A movement in the southeastern corner of the valley caught Little Wolf’s eye, and he pulled his rifle from the buckskin sleeve on his saddle. Moving quickly to a position behind some smoldering fence rails, he waited and watched while a lone rider approached. A moment more and he recognized the slightly bent profile of Sore Hand. He stood up again and returned his rifle to its sling.
The news Sore Hand brought confirmed his fears. The old Nez Perce explained how he had survived the attack by the white citizens committee from the settlement. He was spared because he had chased the little mare. After Little Wolf reassured him that he felt no anger toward him, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the massacre, Sore Hand described everything he had seen from behind the thicket across the stream.
“Rain Song!” Little Wolf demanded first.
Before he could fully ask the question he dreaded to have answered, Sore Hand interrupted. “She is not dead. They took her away, but I don’t know where they took her.”
Although still distressing, the news at least gave Little Wolf some sense of hope. If she lived, he would find her. “The others? I saw a lot of blood.”
“Dead,” Sore Hand said, his voice so soft it was barely audible. He went on to describe the massacre as he observed it from his position up the stream. He told of the murder of Sleeps Standing and the slaughter of the women. Two of the white men took all three scalps and rode circles around the burning cabin shouting and laughing, firing their pistols in the air. He did not know why Rain Song had been spared, only that they tied her hands and put her on a horse and took her with them. When they had gone, Sore Hand came back and wrapped the bodies in any odd pieces of hide he could find from the remains of the tipi. He took the corpses up on the south ridge and fashioned a rough burial platform for them.
There was nothing left of Little Wolf’s peaceful life in the secluded valley where he had come with Squint Peterson two years before. Their plan to raise horses and live apart from the squabbles between white men and red had seemed to hold promise for a while. Little Wolf had leaned toward living as a white man, though only slightly. And there had been a bond between himself and his natural brother, Tom Allred. Now Squint was dead and Tom was gone and Little Wolf was once more a Cheyenne renegade, whether by choice or not. His trail had been plainly marked for him. He had lived in the high mountains before, hunted by the white soldiers. It would be that way again, for he would not rest until he had found Rain Song. After that, the deaths of Sleeps Standing, Lark, and White Moon must be avenged.
“Do you know the men who did this?” Little Wolf asked.
Sore Hand nodded his head. “Yes, I know them. There were four who mutilated the bodies. I have seen them in the town. The sheriff was the leader. The others were the two who live in the shack below the fork of the river, and the little man the others call Pudd.”
“Pudd?” Little Wolf repeated it several times, watching Sore Hand’s face for a reaction. Sore Hand was not sure. Little Wolf thought for a moment before it dawned upon him. “Puddin?” he asked.
Sore Hand nodded his head vigorously up and down. “Pudd,” he repeated.
Little Wolf had heard both Squint Peterson and Tom comment on the town’s mayor. He had seen the man himself once when he rode into town to trade some pelts. He prodded Sore Hand to remember anything else about the posse of white men, but the old Nez Perce could not offer much more except to recall that the man wearing a badge seemed to be giving the others orders. So, Little Wolf thought, the mayor and the sheriff. He did not know the other two Sore Hand named, but to make sure the debt was paid, he vowed to himself to kill two white men for each of his friends who were murdered.
They spent but a short time among the ashes of what had been Squint Peterson’s dream before riding toward the south ridge. Sore Hand led him to the burial platforms he had constructed for Sleeps Standing, Lark, and White Moon. They paused there while Little Wolf said a final farewell to his longtime friend. Sore Hand apologized for the rudimentary structures he had built, but Little Wolf assured him that Sleeps Standing would understand. He stood there in silence for a while, thinking of the boy he had known so many years ago. He had hunted with him, played at making war with him when they were just children. When they had grown to manhood he had fought beside him, from the raids with the Sioux on the Bozeman, to the annihilation of Custer at Greasy Grass. He would be missed. He turned to Sore Hand. “Come.” They left the slope and started back into the mountains.
