Murder at Medicine Lodge

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  I looked up at Hawwy. “I’ve found what I came for.”

  “Good,” he sighed, looking relieved.

  He tensed up again when I said, “Now I need to inspect this man’s uniform.”

  This need took us straight back to the bombastic Captain Mac.

  * * *

  “God’s eyes!” he roared. “Will he never leave?”

  Captain Mac was waving his arms while his quarter moon–shaped face was shoved incredibly close to Hawwy’s, the latter standing with his chin so tight against his neck that his profile, growing red with anger, blended in almost perfectly with his Adam’s apple. Suspecting that any second the confrontation would turn physical, Stanley sidestepped several paces away. Evidently, if fists were about to fly, he wasn’t fond of the idea of being caught by a stray. Billy must have had the same exact thought for he huddled close to me, whispering madly against my ear, repeating the clash word for word.

  “That Red Stick is a nuisance—a menace. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. He has no right to be poking his nose into army business and he most certainly does not have the right to go around accusing innocent troopers of murder.”

  Hawwy came strongly to my defense. “May I remind you, sir, the commanding staff have issued him the right to do just that—to find whatever information is possible to be found, either confirming or repudiating the charge of murder currently leveled against the trooper who, at this very moment, is locked in chains and confined to quarters; this Indian you profess to despise is our best hope of averting a war that we most certainly will not win.”

  “We have Gattling guns,” Captain Mac fumed.

  “But not enough bullets to feed those guns in order to defend ourselves from the tide of warriors surrounding this valley.”

  Captain Mac stepped back, his face beet red. In a try for composure, his hands tugged at the hem of his jacket as his straightened his spine.

  Hawwy opened his mouth to say something more, but I cut him off.

  “Tell the captain there is one way to settle the matter. That if he will indulge me, I will be as quick as I can.”

  Hawwy only partially understood me. I turned to Billy but he stood there like a mute, looking mortally afraid of Captain Mac. Roughly pushing him, I yelled, “Tell him what I said.”

  Hesitantly, he did. Which sent Captain Mac on a new tear. No longer caring that he was defaming me as well as every one of my grandfathers, I stood my ground, shouting over his bellowing to Billy. Once he stammered through this translation, Captain Mac, seeming eager to prove me a complete fool, escorted us to the supply tent where the uniforms—one belonging to Sergeant Hicks, and the jacket and trousers belonging to Little Jonas and William—were being kept.

  I went to the mismatched uniform first. Lifting up only the jacket, I sniffed at it. My actions seemed so ridiculous to Captain Mac that he raised his arms to the ceiling of the storage tent, tipped back his quarter-moon face and let go a belly laugh. As my opinion of the man was that he was little better than an idiot, I was not offended. He continued laughing, whacking Hawwy so hard on the shoulder, that he bucked forward as I set that jacket down and picked up the one belonging to Hicks. Hawwy sent me pleading looks, hoping against hope that I would not let him down, make him look the fool to a superior officer.

  Working toward that end, Captain Mac immediately stopped laughing when I took Hicks’s pistol out of the holster, brought it up to my chin, allowed it to rest there for a second, then leveled it at him. My holding a gun that was aimed at his heart shocked the very breath out of him. Ever the combative warrior, he was desperately trying to draw out his own sidepiece when I casually cocked back the hammer.

  FIFTEEN

  Hearing that warning sound, Captain Mac gave up the tussle of trying to get his gun out of the holster, his hands charging higher than his shoulders, the sign of surrender. A very nervous Hawwy followed suit. Seeing a friend with his hands in the air reminded me of Hears The Wolf seizing the moment and my instinctive reaction to it, surrendering right along with the Blue Jackets. Now I understood why Skywalker had gotten so mad, because looking at Hawwy behaving in the same stupid way had me fuming too. Captain Mac was shocked again when I eased the hammer gently home, then approached, offering him the pistol. Captain Mac looked to Hawwy, and on his nod, both cautiously lowered their hands. The captain took the offered gun and then held it in his two hands as if at a loss as to what to do next. Finding his courage, Billy leapt to my side when I called for him, translating as I spoke to Captain Mac.

