Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  “Yessir,” Baskin replied and turned to carry out his orders. There was little need to repeat them, for all the men were within earshot. The little bivouac sprang alive with men grabbing their saddles and blanket-rolls. Some who had not waited for permission yanked tin cups from small, already blazing fires, and gulped down quick swigs of half-boiled coffee while kicking dirt over the flames. In a matter of minutes, the detachment was in the saddle.

  “How the hell do we know which way to go?” Paul Simmons wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” Brice admitted.

  “Tobin said last night that he figured Little Wolf followed the stream on down the mountain.”

  “I know,” Brice answered, thinking hard on the matter. He didn’t trust Tobin for a minute and the hostile bastard had been set on shaking the cavalry troop from the beginning. While the men waited for the order to move out, he rode across the stream and up the low bank on the other side. Looking out over the trees toward the mountains to the north, he thought for a moment and then wheeled around. “Sergeant Baskin.”

  “Yessir?”

  “Where do you suppose Little Wolf would be heading, now that he’s got his wife?”

  “Why, Canada, I reckon.”

  Brice nodded his agreement. “That’s what I reckon too. And, unless they moved it, Canada’s that way.” He pointed toward the mountains. With a hand signal to march, he led out across the ridge, confident that it was the same route Tobin took when he stole out of camp.

  * * *

  A fifty-dollar bonus when I bring your head to Lapwai. Tobin was pleased with the time he was certain he had gained on the white Cheyenne. Colonel Wheaton had promised him the bonus if he was successful in capturing—or killing, if unavoidable—the renegade. This was in addition to regular scout pay while he was hunting him. Kill him if unavoidable, Tobin thought to himself and laughed at the thought. Oh, it’s gonna be unavoidable all right, ’cause I’m gonna shoot him on sight. The anticipation of it actually caused him to salivate.

  He was confident he would overtake Little Wolf before he got to the Canadian border. It didn’t make any difference to him if he had to cross the border after him—he didn’t have to pay any attention to lines drawn on a piece of foolscap like the army did. But he was sure of his knowledge of the country and his ability to track better than any man alive, and sure enough to know he would run Little Wolf and the girl down before they made another thirty miles. He almost laughed out loud as he picked his way along the old game trail in the dark, ignoring the rain that ran off his buckskin warshirt. He had hunted this country for most of two years with ol’ Kills Two Elks. He didn’t need daylight to find his way through these mountains. But Little Wolf does, he thought. He kicked the buckskin sharply when the laboring horse sought to slow the pace.

  The sun had been up for little more than an hour when he came upon their campsite of the previous night. He was reluctant to pause, but he knew he would be on foot soon if he didn’t let the buckskin rest for a while. He cursed the nearly exhausted animal soundly as he led him to the tiny branch that trickled along the side of the trail. While the horse drank, he poked around in the ashes of the small fire that had been made up under a huge boulder. It had been a dry camp, out of the rain, he thought. Ain’t that sweet? They slept all cuddled up together. The picture that formed in his mind brought him sudden pleasure. The prospect of the killing brought a warm glow to his brain.

  Fresh tracks in the wet earth led out to the old trail. No attempt had been made to cover them. Little Wolf had found out by then that there was only one way through the mountains, so it was a waste of time to try to disguise his trail. He knew that it was now a race. What he didn’t know—which tickled Tobin—was that his pursuer had made up a huge amount of ground on him during the night while he and Rain Song slept.

  “Come on, you damned buzzard bait, I smell blood!” He jerked the reins, pulling the buckskin’s head up sharply from the grass where the horse had been grazing. He knew the horse was tired, but he sensed the closeness of the Cheyenne and he could control his impatience no longer. He led the horse up from the stream and stepped up into the stirrup. Though still weary and hungry, the buckskin stood, with head down, obediently accepting his oversized burden. “You can rest while I’m drying that damn Cheyenne’s scalp.” With that, he kicked the horse hard into a gallop.

