“Evidently this savage is smarter than you gave him credit for. He’s damn sure as brazen as his reputation contends.” At last releasing Malpas from his paralyzing glare, Wheaton moved back to his desk and sat down on the corner of it. He had counted heavily on the capture of the notorious Cheyenne war chief. It would have gone a long way toward a possible reassignment from the lonely post on Lapwai Creek. It was even more distasteful to learn that the infamous Little Wolf had been living practically under his nose, for two years—while everyone assumed him dead. “Dammit!” he uttered under his breath. Then looking up at Malpas again, he ordered, “Well, mister, you lost him. Dammit, you find him!” He got to his feet again. “I want that son of a bitch, Malpas. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yessir,” Malpas stammered, his face still a bright crimson from the dressing down he had just received.
Brice Paxton, seeing that his captain was at a loss for words at the moment, stepped forward to assist. “Sir, on Captain Malpas’s orders, B Troop has already been advised to draw ammunition and rations and be ready to ride. We’ve sent for Yellow Hand. He’s the best scout we’ve got. If anyone can trail the renegade, he can.”
Wheaton turned his flint-like gaze upon the younger officer. “I want that son of a bitch,” he reiterated, his voice a low growl.
* * *
Yellow Hand bent low to the ground, studying the faint hoofprints in the pine needles. After a moment, he stood up and looked toward the south. Then he turned back to Captain Malpas. “One other wait here with horses—one with horseshoes, two no shoes. Go up behind hill. That way.” He pointed south.
Malpas nodded, then looked at Brice. “Looks like he stole a horse too.”
“Looks like,” Brice agreed.
“Let’s get after them,” Malpas said and signaled the troop forward.
Yellow Hand hopped up on his horse and moved out ahead of the column. No man among them was more anxious to overtake Little Wolf than he. On any given day, he harbored a certain amount of contempt for what he considered the incompetence of the captain. This morning he was silently angry at the total incompetence of the guard detail that was supposed to set a trap for the Cheyenne renegade. He had counted upon the success of the trap and the imprisonment of Little Wolf, maybe even his execution, to clear the way to Rain Song’s heart. He had been struck by the beauty of the Cheyenne girl and was confident that he could soon make her forget Little Wolf. Now, she was bound to see her husband in an even more favorable light since he had defied the might of the army and had come to rescue her. Now Yellow Hand could no longer depend upon the soldiers to eliminate his competitor. He was determined to track him down and, when the opportunity appeared, he intended to kill Little Wolf before the soldiers had a chance to capture him. If Little Wolf was dead, there would no longer be any reason for Rain Song to reject him.
The trail skirted around the western side of the fort. Once it turned east again and came back to the creek, south of the fort, the troop was forced to sit and wait while Yellow Hand scouted the banks with two other Nez Perce scouts. The sun was already high above the hills when one of the scouts finally found the trail that exited from the creek. Yellow Hand followed it, closely examining it as he did, for a distance of almost a mile before going back to report to Malpas.
“Little Wolf left creek maybe half mile,” he said, pointing toward the south. “Head that way.” He indicated a circle back toward the northeast.
They took up the trail again, moving as rapidly as possible when the trail was easy to distinguish, slowing sometimes to a temporary halt when Yellow Hand had to search for prints. All the while, Brice could feel the urgency that spurred Malpas on. He understood the colonel’s irritation over the failure of their attempt to trap Little Wolf. But he had to admit, he himself had given no consideration to the notion there was any possibility the renegade would walk in right in the middle of the morning formation. Adding to his bewilderment was the fact that the renegade was not noticed by anyone. There were at least a half dozen Nez Perce scouts sitting around a campfire no more than forty yards from the hospital. Surely one would think that one of them might have noticed a stranger walking right by them.
Well, he thought, there’s a pretty good chance we’ll catch him. Yellow Hand in particular seems determined to track him down. Brice could not remember seeing Yellow Hand work so relentlessly and carefully over a trail before.
It was not to be as easy as Brice had hoped. Nightfall found them skirting the mountains at a point approximately eight or ten miles east of the little settlement of Medicine Creek. While Yellow Hand and his scouts were still able to follow the trail, it had become increasingly harder, slowing their progress. Captain Malpas finally called a halt to the day’s march and ordered the troop to encamp near the banks of a shallow stream. They would take up the trail again at first light.
* * *
Little Wolf made his way down from the rock ledge where he had gone to watch their backtrail. As he approached the pine thicket near the stream where he had made their camp, Rain Song rose from beside the small fire and hurried to meet him. She hugged him tightly around his waist, the top of her head no higher than his shoulder. There had been little time for embraces during the ride from Lapwai and she was anxious now to feel the lean, muscular body of her husband. She felt a need to assure herself that he had really come for her and was not a phantom image in her mind. Yellow Hand had insisted that the soldiers would kill Little Wolf, and while she did not believe it could happen, still there had been small worrisome fears that crept into her mind at night. Now she wanted to touch him to make sure he was always there.
