Halfway back to Lapwai, the patrol met Hump, who was on his way to rejoin the column. As stoic as ever, Hump showed little emotion when told of his cousin’s death at the hands of the Cheyenne renegade. Brice was amazed by the sullen scout’s reaction to the details of Yellow Hand’s demise. If he could have read the thoughts the news generated in the brute’s limited brain cells, he would have understood Hump’s lack of grief. The scout’s first reaction was to realize that the woman, Rain Song, was now his property, and perhaps Yellow Hand’s position as chief Indian scout as well. His eyes immediately shifted toward Charlie Rain Cloud, who would be his major competition for the job. No, there would be no mourning for Yellow Hand in Hump’s tipi.
* * *
Colonel Wheaton reluctantly cut back on the daily patrols searching for the renegade Cheyenne warrior when, day after day, his officers reported back with no contact and no trail to follow. Their Indian scouts could only shrug their shoulders and explain that they could not follow where there was no trail. On the last several patrols he had led, Brice noticed an increasing tendency to hang back on the part of the Nez Perce scouts. They seemed reluctant to venture far afield, preferring to work in closer to the column of cavalry. The scouts also tended to give up on a trail early on, arguing that it was not Little Wolf’s trail but only that of a harmless hunter. It became clear to him that the Indian scouts had come to believe Little Wolf was perhaps more than a mortal man. Finally, Charlie Rain Cloud confirmed his suspicions.
“This white Cheyenne, many people think he talks with the spirits. He has many kills, but all revenge. All who have tried to catch him are killed. Yellow Hand was killed, Yellow Hand was a mighty warrior. All the scouts at the fort feared Yellow Hand. Little Wolf killed him. People are saying maybe it is best to leave the white Cheyenne alone and let him go his own way.”
It soon became apparent to Colonel Wheaton that the morale as well as the effectiveness of his Indian scouts had become decidedly diluted, due to the existence of one man. He would have been inclined to clean the slate himself and declare the renegade gone from the territory except for one thing: General Sherman was adamant in his demand for the Cheyenne’s capture and hanging. He continued to apply pressure on Wheaton for results, and threatened to send General Howard back to do the job. Wheaton knew that it was no more than that—a threat. The one-armed general’s reputation had grown to heroic proportions since he had chased Chief Joseph’s band of Nez Perce from the Wallawa Valley. Still, the pressure from his superiors was intense enough to warrant Wheaton’s decision to invoke more desperate means. Sergeant Baskin first learned of the colonel’s desperate move from the regimental sergeant major, and he passed it along to lieutenants Paxton and Simmons.
Brice and Paul stood talking near the infantry barracks when Sergeant Baskin came out of the commissary storehouse, heading toward the kitchen. When he spotted the two officers, Baskin veered toward them,
“Well, Sir,” he started, addressing Brice, “looks like our job’s been give away. The colonel’s sent for Tobin.”
Brice raised his eyebrows, mildly curious. “Who’s Tobin?”
“Folks used to say he was the best scout around these parts. Used to ride for General Howard till they had a falling out over something to do with the way the general was chasing Chief Joseph. Folks say he’s part Injun.”
Paul snorted an amused snicker. “Is that so? Which part?”
Baskin glanced at him soberly. “The part that ain’t panther, according to what I hear.”
“Well, I guess he’ll be welcome.” This from Brice. “We could damn sure use some help.”
“Maybe,” Baskin said. “But, from what I’ve heard, Tobin ain’t any too welcome anywhere he shows up.”
“Why is that?”
Baskin shrugged. “This is just what I’ve been told, mind you. The man’s got a bone-deep mean streak. He’s supposed to be a helluva tracker, but he don’t usually come back with prisoners. Seems they most all get shot trying to escape—least that’s his side of it. And that ain’t all they say. Sergeant Becker in H Company says he killed a whore over in Lewisburg. Everybody knew it was him what done it, only they couldn’t prove it.”