Little Wolf knew where he was going. There was a ravine close to a waterfall, high up in the rocks and pines. He had been there often while hunting. This would be where he would make his camp for now in case the white men from the settlement decided to come back with soldiers to look for him. The ravine was protected on three sides, and the entrance would be hard to find for someone who did not know of its existence.
4
Lieutenant Brice Paxton, E Company, 1st Cavalry, walked out of Blanton’s Saloon in the little settlement the townsfolk had named Medicine Creek. He paused on the porch to stretch in the midday sun while he waited for his fellow officer, Paul Simmons, to follow. A few moments more and Simmons emerged from the dim interior of the saloon, a beer glass still in his hand. Brice turned to address his friend.
“Damn, Paul, what kind of example are you setting?” Brice began in mock disdain. “Here we restrict the men to one glass of beer and you come out working on your second.”
“Rank has its privileges,” Simmons replied, a smug smile creasing his lips. He knew Brice was joshing him. Brice was senior in rank, although they were both lieutenants, and Brice was in command on this patrol. But there was never any concern between them as to who gave the orders. In fact, they were the best of friends. There was a certain degree of camaraderie among all the junior officers assigned to Fort Lapwai. Paul suspected it was because of the spartan conditions they all shared at the rather neglected post on Lapwai Creek.
“Sergeant Baskin, get ’em mounted up. I want to get back to the fort before dark.”
“Yessir,” Baskin replied and went back into the saloon to herd the last few stragglers away from the bar. There would be some halfhearted protests from one or two of the men who thought the imposed limit of one glass of beer was a mite too strict. But Baskin was quick to remind them that Lieutenant Paxton was probably the only officer who would permit any libation at all on a patrol. Baskin could see no harm in it, since they passed right through Medicine Creek on their return to Lapwai anyway. Why not let the men wash some of the dust out of their throats? It sure made Paxton a popular officer with the men, although Colonel Wheaton would probably have the young lieutenant’s hide if he knew about it.
Henry Blanton, always glad to see the soldiers in town, walked out on the porch and leaned against a post to watch the patrol mount up. “You boys come on back when you ain’t got your nanny with you,” he called out good-naturedly. His remark was met with a chorus of catcalls and mock insults. Henry laughed and nodded to Brice. “Lieutenant.”
Brice acknowledged the nod and turned back to his sergeant. “We leaving anybody?”
“No, Sir.”
“All right, let’s go then.”
The column had traveled little more than two miles south of Medicine Creek when they met the returning Vigilance Committee, led by Franklin Bowers. Bowers pulled up before the lieutenant and signaled for the posse to halt.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Brice said as Bowers came closer. “Looks like you’ve been out on patrol too.” He didn’t comment on the sizable string of horses being herded along behind them, most of them Appaloosas, a hearty breed originally developed by the Nez Perces.
Bowers nodded to the two officers. Puddin Rooks pulled up beside the sheriff and started to speak but Bowers cut him off. “You might say that, Lieutenant. We had some trouble from some Injuns but we took care of it. They’ve been doing some raiding and other devilment. Nuthin’ to bother the army about.” He flashed a sideways glare at Puddin Rooks t
o warn him not to volunteer any details. Puddin understood and held his tongue. Bowers looked back at Brice. “You boys goin’ back to Lapwai?”
“Yep.”
“You could do us a favor. We picked up this here squaw back in the mountains. We was gonna send her back to the agency over at Lapwai. If you could take her off our hands, we’d be obliged.”
Brice peered around the sheriff to get a better look at the Indian woman seated on a horse in the middle of the line of citizens. “Well,” he hesitated, “I guess we could take her for you.” He paused to study the woman a few moments more. “How did you happen on her? Was she by herself?”
Puddin started to explain. Again Bowers interrupted him. “Her menfolk wanted to make a fight of it, but there was too many of us. They was kilt and we didn’t want to leave her up in the mountains by herself, figured she’d be better off on the reservation where she belongs.”