She looked up into his face. “I have cooked some meat for you.” She shifted her balance toward the old Nez Perce seated by the fire, chewing on a strip of roasted meat. “Come, before Sore Hand eats it all up,” she teased. She took his hand and led him to the fire.
“There is no hurry,” Sore Hand said. “My teeth are so old they hurt when I chew this meat. It would take me two days to eat all this.”
Little Wolf laughed and sat down beside the old man. “You should have killed a young deer instead of this old buck.”
“I would have, if we had had the time. We’re lucky to have this old buck.” He paused to pull the strip of venison from his mouth and examine it, turning it from one side to the other. Then he put it back in his mouth and began to gnaw it again. “It wouldn’t make any difference if he was a fawn. These old teeth are worn out. I lost another one yesterday.” He pulled his lip up to show them the gap.
“I am only teasing, my friend. We are grateful for the meat.” He paused for a moment. “You have done well. I could not have rescued Rain Song without you.” He laid a hand on Sore Hand’s shoulder and patted it.
Sore Hand only grunted in reply. He appreciated the sentiment behind the remark, but he knew Little Wolf could have rescued Rain Song without his help. He paused in his chewing. “Do you think the soldiers are still following us?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see tomorrow. If they are still following, we’ll lead them up into the mountains. We have to lose them before we go to our camp by the waterfall.” He didn’t reveal his feeling inside that the soldiers would continue to dog them until they caught him and killed him. He knew there was no amnesty for him. He was a Cheyenne warrior and he would be hunted like Dull Knife and Two Moon, and like the Sioux chiefs, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. The soldiers would not be content until all the free Indians were either on the reservation or dead.
* * *
“He is good,” Little Wolf remarked to Sore Hand as they watched the column of troopers making their way along the bottom of a deep ravine some six or seven miles behind them. “The one scout, out in front of the other two, he is the one who stays on our trail.”
“I think it is the one called Yellow Hand,” Rain Song said. “He said he was the head scout for the soldiers.”
Little Wolf turned to look at his wife. “Yellow Hand, huh? He is the one who ta
lked for the soldiers?” She answered with a nod. “Well, this Yellow Hand might become a problem for us. He is good.” He got to his feet. “Come, we’ll go down the other side of the mountain to the river and see if we can take him for a swim. Then I think we’ll be able to go to our camp.”
* * *
Yellow Hand sat on his haunches, stirring the ashes of a campfire by the river. He turned to look at the officers as they rode up to him. “This is where they camped last night,” he said without emotion. “Trail leads that way.” He pointed.
Brice glanced at Hollis Malpas, waiting for a signal to march. Malpas seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether to continue or not. After a moment, Brice prompted him. “The colonel will be fit to be tied if we don’t bring this man back.”
Malpas gave him a quick look, nodded, then gave the order, “All right, Yellow Hand. Lead out and we’ll follow.”
For the balance of the morning, the troop worked slowly up the mountain and down into a small valley, trying to stay on a trail that became more and more difficult to follow. Finally, at the head of a ravine, the trail seemed to disappear, leaving the line of troopers facing a sheer rock wall. Malpas called a halt for the noon meal while Yellow Hand and the other two Nez Perce scouts combed the sides of the ravine in an effort to find a track.
Paul Simmons helped himself to a cup of coffee, poured from the pot Sergeant Baskin had simmering over a small fire. He ambled over and sat down on a rock beside Brice Paxton, then watched with some amusement as Yellow Hand and his two associates inched their way along the steep sides of the ravine. “Looks like our scout has met his match,” he said between sips of the hot black liquid.
Brice grunted. “Yeah, looks like. I’ve got a feeling this Little Wolf is no ordinary Indian.”
“It seems plain as day to me. He rode up here until he came to this rock wall. Then he just flapped his arms and flew over the mountain.”
Brice laughed. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”
At first baffled, Yellow Hand became furious after two hours had passed, still without any indication that Little Wolf had ridden beyond that point at the base of the rock. He considered himself second to no man in following a trail. Three horses could not have simply vanished. He examined the face of the wall, looking for some hidden passage. There was none. His Nez Perce scouts were already admitting defeat and doing little more than poking around aimlessly, waiting for Yellow Hand to give up. As the afternoon wore on, Captain Malpas grew impatient and, expressing concern about being caught in the narrow ravine by darkness, made the decision to pull back to the base of the ravine and make camp by a small stream. This, he felt, made more sense than riding around in the mountains, hoping to stumble upon a trail. His lieutenants agreed, having no better suggestions of their own. So they went into camp while the scouts continued to comb the ravine.
B Troop spent the next morning languishing by the busy little stream at the head of the ravine. The troopers were content to lounge on the grassy banks while their horses grazed. Captain Malpas, however, wallowed in an agitated state. After noontime came and there was still no progress on the part of his scouts, he ordered Baskin to organize the men into scouting parties of four men each to help the Nez Perces. This, Brice recognized, was done not so much to find the elusive sign. Rather, it was because of Malpas’s irritation at seeing the men idle for so long.