  “I apologize for my former stupidity. For a time I believed that Cullen had lied. That the dead sergeant did not chew his cigars. That’s why I needed to look inside the dead man’s mouth. Hawwy took me to the body and I had a real good look, and to my surprise, I did find traces of tobacco wedged between his teeth and lying under his tongue, so it’s as Cullen said—the tobacco stain on the jacket could easily have been made by the dead sergeant. But then I thought, What if Cullen had shot him after all, and once the man was dead on the ground, he simply switched pistols? This could very easily been done, as by Hawwy’s account, all of your guns are exactly the same.”

  His eyes flaring as he stared at the weapon he held, Captain Mac roared, “The rotten little swine!”

  My feelings exactly, but for a different reason.

  Before I could say anything more, Captain Mac turned the animosity he had held against me, onto Henry Stanley, yelling for the reporter to get the hell out of the supply tent, not to show his face again if he knew what was good for him. Stanley made the mistake of pointing out some particular freedom which he and his brother newspapermen shared, and that was enough for Captain Mac. After sticking the pistol in his belt, he picked the smaller man up and heaved him out of the tent.

  Stanley landed inelegantly on his backside. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Stanley had a lot to say concerning physical abuse. Captain Mac’s answer was to close the tent flap in Stanley’s face. When he came back to me I handed him the pay-paas I’d taken from Lieutenant Danny’s case.

  The new foursome—Hawwy, Billy, Captain Mac, and I—formed a tight circle as Captain Mac read the pay-paas.

  “Are these marks things he is saying to his wife?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, his expression utterly confused. He looked quickly up at me. “I wasn’t aware that he had a wife.” He went back to reading. “These are just copies of reports.” He looked from the pay-paas to Hawwy, and they went into a discussion. Feeling on edge, I turned to Billy.

  “What are they saying!”

  Billy looked bewildered. Then, with a shake of his head he said, “It’s not that important, Tay. They’re only talking about how old the reports are, that they should have been filed months ago.”

  That really hit a nerve. “What are the reports about?”

  “About the dead sergeant Hicks, and Cullen. The lieutenant was recommending both be … punished.”

  “But they never were?”

  “No. The reports were not given to Captain Mac.”

  “Why did he want them punished?”

  Billy asked Hawwy, then turned back to me. “It doesn’t say. The lieutenant did not finish writing.”

  As the last of this began to fade from Billy’s mouth, I exclaimed, “Tell Hawwy that I would like to look through the first dead man’s things again.”

  Captain Mac went with us as we hastened back to Hawwy’s doctoring tent. This time, knowing just what I was looking for, I concentrated on Buug-lah’s personal effects and all of his clothing. Captain Mac was overawed by the expensive items belonging to Buug-lah.

  “Well, it’s no damn wonder he said he couldn’t live in a regular soldier’s tent!” he bayed. “And there he had old Gettis convinced that his living like a regular soldier placed him in jeopardy!”

  “Why?”

  Captain Mac explained angrily. “It was some drivel about the troops threatening him simply because he was the bugler. All right, it’s true tha
t in the army the bugler is something of a pariah because it’s the bugler’s duty to wake up the troops when they’d rather sleep and he is the one who sends them charging into battle, which is why Gettis probably swallowed that twaddle about his being threatened and gave him private quarters, allowed him to live above his station. But this!”—he shouted, throwing down a fine white shirt in disgust—“is beyond the limit. No ordinary soldier should have had any of this!”