“Sergeant, take charge of the woman.” Brice glanced back at Bowers. “Was it necessary to tie her to the saddle?”
“Yeah. She didn’t wanna come.” Bowers met Brice’s steady gaze, the hint of a smile parting his lips. He made no effort to disguise the contempt he felt for any man, and especially an army officer, who showed any compassion for an Indian.
Brice chose not to speculate on the actual circumstances that led to the woman’s capture. Whatever they were, he felt certain that it was not as simple as Bowers related. He didn’t even want to know why Bowers had led a posse of twenty or more men up into the mountains in the first place. He had had very little contact with Bowers, but what he had seen of him, he didn’t like.
After they had left the dust of Medicine Creek behind them, Brice called his chief scout in. He was a Nez Perce named Yellow Hand and had ridden with E Company for over a year. A powerfully built man, Yellow Hand was held in some esteem among the other scouts. Most feared him and Brice had never seen him mingle socially with the other scouts, even the Nez Perces of his own tribe. He did not stay in the tent area with the other Indian scouts when at the fort, preferring to remain aloof, living off by himself. The one exception to his aloofness was a somewhat surly brute named Hump. And Sergeant Baskin said that Yellow Hand only tolerated Hump because they were cousins.
Brice ordered the scout to go back and talk to the woman and find out anything he could. Yellow Hand nodded silently and wheeled his pony around toward the rear of the column. After no more than ten or fifteen minutes had passed, Yellow Hand returned to give his report.
“Woman is Cheyenne,” Yellow Hand said.
“Cheyenne? What the hell is she doing this far west?”
“She says her husband is Little Wolf, Cheyenne war chief. She says white men attack them and kill sisters and her sister’s husband. They want no war, want to live in peace, but white men kill them anyway.”
Brice glanced at Paul Simmons, who was riding at his side. “I figured it was something like that,” he said. “Well, we can take her over to the agency.”
Yellow Hand started to ride out again but Paul stopped him. “Wait a minute, Brice. You know, I was at Fort Lincoln for two months before I was assigned to the Second. It was a few months after Custer got wiped out at Little Big Horn.” Brice waited patiently to see how Paul’s story was connected to the Indian woman. “They were still talking about a Cheyenne renegade named Little Wolf. Seems like they had captured him and he had escaped. Only the story I heard was he had been killed during the escape.” He paused a moment before continuing. “You don’t suppose this Little Wolf could be the same one, do you? Because, if he is, he’s wanted by the army.”
“Damn. Could be, I guess.” Brice thought about it for a moment. “But, hell, she said the citizens committee killed them all but her anyway.”
Paul shook his head. “She said they killed her sisters and one of her sisters’ husband. She didn’t say anything about her husband.”
“Damn, that’s right.” He paused, thinking. “But you said this Little Wolf was killed trying to escape when they were taking him back to Lincoln. So he’s supposed to be dead anyway.”
“As far as I know, nobody ever found his body.”
This was getting more interesting. Brice turned to Yellow Hand. “Go on back and talk to her again. Try to find out if her husband is still alive, and where he is.”
Yellow Hand nodded and turned to go. As an afterthought, Paul called after him, “And find out if he’s a white man.”
When Yellow Hand came back to report on the results of his second interrogation of the Indian woman, he told Brice that the woman’s name was Rain Song. She had been reluctant to say more about her husband after already revealing his identity. He had persisted but she would not admit that her husband had been white when he was born. He was Cheyenne, she insisted. And, he added, she was certain he would come for her.
* * *
Captain Hollis Malpas, Company Commander, E Company, 1st Cavalry, stood before the Adjutant’s Office on the south side of the parade ground. He had been talking to a fellow officer but now he paused to watch his second in command, Lieutenant Brice Paxton, as he entered the fort at the head of his fifteen-man patrol. Malpas walked over to meet Brice. Seeing his commanding officer, Brice dismounted after leaving Paul to dismiss the detail. He told Sergeant Baskin to pick two men to remain to guard the woman. That done, he walked toward Malpas.
