Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  When it was done, Little Wolf stood silently looking around him. As before, when he dispatched the sheriff and the mayor, the killing did nothing to ease the anguish and sense of loss he felt. He decided then that Rain Song was right. There was no purpose in taking more lives. There had been enough slaughter. These would be the last two scalps to adorn Sleeps Standing’s burial platform. He would go back for Rain Song and Sore Hand and go farther south, deeper into the Bitterroots, and try once again to make a new start. Relieved to be done with the business, he lowered the corral poles and led the Appaloosas out. With his horses once again in his possession, Little Wolf struck out across the valley toward the mountains and the camp by the waterfall.

  * * *

  Captain Hollis Malpas held up his hand to halt the column of troopers behind him. “What is it, Charlie?”

  The half-breed scout, Charlie Rain Cloud, pulled up from a gallop and wheeled his horse alongside the captain. “Dead men!” he blurted.

  “Dead men? Where?”

  “In the valley, two white men laying dead by a little cabin.”

  Brice Paxton pulled up beside them. “That cabin would be Tolbert and Jacobs’s place. That’s the only cabin I know of in that valley.”

  Malpas nodded and said, “More of that devil’s work, I expect.” He prepared to signal the troop to move out.

  “Ain’t no hurry,” Charlie Rain Cloud said, “he’s done and gone.”

  E Company filed into the little valley and, under orders from Malpas, split up to circle the cabin in the event their quarry might still be lurking about. When it was determined that there was no one else around, Malpas dismounted the troops while Charlie looked around for sign.

  Sergeant Baskin walked up beside Brice, who was standing over the body of Sam Tolbert. He stared at the bodies of the two partners for a few moments before commenting. “Cheyenne arrows. Looks like it’s our man, all right. This’un was killed with a rifle. Looks like our renegade just wasted an arrow.”

  “He wants us to know who did it. It’s all about revenge. These two were part of that posse we met over at Medicine Creek.” He looked down at the scalpless corpses. Noticing their mutilated chests, Brice suddenly realized the significance of the slashes. “Number three and number four. I wonder how many he figures to kill.” He didn’t voice it, but the thought occurred to him that the two men probably got what they deserved.

  After Charlie Rain Cloud had scouted the area and concluded that Little Wolf had left there at least a day before, Malpas decided to search the mountains east of the settlement of Medicine Creek. According to Charlie, this was the country Yellow Hand was scouting and Malpas figured the Nez Perce scout had a better idea where to find Little Wolf than anyone else. He decided to divide the company into three patrols, headed by each of the three officers. The company remained intact until they crossed the river. On the far side, Paul Simmons, along with twenty men, broke off and pushed directly east. Brice also with twenty, continued north, working his way toward the east to follow a narrow valley that led into the mountains. Malpas, with the balance of the company, followed the river, planning to veer off to the east before reaching Medicine Creek. He kept the half-breed scout with him, while Paul and Brice each took three of the remaining six Nez Perces as scouts.

  Before leaving the river, Malpas instructed his two lieutenants, “Scout out any trails you come across. It’s pretty hard going in some places in these mountains and he will more than likely stick to the trails. We’ll rendezvous back here in three days. And, gentlemen, watch yourselves.”

  * * *

  After climbing steadily through a seemingly endless band of lodgepole pines that ringed the line of mountain ridges, Yellow Hand stopped dead in his tracks and looked hard through the trees. A movement on the other side of them had caught his eye. He tied his horse to a limb and continued on foot. For the last half hour or so, he had heard the sound of rushing water and yet he had not found a stream. Now the sound was close. Moving cautiously, he made his way through the tall pines, so thick he had to weave his way through them. He climbed higher up toward the crest of the ridge. There it was again! A movement, a glimpse of something or someone darting along the ridge above him. He hurried to gain the top of the ridge. Crawling the last few yards to the crest, he peered over the spine of the ridge in time to see the fleeting image of a man just as he disappeared into a thicket below.

