detailed, along with Private Bob Springer, to take the Indian woman down to the river. Under all that grime, she appeared to be a right handsome woman and might be something to see. He winked at Springer as they approached the willows near the water’s edge. “Best take your frock off, little lady, so’s you can get yourself cleaned up proper.” He tried to make her understand with some rudimentary use of sign.

  “Yessum,” Springer chimed in, “you need to get your whole body clean.” He took her by the arm and led her into the willows. “Get back of these bushes so nobody can look atcha. We’ll watch out fer ya—won’t we, Otis?”

  Though the words were foreign to her, the leers of the two soldiers were not. Suddenly, she sensed that she had more to fear than mere ogling by the two soldiers. While she stood there, unsure of what she should do, Blankenship propped his carbine against a large cottonwood near the willows and unbuckled his belt. She started to run but was held fast by Springer.

  “Now take it easy, honey. We ain’t gonna do nothin’ that ain’t been done before.” He looked furtively over his shoulder. “Make it quick, Otis. You ain’t the only one that’s ruttin’.”

  “Dammit, Springer, hold her still. Clamp your other hand over her mouth.” Blankenship grabbed her legs and forced them apart. “Hold her, dammit!” He fumbled with his trousers until he finally managed to get them down around his knees while he fought to hold on to her thrashing legs. “I got her now,” he snorted triumphantly, chuckling as he glanced up at Springer’s wide grin. “Look at what I got for you. Ain’t that what you squaws all want?”

  Springer laughed. Then suddenly, his mouth fell open as he gasped. His eyes bulged open as if glimpsing the doorway to hell as the knife blade sank deep into his kidney, and he relaxed his hold on the woman.

  “What the hell…” was all Otis was able to say before he was shocked speechless. As Springer slid to the ground, Otis found himself looking into the face of undiluted Cheyenne fury. Seeing that his death was at hand, he released the girl and tried to run for his life, only to be tripped up by the trousers around his knees.

  Otis went down hard and, before he could scramble up on his knees, he was driven down again, flattened by the impact of Little Wolf’s savage attack. The hapless trooper was mauled and battered as his body was rolled over and over down the sandy riverbank, helpless to defend himself as Little Wolf rode him like a mountain lion mauling a rabbit. When they splashed into the water’s edge, Otis struggled desperately to free himself from the horror that had captured him. Gagging and sputtering from the water he had swallowed, his eyes wide with terror, he managed one faint yell before his throat was crushed in the iron vise of Little Wolf’s hand. The last vision of life Otis saw was the stern countenance of the white Cheyenne, his eyes locked on the fading trooper’s. Slowly, the life was crushed out of his body until he finally went limp. Little Wolf picked him up, still holding him by the th
roat, then dropped his limp body in the shallow water.

  It had all happened so quickly that Rain Song was fairly stunned for a few moments, the same few moments that seemed like an eternity to Otis Blankenship. Now Little Wolf stood up and turned to her. His face, still a mask of stern fury, softened instantly when his eyes met hers. He held out his arms to her. With her heart pounding in her bosom, she ran to him. He picked her up, cradling her gently against his chest. There were no words spoken—none were needed. She wound her arms tightly around his neck, her face pressed against his cheek while he carried her across the shallow river. As he lifted her up on his horse, he saw the tears that welled up in her dark eyes, and the feeling of love and compassion that flooded over him was overpowering.

  “I was afraid he had killed you,” she cried, the tears freely making their way down her cheeks. “He said he had shot you.”

  “It was no more than a scratch.” He longed to comfort her, but knew there was no time. “We must hurry now, Little One,” he said softly and climbed up in front of her. He turned the Appaloosa’s head to the west, toward the hills, and with a light touch of his heels, the pony sprang away from the river and Medicine Creek.

  * * *

  Sergeant Baskin cocked his head around and listened. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have heard someone call out—Blankenship or Springer—he couldn’t tell which. But it sounded as if it came from the river. The two men had not been gone very long but still he decided to send another man to check on them. “Meadows, go down yonder and see what’s holding them two up.” He watched Meadows amble off toward the river then turned his attention back to the business at hand when Ike Frieze emerged from the stable, leading Tobin’s horse.

  Brice stepped back to let Tobin pass when Ike led the tan buckskin up to the hitching rail. The brooding scout scowled at him and then at the line of soldiers, their carbines still at the ready. He stepped down into the dust of the street and was about to mount when the cry of alarm came up from the river. All heads turned as one to see Meadows running as fast as his boots would permit in the sandy soil of the riverbank.