Malpas’s decision to keep his men occupied was not well received by Yellow Hand, who saw the order as simply one more impediment to his search. His initial thought proved to be accurate as the sides of the ravine soon became covered with tracks, making a difficult job impossible. The frustration he felt began to eat a hole in his stomach and it was bitterly galling for him to have to finally accept defeat. Had he known that he had missed the most critical sign before entering the ravine, he would have been doubly furious.
Little Wolf had not led the three horses into the ravine. Leaving the stream where the soldiers were now camped, he had carefully led the horses out of the water onto a shale outcropping. Changing horses with Rain Song, he told Sore Hand to lead Rain Song up the ridge beside the ravine. Then he rode the shod horse into the ravine, being careful to pick his way along the bottom so as not to leave more than a few prints. When he came to the boxed-in portion of the ravine, he led the horse back the way he had come until clear of the ravine. To complete his deception, he retraced his steps on foot, carefully covering any tracks that revealed his return trip, leaving only a couple of clear prints that indicated a trail into the ravine. Satisfied that he had done his work well, he then followed Rain Song and Sore Hand up over the top of the ridge.
Admitting that the Cheyenne had stymied them, Malpas gave the order to return to the fort. He could see no prospect of success in riding haphazardly around in the mountains when every hour meant the renegade was farther and farther away. One of Yellow Hand’s Nez Perce scouts paused to look at a distinct print where a horse had slipped on the bank of the stream. Since it was that of a shod horse, he assumed that it was made by one of the troopers. The fact that it was pointed toward the ridge seemed to hold no significance for him. He jumped on the back of his pony and galloped off to rejoin the head of the column.
High up the mountainside, beyond the ridge, Little Wolf sat watching the actions of the soldiers below him as they searched for his trail. From that distance, he could not make out the features of the Nez Perce called Yellow Hand, but he could see the dogged determination of the scout as he combed the ravine for sign. He seemed much more dedicated than his two brothers. Little Wolf wondered if there was a reason. He would have to question Rain Song further on the matter. When the soldiers finally mounted up and filed out of the ravine, Little Wolf got up and made his way back over the crest of the hill. “We can go now. The soldiers have given up,” he announced to Rain Song and Sore Hand. At least for now, he thought to himself. They will be back
7
Puddin Rooks was not especially happy with his share of the spoils. There were enough horses captured from Little Wolf for each man who rode with the posse to get one. This was fair pay to ride against the Cheyenne, and Puddin had no quarrel with that. What bothered Puddin was the three horses left over. Bowers had laid claim to two of them, claiming he had a right to them because he led the raid. Puddin might even have stood for that. But the other horse, a fine-looking Appaloosa about fourteen hands high, somehow wound up on Sam Tolbert’s string. Puddin was the mayor, and he had expected to be treated fairly and awarded spoils according to his rank.
When the posse had returned to Medicine Creek after the raid, Rooks had to go home to attend to some business. He didn’t have time even to attend the celebration at Blanton’s Saloon, so he assumed Franklin Bowers would watch out for his interests when the horses were divided up. He was on his way to see Bowers now.
It was past suppertime so he didn’t expect to find the sheriff at the jail. He went directly to Blanton’s instead, where he was certain he would find the raw-boned Bowers having his evening drink. Bowers was there all right, his chair tilted back against the wall, a shot glass in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Puddin acknowledged the scattered howdies from several of his fellow townsfolk as he made his way to the back of the saloon and Bowers’s table. He pulled a chair back and sat down facing the sheriff. “Bowers, we need to talk a little bit about somethin’.”
Bowers gazed coldly into Puddin’s eyes for several seconds without saying a word. Then, just before Puddin started to repeat his words, he acknowledged the mayor’s presence. “Evening, Mayor.” He flicked the ashes from his cigar on the floor and took a long drag. “What are you all lathered up about?”
“It’s them horses, Bowers. I don’t think we did a fair split on ’em.”
Bowers was not concerned. “Why? You got a horse, didn’t you? Same as everybody else.”
“Well, no. I mean, yeah, I got a horse. That ain’t the point. What I’m sayin’ is, there was three horses left over after everybody got one. You
took two of ’em, and I say that’s fine. You’re the sheriff, you led the posse. But I’m the mayor, dammit. How come Sam Tolbert got the other horse? It shoulda been mine.”
“Hell, Puddin, I don’t know.” In fact, he didn’t care. “He just did. I ‘spect he figured it belonged to him because he’s the one found the damn Injuns in the first place. That seems fair enough to me.”
Puddin sat looking at Bowers for a few moments. It was not the response he was looking for. “I don’t suppose you’d consider parting with one of yours.”
Bowers just grinned. After he tossed the shot of whiskey back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Reckon not. I figure I put my life on the line for this little town for damn little pay. I earned them horses.” He could see that Puddin was not at all happy with his lack of compassion, but he also knew Puddin Rooks didn’t have sand enough to do anything about it—not with him, at least. “If you don’t think Tolbert shoulda got the extra horse, you can talk to him about it.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” Puddin replied weakly. “Have you seen him in town today?”
“Nope. I guess he’s out at that little patch of weeds him and Lonnie call a ranch.”
Medicine Creek Page 7