  Yellow Hand’s heart beat against his breastbone. I have found him! The sound of the rushing water was now louder than ever and he strained to see the source through the trees. Working his way quickly down to the thicket where he had last seen the man, he dropped to his knees and searched the brush before him with his eyes, his rifle ready. He could see no sign of the man, but now he discovered the waterfall that sent water crashing down the face of the cliff. A moment later, the man appeared again. He emerged from the thick forest and walked across a small clearing toward a pool at the bottom of the waterfall. There, sitting by the edge of the pool, he saw her. Rain Song!

  Yellow Hand’s heart was pounding now. He looked back at the man. It was not Little Wolf. He was an old man, a Nez Perce he remembered having seen on occasion at the reservation at Lapwai. Bad luck, he thought, disappointed that Little Wolf was not there. Too bad for you, old man, but you must die. I can’t be bothered with taking you back to Lapwai.

  Although dissatisfied to find that the man he sought to kill was not there, Yellow Hand was still pleased with himself that he had found the woman. He would take her with him and then see if Little Wolf dared to track them down. As long as he had the woman, he no longer had to search through these mountains. He would let Little Wolf come to him, and then he would kill him. Unable to keep a smile from his face, he rose to his feet and went back to retrieve his horse.

  * * *

  Rain Song took a large rock and pounded down a stake that had loosened as the drying elk hide pulled against it. Satisfied that it was now secure, she sat back on her heels and gazed out across the rocky stream toward the waterfall. A busy water ouzel caught her eye. The tiny bird had built his nest of moss close by the water’s edge and was constantly darting in and out of the rushing water, searching for his supper. This is a good place, she thought. When Little Wolf returns, I will beg him to let us stay here and make our home. The thought of her husband caused a warm trembling inside her breast, and she smiled when she pictured in her mind the tall, graceful warrior who loved her. At almost the same time, she heard Sore Hand call out that someone was coming.

  She quickly got to her feet and looked toward the ridge behind her. There was a rider making his way through the pines. At first she thought Little Wolf had returned and her heart began to race with excitement. She started running to meet him, but halfway across the grassy bottom, she stopped. The rider had emerged from the thicket, and it was not Little Wolf. She could see that it was not a soldier, but another Indian. She was not alarmed, since it was not a white man approaching, but she remained still, watching the rider as he reached the bottom of the hill and rode toward them.

  When approximately within fifty yards, the stranger brought his rifle up to his shoulder. At the same moment the rifle cracked, she realized the man was Yellow Hand. She heard herself scream as she saw the bullet rip into Sore Hand’s chest and the old Nez Perce was knocked over backward. Frozen by the horror she had just witnessed, she stood stone still for a few moments before gathering her senses enough to turn and run back toward the waterfall. Yellow Hand galloped after her.

  He easily overtook her before she had covered half the distance to the water. With his rawhide whip, he trapped the running girl’s ankles, causing her to trip and stumble to the ground. Yellow Hand was off his horse and upon her in a flash. She fought like a young mountain lion, straining and struggling against the superior strength of the Nez Perce scout. But soon it was over. She lay exhausted and helpless under him.

  When he was certain she had no strength to break away, he relaxed his grip on her wrists a li
ttle. “Do not fight. I have no desire to hurt you.”

  “Then let me go!” she spat back at him.

  “No, I will never let you go. I have come to do you a great honor. You will be my wife now.”

  “Ha!” she laughed defiantly. “I will never be your wife.” She struggled against his grip. “You talk of honor. You are a murderer. You killed Sore Hand, a member of your own tribe. He has done nothing to anger you.”

  “He was in my way. Besides, he was an old man. He would have died soon, anyway.”

  His comment made her furious and she once again summoned strength to struggle against her imprisonment. He squeezed down hard on her wrists, merely smiling at her futile struggles. “I am a patient man. You will see that it is the best thing for you to be my wife. I can give you many things your Cheyenne dog cannot. I am the number one scout at the fort. You will be proud to be my woman.”

  “I would die first. I would rather mate with a coyote than go to your tipi.”

  He smiled. “We will see. As I said, I am a patient man, but don’t think I will not punish you if you disobey me. Now, get up.” He got off of her and pulled her to her feet. She attempted to kick him between his legs, but he avoided her foot and gave her a hard slap for her trouble.

