Murder at Medicine Lodge

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  William hovered over the young lieutenant, speaking to Hawwy in concerned whispers while Hawwy crouched before Lieutenant Danny, using his hands to rub the young man’s arms and legs to keep the blood flowing in his extremities. I was trying to salvage what I could from my medical supply bag when I looked up and saw Sergeant Cullen sitting all by his petulant self, staring with menace at Sergeant Hicks who was tagging after Hears The Wolf and making every effort to be helpful. The thing that amazed me was that Sergeant Hicks was helping Hears The Wolf place all of the Blue Jackets’ rifles and pistols in a blanket, and roll the blanket up. Then he helped carry the stash of guns over to what would be the Indian side of the make-do camp.

  It wasn’t a good camp, but as dusk was rapidly approaching, it was as good as it would ever get. The scant fire lasted only long enough to boil up a pot of coffee. It took the combined efforts of Hawwy and I to force hot coffee into Lieutenant Danny. William was still hovering, and he talked to me throughout the effort, asking the same thing over and over, his garbled words, sounding like, “He gawn di?” I found out later that what he actually asked was, “Is he going to die?”

  Really, the language barrier during that time was an appalling nuisance, which decided me to just go ahead and learn the language. Over the course of the next years Hawwy patiently taught me—only for me to discover that he’d imparted his northern dialect, a thing vastly different from what is spoken throughout the Territory. That’s the baffling thing about English, really, the too-many different ways to say the same word. It took me a long time to understand why I was being singled out by the Indian Agents whenever I dared to speak during a conference—why they kept at me about which school in New England I had attended. But I think the worst embarrassment came on a day I was trading in a store in Anadarko and a backwoodsman I had never seen before, leaning against a counter as he listened to me speaking to the store clerk, asked in a very loud voice, “You sum kinda book-learnin’ Injun?”

  Thank you very much, Haw-we-sun.

  Of course, I also learned to pronounce Hawwy’s proper name, Harrison. That I don’t, simply means I choose not to. Calling him anything else would make him seem a stranger. I can be very stubborn about strangers. Almost as stubborn as Hawwy was being about that body not being Buug-lah’s.

  When the fire went out, it was dark and cold and we were tired and shivering, but Hawwy wouldn’t be quiet, insisting on arguing with me about the body and running on about “science.”

  Finally The Cheyenne Robber had enough of his soon-to-be brother-in-law’s incessant jabbering, and threw a soggy shoe at him, hitting Hawwy in the face with it. Then he yelled, “Shut up, Haw-we-sun, or I will hurt you!” And The Cheyenne Robber flopped back on his damp blanket. I was grinning like a fool as Hawwy peeled the shoe from his face then obediently lay down.

  From somewhere in the darkness, I heard Skywalker chuckle. That was the first laugh I’d heard out of him in weeks. A pleased smile was on my face as I drifted off into sleep.

  * * *

  It seemed as if only moments had passed and then the bright rays of dawn were waking us up. Our shivering bodies had managed to warm up inside the sodden blankets and none of us was overly eager to abandon that warmth. Hears The Wolf ventured first, his knees cracking noisily as he maneuvered to stand. Once he was steady on his feet, he wandered off to relieve his bladder. Not far away from me, Skywalker yawned loudly, stretched his arms toward the brightening heaven. Settling again, he tipped his head back and our eyes met.

  “You have a hard day ahead,” he said, his voice low, tone solemn. He looked away from me and to the side, finding himself almost face-to-face with Billy, who lay quietly, the lids of his unopened eyes fluttering ever so slightly. Skywalker reached a hand out and shoved him fully awake. “For all of today, you will stay with me.” That being decided, Skywalker left his bed, and Billy, with a groan, followed suit.

  Because of the haste in making up this new search party, what provisions we’d managed to pack were sparse. Without the means to make a fire, we couldn’t even boil up coffee to dull the edges of the awful gnawing in our bellies. In a brooding silence we ate hard strips of jerked meat. While working at my portion I felt Little Jonas’s covetous eyes fixing on me. He was a big man and that single strip of jerky was hardly enough to satisfy him. I sensed he might be on the verge of coming after mine, for I was the smallest Indian and he could take my meager breakfast away without half trying. So I did the one thing I hoped would discourage him completely. Pretending I was softening it up, I licked the entire strip. I heard him growl as he looked away, resetting his sights on Lieutenant Danny. Before he could launch his bulk in that direction, Hears The Wolf, understanding what Little Jonas was about to do, thumped him.