11
It had been over six months since he had had any contact with the U.S. Army, and by his own choice, at that. For that matter, everything Tobin did was by his own choice. And it had been his own choice to quit his job scouting for General Howard when the general decided he was going to chase Chief Joseph over the Lolo Trail to Canada. He thought the army was wrong in chasing after that band of Nez Perce Indians. Not that Tobin had any great compassion for the Nez Perce. To the contrary, he wasn’t particularly fond of them. It was just that he thought if the damn fool Injuns wanted to go to Canada, then let ’em go the hell on to Canada. He told General Howard this and the general responded, in so many words, that it wasn’t Tobin’s business to make decisions. His job was to do as he was told. Well, that kind of attitude never did set well with Tobin, so he told the general to find him another scout to lead his little tea party.
For that reason, he was somewhat surprised when a Kutenai runner approached the Blackfoot camp where he was living, looking for him. He didn’t expect to work for the army again. For that matter, he didn’t expect the army would even be able to find him. He had lived with Kills Two Elks’s band of Blackfeet for the past several months and, since spring, they had been on the move between the mountains and the buffalo country to the east. Blackfoot was the only tribe Tobin had any use for, owing to the fact his mother was a Blackfoot—and even so, he really didn’t care much for living with his mother’s people for any length of time.
The Kutenai runner found him at the right moment, for he was getting tired of the Blackfoot camp. He might still have ignored the call for help but he was in need of some spending money, as well as ammunition for his weapons and some staples. He could live off wild meat as well as the next man, but he had a strong hankering for some beef, even maybe a little salt pork to flavor his beans.
So, when the Kutenai told him that he had been sent to find him and give him a message from Colonel Wheaton at Fort Lapwai, Tobin decided to accept the employment. According to Wheaton’s message, he was needed to track down one renegade Cheyenne after an entire regiment failed to accomplish it. “Well, that there’s my specialty,” Tobin snorted as he read the letter, “tracking down varmints.” The messenger offered to lead Tobin back but Tobin told him to go on ahead, he could find his own way to Lapwai. He preferred to travel alone. The truth of the matter was Tobin didn’t care for Kutenai any more than he did Nez Perce.
Kills Two Elks tried to persuade Tobin to stay with his band because most of the other Indians feared the huge half-breed with the bushy black whiskers, and he felt Tobin’s presence in his camp gave him a measure of prestige among his people. Tobin was well aware of this, but he didn’t give a damn about the chief’s respect. He was ready to go to work again. And so it was that he found himself on the trail leading into the Lapwai Valley a few minutes before sunset one early summer day.
* * *
Sergeant Baskin glanced up from his guard roster, his roll call having just been completed. It was the second time in three weeks that he had caught sergeant of the guard and he was about to post the guard for the night. The sheer bulk of the rider approaching from the north end of the parade ground had caught his eye and he paused to look at the man. He knew Tobin by reputation only, and had never seen him. But he knew immediately that the imposing figure riding the buckskin horse could be no other.
Walking his horse unhurriedly through the rapidly lengthening shadows from the hills to the west of the fort, Tobin rode right through the middle of Baskin’s guard formation and pulled his horse up short before the astonished sergeant.
“Where can I find Colonel Wheaton?” Tobin asked, his voice gruff and harsh.
Amazed by the big man’s sand, Baskin didn’t answer at once, but stared wide-eyed at the bulk of man before him. The bu
ckskin he rode was a light tan, almost yellow in fact, with a black mane and tail. The horse, with its wide chest and blocky body, was built to carry the load settled solidly upon his back. He stamped nervously at the flies buzzing around his hoofs.
When Baskin didn’t answer right away, Tobin’s face darkened, showing his annoyance. “You hard of hearing, sonny?”
Baskin bristled. “No, I ain’t. The colonel’s at his quarters, I reckon.” He turned and pointed to a house on the other side of the creek. “Yonder. Now I’ll ask you to get that damn horse outta the middle of my formation.”
Tobin stared back at the sergeant for a moment, his face devoid of expression. Then he glanced at the line of soldiers behind him, standing at attention. Unimpressed with the sergeant or his formation, he unhurriedly turned the buckskin in the direction pointed out to him and slowly walked toward the creek.