  21

  They had started that morning as soon as it was light enough to follow the trail. Little Wolf was worried by the frailness he saw in his wife. It had been more than two days since she’d had anything substantial to eat. Their supper the night before had been nothing more than some berries he had found near the trickle of water that was the stream they had camped beside. During the day, he had seen plenty of sign, but no game. Even had he seen a deer, he could not have taken the time to stalk it. He could not be sure how much lead he had over those who hunted him, so he had pushed the Appaloosa as hard as he dared. Now he was going to have to rest the horse. But, more important, he was going to have to find food for Rain Song. She rode behind him, never complaining. But he could feel the grip of her arms around his waist weakening.

  He gazed up at the mountains on each side of him, towering, forbidding, with steep slopes that defied man or horse. They had been climbing steadily for the past two hours as the trail wound its way up between two mountains. With the crest of the ridge in sight, the trail steepened sharply for a hundred yards before descending again. To spare the horse, Little Wolf dismounted and led him. When Rain Song started to dismount as well, he stayed her with a hand on her arm. She did not protest.

  At the top of the ridge, he stopped and looked over the trail beyond as it wormed its way down the other side. What he saw lifted his spirits considerably. The trail led down into a small valley split by a rushing stream that cascaded down from the mountain above. The floor of the valley was covered with grass as high as a horse’s belly and interlaced with yellow and white flowers. He could not help but think of his valley near Medicine Creek, and he looked back at Rain Song to see if she had had the same thought. She did not respond but stared straight ahead with weary eyes. It hurt his heart to see her so tired.

  He tried to comfort her. “It will still be early in the afternoon when we reach the valley, but we’ll make camp anyway and I’ll hunt. The horse needs rest and we must have food.” He looked back the way they had come, searching the trail behind them. He could only guess whether the detachment of soldiers was still following. He knew for certain that the big scout was behind them somewhere, but looking back at the tall silent mountains, it seemed there was no one else on the earth but them. If they follow, I would rather be strong and rested and ready to fight. “We’ll make camp in the valley,” he repeated and smiled up at Rain Song. She acknowledged with a faint smile.

  As the lush little valley first promised, game abounded. Little Wolf startled two young black-tailed deer as he led the Appaloosa down to the stream. There was no time to ready his bow. He quickly drew his rifle from the saddle sling and felled one of them, a doe, in midair as she leaped over the stream. Running quickly after her, he finished her with his knife. Rain Song would soon have the nourishment she needed.

  Near the upper end of the valley, a group of cottonwoods framed the stream. They afforded the only cover in the grassy meadow that made up the valley floor, so Little Wolf made their camp there. If Tobin did overtake them before morning, he would have to cross the open valley. Little Wolf knew it was risky to camp so early but it was necessary to rest and eat, both for them and the horse.

  The sight of fresh meat bolstered Rain Song’s weary spirit and she was soon helping with the butchering. The sparkle returned to her eyes immediately as she joyously chewed the first strips of sizzling meat, pulled from the fire when barely done. By the time they had eaten their fill, daylight was fast fading from the little valley.

  “This is a good place,” she said and came to sit by him. She lifted his arm and laid it across her shoulder, snugg
ling her body close to his.

  He smiled at her. “Yes it is a good place. I wish we could stay here, but we’ll find a place as good as this in Canada.” She felt good under his arm and he was relieved to see that her spirit had bounced back.

  “Do you think the man, Tobin, still follows?” Her smile was replaced by a frown.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he will give up easily. But I hope he will tire of following us after a few more days.”

  She considered this for a few moments. “What about the soldiers?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I think they will give up before the big one does.”

  She put her arms around his chest and held him tightly. “I knew you would come for me.” She held him as if afraid he might be taken from her. “We must leave early in the morning. I’m afraid Tobin will catch us. I think he talks to the evil spirits.”

  He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, Little One, I’ll protect you.”