  The one man in that camp Little Jonas seemed to fear was Hears The Wolf. Following the thump, Little Jonas settled down, contenting himself with his own portion. When we were finished eating, we shook out our blankets, hung them over the tops of bushes so that they would dry. The Blue Jackets, even Cullen, seemed eager to be helpful. Well, they didn’t have much of a choice, actually. It was either be helpful or be tied up again. None of them were especially anxious to spend the day tied to a scrub tree. So, on foot, everyone except Hawwy and I, set off to search for the horses.

  Hawwy and I went back to that body.

  The most vital evidence, the thing I was forced to patiently explain to Hawwy, concerns maggots. As a doctor, I used maggots all the time. They are amazing creatures, and a wondrous tool if you know how to judge their age and use them properly. In cases where I had a patient with a festering wound, I grew my own maggots to treat that wound. It’s simple, really. I put out a piece of meat and then waited for flies to come and lay their eggs. Now, the timing must be just right, and that timing is dependent on the weather. If it’s cold, the process takes much longer, but as hot as the weather had been, a maggot’s progression toward adulthood was very short.

  The eggs would have hatched within the span of one day and by the next morning, tiny little white squirmy specks would already be plump enough to be visible without needing to squint in order to see them. After three days the maggots would be nice and large—that’s the stage when I take the maggots and apply them to the festering wound of my patient. I could count on the maggots to feed on the bad part of the wound for five days, leaving behind good clean skin. If the wound was very large and required more maggots, I had to get more, for the first maggots would have turned hard.

  The hard maggots were still alive, they had just advanced into the final level of their worm existence. At that final stage, they need to burrow into the ground and sleep there until they are ready to emerge as fully grown flies. That was why I told Hawwy to help me sift the earth. Our not finding any hard maggots told me exactly how old the body was.

  Maybe it was because of our near starvation that Hawwy turned such an amazing shade of green and bolted off to wretch his stomach completely empty. Or possibly it was because, after I cut away the moldering jacket and he was treated to the sight of all of those white wriggling maggots greedily feeding on what had once been a human being, his portion of breakfast simply refused to stay down. Whatever the cause, Hawwy puked until he was empty and when he came to me, he was so weak he could barely utter a word. A thing I was most grateful for because, even though he was still in the learning phase of mastering Kiowa, his lack of vocabulary did not deter him from being a chatterbox.

  The next thing I wanted to do was have a look at the dead horse. There wasn’t much to look at, actually. Animals prefer the taste of other animals, leaving human remains as a last alternative. Having so much good horse meat to feed on, Buug-lah had remained relatively untouched, whereas the horse had been stripped to bare bones. But never mind—I found the evidence I had been looking for. I tucked that away inside a little bag hanging from my breech-belt, and when I stood, Hawwy stood up with me.

  “What we do?” he asked.

  “Now,” I said with a heavy
sigh, “we bury this body.”

  After the thirst-quenching rain, the prairie grasses responded, bouncing back to stand tall, a last fit of growth before the first frost of winter. The dead man was almost concealed inside the breeze-soughing high grass. Hawwy and I followed the path we had made walking over to where the rib bones of the horse were visible. It was a good long walk. Irritatingly rejuvenated by the fresher air and needed exercise, Hawwy bounced alongside me like a long-legged puppy, firing a series of questions. What questions I chose to answer, were answered with a disagreeable grunt.

  The one thing I loved about Blue Jackets was their ingenuity. Everything they had could be folded down to the size of nothing. The very instant Hawwy unfolded that shovel, I knew I had to have it. Had to, because my wife would be thrilled out of her mind if I gave it to her. As there was a lot to be appreciated in the intensity of Crying Wind’s gratitude whenever she was thrilled out of her mind, I sincerely wanted to give her that shovel.