Baskin watched him for a few moments before turning back to the business of inspecting the guard. At almost the same time, the sun dropped behind the hills, plunging the parade ground into heavy shadows. Baskin couldn’t help but note that, with the coming of this strange man, a darkness had settled over the land.
The next day, immediately after the morning formation, Brice Paxton was summoned to Colonel Wheaton’s office. When he arrived, he found Captain Malpas and Paul Simmons already there. Seated on a stool, looking like a trained bear in a circus, was the imposing bulk of the man known only as Tobin. Brice had heard that the man was in camp, and there was no mistaking this bearlike brute for anyone else. Tobin sat on the tiny stool, looking directly at no one, his eyes staring into the distance at some faraway place that only he could see.
Wheaton started introductions around the room. As each man was introduced to the scout, Tobin shifted his gaze to each one for an instant, with but a flick of his eyes, before resuming his faraway vigil. Brice was fascinated by the trancelike indifference the scout showed to the officers there. Colonel Wheaton went on to bring Tobin up to date on all that had occurred in regard to the white Cheyenne called Little Wolf. He told him about the citizens of Medicine Creek who had been murdered, and the death of the renegade’s wife and friends. He ended up his briefing with the gruesome account of the death of his best scout, Yellow Hand.
Tobin listened with no change of expression and without comment. The other officers offered any additional information they felt was crucial. When there was no more to say, the four officers waited for the scout to acknowledge their briefing. Still in his strange trance, Tobin made no response for a long moment. Brice began to believe the man was asleep, but then the great bear roused himself.
“So you killed this buck’s wife, did you?”
They all nodded. Colonel Wheaton answered. “Yes, we believe the Indian woman was killed, although her body was never found.”
The faintest hint of a smile creased Tobin’s rough features. “And that kinda riled him a little.”
“I guess you could say that,” Brice responded, “judging by what he did to Yellow Hand.”
“Ha!” Tobin snorted. Although that was his only comment at the moment, his mind was already working on the hunt. It sounded like this buck was not going to be a simple chase and kill. This white-man-turned-Injun gave signs of being a little more crafty than the average renegade. Nothing could have pleased Tobin more. He admired a man who gave him a run for his money. It made the killing part more satisfying. And kill him he would. Of course, his instructions were to capture the man and bring him in so the army could say some words over him and then hang him. But that would all change when he met up face to face with a warrior like this Little Wolf.
Colonel Wheaton interrupted the huge man’s thoughts. “Let me know how we can help you in tracking this renegade down. You will, of course, be in the pay of the U.S. Army for as long as it takes to get him.”
“And supplies and ammunition,” Tobin inserted.
“And supplies and ammunition, of course. Fresh mounts too, and I suppose you’ll need to take along a couple of the Nez Perce scouts, maybe more, whatever you think you need.”
Tobin cocked his head, the faint smile reappeared. “Nez Perce scouts?” He rubbed his chin whiskers as if thinking on it. “Have them Injun scouts caught this feller yet?”
Wheaton was confused. “Well, no, of course not.”
“Then what the hell do I want ’em fer?”
Brice and Paul exchanged glances. Wheaton was at a loss for a moment, then said, “Suit yourself. When will you start?”
“In the morning. I’ll pick up my supplies and ammunition. I don’t need no other horses. That there buckskin is all I need. If he gives out on me, I reckon I’ll just carry him.”
No one laughed. It was unclear whether the brute of a man was joking with them. One could not tell from the expression on his face. One thing for sure, after their first meeting with the fabled tracker, not one of the officers would have bet against his being able to carry a horse on his back.
“Jesus,” Paul Simmons exclaimed after Tobin had left the adjutant’s office. “That was the damnest thing I’ve ever seen. I almost feel sorry for Little Wolf.”
Brice laughed. “Tobin’s a wild one, all right. I think Baskin might have been wrong about him. I think he’s more like ninety percent panther.”