  “I’m not worried for me,” she said softly. She did not voice it, but she had seen what the evil tracker was capable of, and she did not want her husband to face him. They sat before the fire for a while longer, saying nothing. Then Rain Song looked up into Little Wolf’s eyes and whispered, “I want you to make love to me tonight.”

  When the night had deepened and the moon appeared to rest for a moment on the high bluff to the east of their valley, he placed a few more pieces of wood on the fire and banked the ashes up around them. He had only a large elk hide to make a bed for them but the fur was soft and the ground smooth under the cottonwoods. When she had spoken of love earlier, he had been surprised. In their flight to escape from the soldiers and the big tracker, his mind had been on survival and in a state of constant alert, not concerned with thoughts of passion. He could not know that her need for him was not wholly spawned by her longing during the long weeks they had been apart. There was something more. She had seen the ferocious cruelty of the man Tobin, and she had known a foreboding feeling of tragedy, of coming danger for her and her husband. There was an invisible shroud of evil that cloaked the powerful half-breed, and she could not help but feel that their lives were doomed to cross his path in the end. Uncertain even of the morning sun, she longed to know Little Wolf’s embrace at least for this night. So she came to him in the firelight, her tattered dress removed and folded neatly by the fire.

  Rising to his knees, he placed his hands on her arms and held her there for a moment while he looked at her naked body. His heart was wounded when he saw the bruises, already fading to a yellow cast, that covered her arms and shoulders. With one finger, he tenderly traced a still healing gash across her wrist where a rawhide thong had cut her. She felt the muscles in his arms tense when he gazed at the angry scar in her left side where she had thrust Yellow Hand’s knife. She moved closer to him and gently pulled his head against her bare stomach. They held each other tightly for a long moment, renewing the strength of their love and regaining the oneness that had been theirs.

  After a while, they were ready. He picked her up and carried her to the elkskin. Laying her gently on the soft fur, he lay down next to her and pulled the elkskin over them. Their passion was gentle in the beginning, rising to a fury that only comes when desperate need is combined with genuine love that two people share. There were no thoughts beyond this moment. Later, when the passion was spent, he might berate himself for relaxing his alertness. But for now, he gave no thought to the danger they faced.

  For that brief period, he had been able to forget the peril that had become his constant companion. Lying with Rain Song beside him, gazing up at the sea of stars above them, he felt as one with the earth. This was how man was intended to live—free with his wife beside him, at peace and naked before the Earth Mother. Then, for a few moments, he thought back over the events of his life, and all the people who had shaped it. Where would his path have led him if his blood father had not chosen to sell him to a drunken teamster bound for Oregon? If Spotted Pony had not found him, would he have grown up to be a soldier, like his brother, Tom?

  The thought was immediately abhorrent to him, especially when he thought about his adopted family and the hours he had spent learning the lessons of the earth from Spotted Pony and his adopted mother, Buffalo Woman. The sickening thought arose of how his Indian parents died, massacred by soldiers of the 7th Cavalry. Other names flashed through his mind—Morning Sky, Black Feather, Sleeps Standing, Tom, Squint Peterson—names he had not thought about for some time.

  Squint would tell him it was time to be a white man again, while he still could. But Little Wolf was not so sure that he still could. There had been too many war parties against the soldiers, too many scalps taken. Although his skin was white, he knew that every drop of blood in him was Cheyenne, and it would always be this way. There was no option now, anyway. He was being hunted, just as Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and the others were hunted. He had heard that they had fled to Canada, just as he was trying to do now. Would he and Rain Song find the freedom they sought there? He wondered.

  Discouraged by the heavy thinking, he returned his thoughts to the moment at hand. He was tired, Rain Song was sleeping, his horse had been ridden too hard—all of them needed rest. He gently pulled Rain Song closer to him and watched her sleep in his arms. We will see what the new day brings, Little One. The thought came to his mind that this moment was the best of his life and, if their lives were to end now, he could not complain.