  The rainstorm had succeeded in dampening the first inch or so of the soil but beneath that lay hard-packed clay and rock. Hawwy shoveled first and when he became exhausted, I took over. By that time he had already cleared the worst of it, making a good-sized hole for the body to fit inside. I relieved him of the shovel and, enthralled with the thing as well as with the heady anticipation of Crying Wind’s delight in such a wondrous gift, I dug like a badger. It was only when I realized that a few inches more would have me bobbing up inside the Comanches’ country, that I quit.

  Hawwy did not want to touch the body again. I wasn’t especially anxious to touch it again, either. So, using a rope which we looped around the booted ankles, we dragged it to the hole. I paused, to take one last look at the fatal wound to the dead man’s face, and then we rolled it into the grave and covered it up.

  So long, Buug-lah.

  I was pulled from this brief farewell by Hawwy stamping down the earth we had backfilled. Letting go a tormented cry, I stopped him.

  “You have the grass wrong way up!”

  Kneeling, I hastily turned the clods of grass the right way, resettling them in the natural position, restoring order. While I was doing this, Hawwy was on the move again—doing what, I didn’t much care to know. But when I sat down for a much-needed rest, his activity gradually intrigued me.

  That was the first time I ever saw a Cross.

  He made it out of two shovels. One, his own—the very one I lusted after. The second, a shovel he stole out of someone else’s saddlebag. He tied them together and, using the blade of one shovel, slammed the Cross into the ground just above Buug-lah’s deeply-buried head. When I asked him why he marked the grave, and said that this wasn’t right because the dead did not like their resting places known because they didn’t want to be pestered, he said that white people didn’t feel that way; that later on, when other whites came through this country and saw the Cross, they would pause to offer prayers for the dead man. While he offered his own prayers, I remained suitably quiet, knowing that once this bad business was settled, and before we left Medicine Lodge, that I, too, would come here to pray for Buug-lah.

  And then I would take those shovels.

  SIX

  The others eventually returned to find Hawwy and I sitting in the inadequate camp, completely exhausted from having spent a very warm day inspecting a fly-blown decomposing corpse, then digging a deep hole to bury it in. We had cleaned ourselves as best we could, using precious water from canteens and strong soap Hawwy provided. I made a tiny fire using grasses and the cedar chips I always carried with me in order to purify myself from any contact with an unclean thing. Hawwy hadn’t objected, nor had he moved a muscle when, cupping my hands over the meager fire, I lifted up the smoke toward him and purified him, too. After that, we collapsed.

  The others had been out for the entire day. The sun was low on the western horizon when they came back. Not only had they managed to find the horses, they’d also killed and butchered out a deer. They came back happy, bringing with them a load of wood to ensure a good fire.

  Finally our camp had everything it needed—dry beds, a bright fire, hot coffee, and fresh meat. As dusk settled, the twilight sky was a breathtaking sight of color. The display reminded me to give thanks to the Creator for the simple gifts of food, fire, and companionship. These things were making everyone feel better. The only sour note was Skywalker. He was being very friendly to everyone but me and Hawwy. With us, he acted as if we didn’t exist. Frankly, after so many weeks of his mood, I was beginning to lose my patience.

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and then, whether Skywalker was agreeable to my nearness or not, I sat myself down next to him. I sipped the coffee while he purposely kept his face turned away from me, listening as Billy dutifully translated the comical exchange taking place between Little Jonas and The Cheyenne Robber. It would seem that during the activity of the search for the horses and then the hunt, a bond had grown between those two. I found it odd that Little Jonas could so easily turn away from his black brother and attach himself to The Cheyenne Robber. But he had, and now he and The Cheyenne Robber were sitting close together and laughing. Watching them over the rim of my cup I was taken by the deeply melodious sound of Little Jonas’s voice, tinged with mirth as he spoke through Billy.

  “You Indians look alike. It’s hard for us to tell you apart.”

  The Cheyenne Robber considered this for about a hot second, then cried, “How can you say we all look alike? Isn’t it obvious that the Creator made the Kiowa, His true people, more handsome than all other Indians?”