  Refusing to cry out, she stared defiantly into his eyes. “You are a dead man,” she hissed. “Little Wolf will find you and kill you.”

  He laughed, showing his contempt for the Cheyenne warrior. “He is a dead man if he tries to follow us. He had better pray that the soldiers get him before I do. His death will be slow and painful if I catch him.”

  Yellow Hand knew it was unreasonable, but still he had hoped the woman would realize Little Wolf had no future and she would come willingly. There was no uncertainty about her feelings, however. She had already made them quite apparent. So he felt he had no choice but to bind her hands and feet to her pony to prevent her from escaping. He felt that, in time, she would eventually weaken in her defiance and become a proper wife to him. But if she didn’t, he would keep her tied to a stake, if that’s what it took. His passion for this woman was strong, and he could not abide the thought of another man having her.

  Rain Song sat silently on her pony while Yellow Hand tied Sore Hand’s horse on a line behind his. She looked at the body of the old Nez Perce who had lived with her and Little Wolf ever since they first came to the Bitterroot country. His body looked small and frail, lying in the lush grass of the streambanks. When Yellow Hand had finished tying off the spare horse and had climbed up on his own, she spoke.

  “Aren’t you at least going to bury him? He is a Nez Perce, like you, one of your own people.”

  “I don’t have time to waste on that old man. The buzzards and the coyotes will perform his burial ceremony for him.” He kicked his horse hard and led them off down the narrow ravine.

  * * *

  Brice Paxton reined up and raised his hand to bring the patrol to a halt. Sergeant Baskin pulled up beside him. “What is it, Sir?”

  Brice pointed toward a low ridge off to their left where one of the Nez Perce scouts had just appeared, riding on a course that would intercept the column. “Looks like he might have found something.”

  Brice ordered the patrol to resume the march at a walk to meet the scout. In a few minutes, the scout was within shouting distance and Brice called out, “Yellow Hand!” and pointed back toward the top of the ridge. He rode to meet the column. When the scout had closed the distance between them, he told Brice that he had found Yellow Hand and that Yellow Hand had discovered the Cheyenne’s camp.

  Brice led the column at a full gallop, following the scout back toward the ridge. Near the top, they found the other two Nez Perces talking to Yellow Hand. Yellow Hand walked his pony to meet the lieutenant when he saw the column making its way up to him.

  “Is it true?” Brice wanted to know. “Did you find Little Wolf’s camp?” Yellow Hand nodded. “Is he there?”

  “Not there,” Yellow Hand replied. “Old man,” he struggled to put his words into English, “old man there, fight. I kill him.”

  Brice was confused. “Old man? Little Wolf was not there? Was the woman there?”

  Yellow Hand shook his head. “No woman there.”

  “Well, how the hell do you know it was Little Wolf’s camp?”

  Yellow Hand’s expression remained unchanged. He solemnly nodded his head up and down and said, “It Little Wolf’s camp. Old man friend of Little Wolf.”

  Brice looked at Sergeant Baskin. “I don’t know, Sergeant. Whaddaya think?”

  Baskin shrugged. “I don’t know either. Yellow Hand’s the best we got. He’s probably right, and if he is, maybe we can set up a little welcoming party for Little Wolf when he comes back.”

  Brice was mildly surprised when Yellow Hand balked at leading the column to the Cheyenne’s camp. Instead, he gave the Nez Perce scouts detailed directions so they could find the camp. He insisted that Colonel Wheaton gave him specific orders to continue scouting for the renegade on his own. This made no sense to Brice. If he was certain the camp was Little Wolf’s, then it figured that was the place to catch him and the woman. Brice was not alone in questioning Yellow Hand’s reasoning. One of the other Nez Perce scouts seemed to be arguing the point with him as well. In the end, Yellow Hand remained stoically intent on going off on his own, saying that Little Wolf may or may not return to the camp. If he didn’t, Yellow Hand might strike his trail somewhere else. He insisted that he needed only one man to ride with him, pointing to the scout known simply as Hump, the cousin of Yellow Hand.

  “Well, go on then,” Brice said. “Are you sure these two scouts can find the camp?”