Sergeant Baskin walked up in time to hear his lieutenant’s remark. He had been waiting outside, more than a little interested in hearing the results of the conference. “Panther or grizzly, I reckon it’s a toss-up.” He moved into the conversation, not waiting for an invitation. “Like I told you, I’ve heard some things about that cuss. Word has it he ain’t never come back empty-handed, and they’re usually belly-down across the saddle at that. If you can believe what you hear about him, the man can track a cat across a marble floor, and he’s a fair shot with a rifle or an Injun bow.”
Paul shook his head, laughing. “Now I really feel sorry for that poor damn Cheyenne. It doesn’t seem fair. Maybe we should send a couple of Nez Perce scouts out to help Little Wolf.”
* * *
Henry Blanton had his back to the door, drying some shot glasses he had just swished around a few times in the pan of water kept behind the bar for that purpose. He thought the sun must have gone behind a cloud until he turned around to discover his doorway filled with the biggest man he had ever seen.
“Damn.” The word seemed to drop out of his mouth on its own. He recovered to invite the man into his establishment and ask his pleasure. When the reply was whiskey, he immediately pulled a bottle from under the counter and filled the glass he had just polished. “Best in the house,” Blanton announced, having decided it wasn’t worth the risk to push some of the cheap stuff on the stranger.
Tobin tossed the drink down in one gulp, seemingly oblivious to the fiery trail it etched down his throat. He smacked his lips a couple of times, savoring the last glow of the flame. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning on the counter, he ignored several pairs of eyeballs staring at him from the tables behind. Blanton held the bottle up, questioning. Tobin motioned and the glass was refilled.
“You’d be Blanton, would you?”
“I’m Henry Blanton. This here’s my saloon.” Looking beyond the huge man’s shoulder to the men playing cards at a table, Blanton was met with more than one worried look. That triggered a sense of anxious concern on his part as the same thought occurred to him that had obviously struck his patrons. He stepped back a step and took another look at the stranger. Medicine Creek had been without a sheriff for some time now since Franklin Bowers was killed. It had not occurred to him until that moment that maybe their little town was plump and ripe for the picking by some desperado. And he had never seen a scarier-looking man than the bearlike brute standing before him now.
Tobin licked his lips and tossed the second drink down. After he had savored it, as he had done with the first, he laid an intimidating eye on the saloon keeper Blanton froze. “The army’s hired me to find that there rogue Cheyenne what’s
been cutting ever’one to pieces around here. Who can tell me what happened?”
There was an almost audible sigh of relief from the saloon patrons. The room, deathly quiet seconds be fore, now returned to noisy conversation as the card players realized their lives were not in immediate danger. One of the players rose from his chair and moved to the bar to address the stranger.
“I’m Arvin Gilbert. I’m the mayor of our little settlement. I’d be glad to tell you what I can about the murders.” He offered his hand, which Tobin ignored. After an awkward interval, Arvin dropped his arm and continued. “I have to say, Mister, you gave us a start for a minute there.”
“Why is that?” Tobin asked, not really interested.
“Why, because you look…” Arvin realized what he was about to say and stumbled over his words. “That is, what I meant was…” He turned to Blanton for help but Blanton turned mute at that point. “You know, we don’t get many strangers come through here and…” he trailed off.
The expression of boredom never left Tobin’s face. “You mean you thought I was going to rob you? You’re saying I look like an outlaw?”
“No, Sir!” Arvin blurted. “I didn’t mean that at all.”
“You think I look more like a parson, then?”
“Yessir…Well, nossir. I don’t know what I think. I think you look fine.”
“Shit,” Tobin grunted, finished with amusing himself for the moment. He was well aware of the effect his appearance had on most people. He enjoyed it, watching the fear in other men’s faces when he locked eyeballs with them, seeing them sweat. Having had his small portion of self gratification, he got down to the business at hand. He wanted to know as much about the murders as he could find out. He wanted to know the man he was hunting, how he operated, how he thought. If he could get inside Little Wolf’s mind, he could know where to look for him. “Well, I ain’t meaning no harm to nobody here,” he finally said.
Medicine Creek Page 14