  Little Jonas grinned, his dark shiny face glowing almost orange in the firelight. In the heartbeat of time between The Cheyenne Robber’s response and Little Jonas’s reply, the fire hissed and popped, sending a shower of brilliant sparks skyward, the sparks fading out against the blackness. The firelight played across all of the faces. In that soft light, Hawwy and Lieutenant Danny both looked so young and trusting—they also looked slightly yellow. Sergeant Hicks seemed more weathered, a weary brown. Dark lines around Sergeant Cullen’s eyes and mouth deepened, causing him to look whiter than he was, and very sly. The two Buffalo Soldiers were so dark that their faces could only be seen in orange-gold highlights and their snow-white eyes and teeth. The Cheyenne Robber and Hears The Wolf were the color of the rust-red river of our homeland. Billy, because of his mixed blood, looked somewhere in between the colors of yellow and rust.

  Finally Little Jonas answered The Cheyenne Robber’s question. “No,” he said, as he fell to the side laughing.

  In a mock display of warrior aggression, The Cheyenne Robber knelt, a raised fist seemingly poised to strike the cackling Buffalo Soldier.

  Pretending to be afraid, Little Jonas yelped, “I give up, I give up! It’s true, you are beautiful. It’s just too bad there isn’t three more of you, then you could love all your selves.”

  “Just the one is more than enough,” Hears The Wolf joked.

  Turning on his father-in-law, The Cheyenne Robber growled like a bear. Unaffected by the threat, Hears The Wolf sloshed the remains of coffee around in his cup as he spoke in a confiding manner to the rest of us. “We once gave him a hand mirror. He was suppose to use it to flash signals in the same way we have known you Blue Jackets to do. That kind of message-sending didn’t work so well for us, though.”

  “Why not?” Lieutenant Danny dared to ask.

  The Cheyenne Robber settled back, gave his hand to Little Jonas, helping the Buffalo Soldier to sit up again.

  Hears The Wolf shrugged as he continued to stare at the remaining coffee in his cup and drolled on. “We gave the mirror to the wrong man.” A smile twitching the corners of his mouth, he looked directly at Lieutenant Danny. “Three times, that one over there signaled for us to advance, then three times he quickly signaled for us to fall back. We were very confused. We found out later he’d been using the mirror while he combed his hair.”

  The normally timid Lieutenant Danny exploded with laughter.
Everyone did—with the exception of Sergeant Cullen. Snorting in disgust, he stood and walked off into the darkness. During the moments he was out of sight, the entire camp became tense, waiting to see if he would come back or if the remaining Blue Jackets would have to be tied up again while Hears The Wolf and The Cheyenne Robber rode him down. Presently he came back into the light and the tension lifted. Immediately Little Jonas and The Cheyenne Robber were playful again, this time comparing the size of their upper-arm muscles. As both had extremely healthy biceps, Skywalker judged the contest to be a tie.

  While Skywalker was still in such a good mood, I leaned in and said, “I would like to speak to you in private.”

  The only evidence that I had been heard was his setting his cup down, then standing to his feet. When he walked off, I scrambled to stand, and followed after him.

  * * *

  We were still inside the circle of light, but far enough away from the camp to be able to speak freely. We knelt and sat on the backs of our legs, staring at each other over the small distance.

  “I want to know what is wrong with you,” I said.

  “If you mean now,” he jeered, “I’m feeling pain behind my eyes.” He raised a hand to his forehead, his thumb and middle finger rubbing against the brow bone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think you would want to be bothered by my unimportant malady.”

  Becoming incensed, I rose and left him, going to retrieve my medical bag.

  He remained quiet, listening to the laughing voices behind us as I ground up the mixture of herbs in my hand-sized rock bowl. That rock bowl and matching grinding stone have always been my prized possessions. It had taken me a long time to find just the right size rock and then chip out and make smooth the center to form a bowl. My next task was to find just the right size grinding rock to fit the bowl. The grinding rock had to be long, but not too long, and just the right weight. I owned a lot of bowls and grinders, but they were too bulky to take on the trail. The two I’m telling you about were perfect for my travel bag and, knowing how difficult they would be to replace, I guarded them carefully.