  “They find,” was Yellow Hand’s curt reply before leaping upon his pony’s back and riding off across the ridge. Hump, ever somber and expressionless, wheeled his pony and galloped after him.

  Brice stood for a moment watching the departing scouts. “What the hell was that all about? You think ol’ Yellow Hand might be a little afraid of meeting up with this Cheyenne?”

  Baskin shook his head. “Naw, I doubt it, not Yellow Hand. He’s just got a briar up his butt about something. Who knows?”

  It was not a briar on Yellow Hand’s mind, but a Cheyenne flower, securely tied to a tree in a wooded canyon some three miles distant from where the column now stood. He was intent upon having the woman, and he feared that if the lieutenant knew she was a captive, he would order Yellow Hand to give her up.

  * * *

  Rain Song pulled against the rawhide as hard as she could. She strained until blood ran down her arms from the cuts caused by the tough thongs around her wrists. Still she struggled until the rawhide became slippery with her blood. It was no use. Yellow Hand had done his work well. She could not free herself. Frustrated and exhausted, she lay back against the rough bark of the pine. It had been hours since the Nez Perce scout had tied her to the tree and ridden off to intercept the soldiers. The sun was well past its high point and sinking closer to the mountaintops.

  She had had nothing to eat or drink since she had been abducted, but her thoughts were not of food or water. Her soul called out for Little Wolf. He must come, for she feared Yellow Hand meant to carry her far away. In her despair, huge tears began to form in her dark eyes, slowly welling over until they were pushed down her cheeks, leaving long streaks in the dusty film that had covered her face.

  Suddenly he was there. Walking his pony through the curtain of pines, Yellow Hand pulled up before her. Behind him, another man followed. Yellow Hand sat looking at her for a moment before dismounting to stand over her. She stared defiantly at him, refusing to cower before him. He reached for the canteen on his saddlehorn.

  “Drink.”

  She did not refuse, and drank eagerly from the canteen held to her lips. He let her drink until she pulled away and leaned back against the tree again. He replaced the canteen and knelt beside her, his face close to hers.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you tied, but it was
necessary to save you from the soldiers.” His eyes searched hers for some sign of gratitude. There was none. “You won’t have to worry or be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of you. You will be my wife. The soldiers won’t harm you if you are my wife.”

  “Little Wolf will come for me. He’ll kill you for what you have done.”

  “Ha! Little Wolf is dead!” He rocked back on his heels, his face displaying the disdain he held for the Cheyenne warrior.

  Her eyes opened wide, shocked by his blunt retort. “Little Wolf is dead?” she almost screamed. “I don’t believe you. Little Wolf is not dead!”

  Yellow Hand smiled, then nodded solemnly. “He is dead,” he lied. It was not really untrue, he told himself, for there was little doubt that the Cheyenne renegade soon would be. He, Yellow Hand, had found Little Wolf’s camp and the Cheyenne warrior was sure to come back for his woman. When he did, he would find Lieutenant Paxton waiting for him with twenty soldiers. It was best now if she thought he was already dead, for the sooner she would accept it, the sooner she would turn to Yellow Hand to care for her. He glanced at Hump, who was now seated on a dead log, watching the confrontation but seemingly disinterested in what was being said. It was of no concern to him what Yellow Hand did with this woman.

  Yellow Hand took her hands in his and examined her bloody wrists. “You have hurt yourself. That was foolish. You will soon learn that you are my woman now.” He attempted to embrace her but she pulled away from him as far as her bonds allowed.

  “Do not touch me! I am Little Wolf’s wife!”

  “Not anymore!” he shot back, his patience strained, his attempted gentle approach having failed. “The Cheyenne dog is dead. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.” He took her by her shoulders and shook her violently. “You are my wife now!”

  Still glaring defiantly, she said nothing then. After a moment, she lowered her head and cried silent tears. He watched her carefully for a few minutes, thinking it best to let her exhaust her defiance. After a while, when she had remained calm and quiet, he decided she was at last resigned to her fate. Taking his scalping knife, he cut the thongs from her feet. When she made no effort to move, he cut her wrists free as well. Then he took a couple of steps back and stood watching her.