  * * *

  Tobin stopped in his tracks and listened, turning his ear toward the sound. His eyes moved rapidly from side to side beneath a brow furrowed in deep concentration. A single rifle shot, that was all. He waited and listened, but there was no second shot. Tobin smiled. It told him what he wanted to know. The white Cheyenne stopped to hunt, which meant he didn’t know Tobin was this close. It also meant that Tobin could dispense with caution against ambush. He estimated the rifle to be no more than three or four miles away and he could make up that distance in short order. As an afterthought, he noted that there had been but the one shot, which indicated the Cheyenne had hit what he had aimed at.

  Whipping the buckskin mercilessly, he galloped recklessly along the old hunting trail. The horse endeavored to do his master’s cruel bidding, but could not maintain the pace demanded. Finally, where the trail rose steeply toward the top of the ridge, the buckskin faltered, staggering under Tobin’s massive weight. Cursing vehemently, Tobin stepped from the stirrup just in time to avoid going down with the horse. He beat the exhausted horse savagely, but to no avail. The animal was spent. Enraged, but realizing the animal could no longer carry him, Tobin pulled his rifle from the saddle boot and started up the incline on foot.

  Cursing with almost every step, he pushed his massive body up the trail, walking so rapidly that he resembled a drunk staggering home from a night at the saloon, his boots sliding and rolling on the loose gravel and small rocks in his path. By the time he reached the top of the divide, his heart was pounding from the exertion and his breath labored in short gasps. At first glance, he was afraid his fears had been realized and Little Wolf had gotten away. But, upon a longer more concentrated look, his eyes caught the movement of a horse in a small stand of cottonwoods in the upper part of the valley.

  His eyes locked on the trees and, while he did not sight Little Wolf or the woman, it was apparent the horse was hobbled or tied to a tree. The smile returned to his craggy features as he continued to pant for breath. He turned abruptly and squinted up at the sun—there were two, maybe three hours of daylight left. He ain’t planning to go nowhere before morning. Tobin was sure of his quarry and would take advantage of his weakness. It was obvious that Little Wolf had stopped to hunt and take care of the woman. That was a damn fool thing to do, Cheyenne. It’s gonna cost you your scalp.

  He looked back the way he had come. Below him, now standing by the side of the trail, his horse stood with its head down, not having taken a step. Satisfied that the animal wouldn’t wander
far, he faced the trail before him again and started down the slope toward the valley. It would not take him more than half of the remaining daylight hours to make it to the cottonwoods on foot. Recalling his only meeting with the tall white Cheyenne, he decided against jumping him immediately. No sense in taking a chance on getting shot. He would wait until darkness to make his move. In the meantime, he would make his way down to the lower end of the valley and find a place to get comfortable while he waited. He ain’t going noplace. He ain’t gonna pick up and git this late in the day.

  * * *

  “Scout up ahead,” Sergeant Baskin called out.

  Brice had already spotted the trooper waiting at the foot of a long narrow ravine for the column to catch up to him. Due to the steepness of the ridge they had just traversed, Brice had not sent flankers out. The column rode in single file behind him.

  “What did you find, Morris?” Brice asked, when they were even with his scout.

  “Looks like a trail through them mountains, probably a hunting trail, used by the Injuns on their way to buffalo country.” He dismounted and knelt close to the ground, tracing an imprint with his finger. “There’s tracks here—two horses, neither one of ’em shod.”

  Brice looked at Baskin. The sergeant nodded his agreement and Brice sent the scout on ahead. “Stay about a quarter of a mile ahead, Morris. And watch yourself, dammit. I don’t trust that damn Tobin any more than I do the renegade.”

  Brice had pushed the column pretty hard all morning. He figured Tobin had three to four hours’ start on them at the most, depending upon how much progress the half-breed made that night. There was bound to be some grumbling from his men, but he thought it imperative that they should not lose any more time. There was no pause for the noon meal.

  The afternoon wore on as the troopers followed the old trail through the mountain pass. Approaching a sharp turn in the trail, Brice saw Morris waiting once again. He was holding the reins of Tobin’s tan buckskin.