  Carefully handling the silver-framed mirror and the silver-handled shaving brush, I quite readily agreed. These were the things of a young soldier chief who, because of love, had been reduced to a pauper. I began to set aside all of things I knew belonged to Lieutenant Danny. It wasn’t right that those things would be sent to Buug-lah’s family. While I sorted through the items, Hawwy incited Captain Mac further by informing him that their dead bugler had been in the process of buying a commission. Captain Mac exploded, demanded to see the proof of that with his own eyes. Hawwy complied, showing him the letter and the tin box full of money. Those two were working each other up about the duplicity of the dead man as I instructed Billy on the return of Lieutenant Danny’s property. That done, I announced that I wanted to go home.

  * * *

  Neither Captain Mac nor Hawwy wanted me to leave. In fact, they insisted I stay. Captain Mac even went so far as to offer to put me up for the night in his tent if I was feeling too crowded in Hawwy’s. But that wasn’t why I was anxious to leave, and through Billy I made them understand that the meticulous examination of the dead man had defiled my person, that I needed to purify myself through an exhaustive ritual which would take the whole of the night.

  Actually, that was a lie, a little cedar smoke and a good scrub with soap and water would have done the trick, but I was tired of white people and I missed my wife. Then, too, I did need to talk to Skywalker. Amazingly, the instant I mentioned the mysterious ritual, both Hawwy and Captain Mac began to blather on about how they fully understood, that of course it was right I should go. I have noticed that, whenever anything bordering on mystic beliefs is voiced, white men, and women, get nervous. They begin saying they fully understand when they so obviously don’t, and seem mortally terrified I might actually commence to demonstrate dark and peculiar rites right then and there.

  * * *

  Captain Mac took charge of the money box and went off, and Hawwy sent a trooper to fetch me a horse. Even though the sun was going down and the air was definitely colder, I returned Hawwy’s fine coat. He wanted me to keep it, bring it back the next day, but that wasn’t wise. A stronger, more aggressive warrior might put the claim on it and then I wouldn’t have it to return to him. So I took it off and gave it back, along with my thanks for its use. When the saddled horse was brought forth, I eagerly mounted up and rode for my home camp.

  My wife was the only one pleased to see me. My unexpected appearance produced a crowd of men, every one of them arriving just in time to witness Crying Wind hugging my neck and raining kisses on my face. When I, too, ignored their presence, began kissing her back with a building passion, White Bear stepped in, pulling us apart.

  “What are you doing here?” he bellowed. “You were told to stay with those Blue Jackets until Lone Wolf fetched you out.”

  “There was no need for me to stay,” I said, holding my wife’s warm body tight against mine.

  “You know who killed that soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  The Cheyenne Robber shouldered his way forward. “It wasn’t Little Jonas, was it?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell us who it was,” White Bear shouted, stepping in closer to me.

  “I think you should know,” I said evenly, “that I’ve recently touched another dead white man.”

  Clearly repulsed, everyone stepped well back, and with a cry, Crying Wind wriggled out of my arms. Then her fist collided with my shoulder.

  “How could you touch me and kiss me when you knew you were unclean?”

  Loving even the sight of her scrunched-up, angry face, I said humbly, “Because during the whole way here I had thought of nothing else but the two of us bathing.”

  A sparkle came into her eyes. “Oh! Well, that’s all right, then.” A smile on her face, she instructed her cousin White Bear to take our son to her sister.

  * * *

  Sitting in that stream, the water so cold that my body became numb, I missed that big black pot with the fire under it and its hot soapy water. One way or another, I was going to steal that pot. I no longer cared if taking it required a team of us to carry it away, I would have it and that was that. As the coldness of the water penetrated our very bones, Crying Wind and I did not linger with our bath. Bundled up in thick blankets, we made a headlong dash for home and, sitting side by side before a good fire, I added a good supply of cedar chips to the flames. When we felt a little warmer we knelt and, using our arms to call up the pungent smoke, washed it over our naked bodies. Completely clean now, like a pair of frolicking otters, we began to tussle beneath the covers of our bed.

  “Come up for air!”

  We did, both bobbing up at the same time, the blanket settling around our hips. The voice shouted again.

  “You’re not newlyweds you know.”

  I scowled at my wife. “He can be the worst nuisance I have ever known.”