“What have you got there?” Malpas asked upon seeing the Indian woman.
Brice related the details of the meeting with the citizens of Medicine Creek and the subsequent discussion with Paul and the Nez Perce scout, Yellow Hand. Malpas was intrigued when told of Lieutenant Simmons’s story of the Cheyenne renegade, Little Wolf. He, like Brice, had no personal knowledge of the man, but he felt it important enough to make some inquiries to find if there was any interest in a possible Cheyenne war chief hiding out in this part of the country.
“It might be a good idea to keep the woman here for a while until we find out if there is anything to this story. You and Simmons and I should report this to Colonel Wheaton.” He took a few steps closer to the woman standing passively between two troopers. “She looks Cheyenne, all right. Bring her along.”
Unlike Brice and Captain Malpas, Colonel Wheaton was very familiar with the notorious Little Wolf. After hearing the story of her capture, he eyed the young Cheyenne girl carefully as if examining a trophy. “Yes, gentlemen, I’ve heard of this renegade. One of my close friends, an officer I served with for four years, was on General Terry’s staff when they rode in relief of Major Reno’s battalion at the Little Big Horn.” He nodded toward Paul Simmons. “What you say is true, Little Wolf was a white man, raised by the Cheyenne from a small boy. And there was quite a bit of controversy over the details of his escape and subsequent death, a death that was never confirmed. If memory serves me, an otherwise brilliant young cavalry officer was dismissed from the army as a result of his negligence—or possibly his involvement—in the renegade’s escape.”
“What about the woman?” Malpas asked. “Should we send her on over to the agency?”
The colonel did not answer at once, but gazed steadily at Rain Song while he considered the matter. “No, I think it might be a good idea to hold her here for the time being. If this Little Wolf is the same devil that escaped from Lincoln, then the army would love to get their hands on him.” He turned to Brice. “Your scout said she’s sure her man is going to come for her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we’ll just hold her here for a while and see if he tries to get her. We might just catch us a prize polecat in the bargain.”
The decision to hold the Indian woman there at the fort for an indefinite period having been made, the matter of where she was to be held had to be determined. It was agreed that she could not be confined in the Guard House since there were already two male occupants serving time there. The building contained only three cells that opened to the guardroom, and Colonel Wheaton thought it unwise to incarcerate a woman in such close quarter
s with two men. Someone suggested using one of the small compartments in the laundresses’ quarters, but Malpas was quick to remind the colonel that the location of the laundresses’ quarters, by the creek, left it too isolated.
Paul Simmons spoke up. “How about the hospital? It’s close to the Guard House.”
“Do you mean to hold her in the ward? I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Not in the ward. I was thinking of the storeroom they converted to a bathroom behind the dispensary. It really is very seldom used and it has only one door and one small window. I should think a woman, especially an Indian woman, could be very comfortable there. One guard outside the door should be all that’s needed.”
“That sounds fine to me,” Colonel Wheaton said. “Anyone else have any suggestions?”
No one did, so Rain Song was taken to the hospital on the north side of the parade ground and placed in the bathroom. Sergeant Baskin sent a man to the kitchen to find something for her to eat and a bucket was placed in the room for her toilet. He made an attempt to tell her that she was not going to be harmed, but she gave no signs of understanding. Finally he called Yellow Hand in to translate for him. She knew enough Nez Perce to communicate easily with the scout, having learned it from Sore Hand. After listening to Yellow Hand, she nodded understanding to Baskin, but her stoic expression remained. When the men turned to leave the room, she made one quiet statement.
“What did she say?” Baskin asked.
“She say, Little Wolf will come.”
Baskin smiled. “I hope he does.”
Back at the colonel’s office, Wheaton dismissed his junior officers. “Hollis,” he addressed Captain Malpas, “send some of your scouts over to the agency and spread it around that we’ve got Little Wolf’s woman here at the fort. If the woman’s right, and he comes for her, he’s going to be looking for her over there.”
Medicine Creek Page 4