  “I know you want to talk to me,” the voice outside laughed.

  “True,” I hollered, “but not just now!”

  “Now is all we have,” came the reply. “Lone Wolf is expecting company.”

  Wrapping a small blanket around my waist, I scrambled across the space between our bed and the door. Opening the flap, poking my head out, I saw that familiar lanky form, that mocking half-smile.

  “Who?” I quizzed. “Who is he expecting?”

  “Ten Bears,” Skywalker replied.

  My reunion with Crying Wind had to be put off. Ten Bears, chief of the Comanches, was Lone Wolf’s most staunch ally. If he was coming to council with Lone Wolf, odds were high he was bringing bad news.

  * * *

  Skywalker waited outside. Leaning against a pine, contenting himself with the brilliance of a glorious sunset while my wife and I bustled around inside our lodge and she helped me dress. As I was to take part in an important council, she wanted me to look my best, insisting I wear my new shirt, best leggings. Somehow I was to put these things on, holding completely still while she combed knots out of my hair. The end result was that I felt grandly thrown together as I made my escape from my wife’s tender clutches.

  “You look nice,” Skywalker said, as I passed him by.

  I came to a jerky stop, turned at the waist. When he made no attempt to move from his spot, I yelled, “Why are you just standing there? You said we had to hurry!”

  Skywalker, the very essence of aloof, pulled his weight away from the trunk of the pine. “True, but a dignified walk makes a better impression than a worried scurry.”

  The image of dignity, we wended our way through the heart of the camp, eventually arriving at Lone Wolf’s lodge. Before it stood dozens of tripods, each bearing a war shield. I instantly recognized Ten Bears’ shield, then one by one, the shields of every other important chief in the five Nations. This was impressive company we were about to keep and my heart banged nervously inside my chest as Skywalker bent low and entered the lodge. Summoning my nerve, I followed.

  Skywalker took his rightful place in the seated circle while I stood at the back. Now and then some of these great chiefs looked over their shoulders at me, wondered who I was. I tried to look important. The trouble was, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Waiting for those moments when no one was looking, I tried three different poses, finding each of them too awkward and too uncomfortable to maintain for any length of time. So I settled with just clasping my jittery hands behind my back. Then there was nothing left to do but listen.

  In council meetings, when outsider chiefs are in attendance, while passing the pipe each man is required
to relate, as briefly as possible, his family history. This can be especially trying as the names of the dead cannot be mentioned. Therefore, the dead relative must be described either by appearance or by a remembered deed, just as a Cheyenne chief was in the process of doing while I was searching for a dignified stance.

  “I am the son of the man who once found a roan horse. That was a good horse and because my father could find no owner’s mark on it, he kept it. Well, that horse belonged to a Crow chief and he wanted it back. My father wouldn’t give it because he never did trust the word of a Crow, so they had a war which became known as the Roan Horse Fight. My father’s father was…”

  Now, while all of this was very interesting, there were simply too many stories to tell, and I was standing whereas everyone else was comfortably seated. By the time a third chief began to speak, except for a burning sensation in my locked knees, I had no feeling in my legs, and my hands, tired of being locked behind me, were hanging limply at my sides. Still I suffered through another hour of individual genesis, until finally the pipe was handed back to Lone Wolf and the cause of this council was stated.

  “I well know,” Lone Wolf began in a gravelly tone, “that because of certain blunders”—he glanced at White Bear—“the need for a Kiowa presence at the treaty talks has been called to question. I have also heard it said that I am timid. That if the other one [meaning Little Bluff] were still alive, none of this would have happened.”

  Avoiding any direct eye contact with Lone Wolf, the other chiefs nodded their heads, muttered, “Ho”—that this was so.

  Lone Wolf considered at length, then said, “I am a man who speaks the truth and that truth is this. I was only recently elected to my high office and the two who would have preferred themselves over me, have not had sufficient time to settle down, to understand that neither of them were chosen by the people.”