Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  Just as Tobin expected, Little Wolf doubled back until he struck the old hunting trail he had originally started on, toward the country of the Kutenai. The tracks were not easy to follow in some places, but he was always able to pick up some sign farther along on the trail. That is, until he eventually realized there had been no sign for the last mile or so. He found himself staring into a wide valley with a long narrow lake and absolutely no sign that a man with four horses had passed that way. Dumbfounded, he realized that he didn’t know for certain where Little Wolf was.

  “That son of a bitch,” he mumbled, almost stunned by the knowledge that he may have been outfoxed again. It was especially galling to Tobin to accept the fact that he was reduced to guessing on the direction Little Wolf had taken. He had been so cocksure of his man. Now he was more determined than ever to add this trophy scalp to his string. Without a trail to follow, Tobin had no choice but to follow his hunch and strike out for the settlement of Medicine Creek.

  From a ridge on the north side of the mountain, Little Wolf sat, an interested observer of the befuddled man on the buckskin pony in the valley below him. The huge man was an excellent tracker and Little Wolf had attempted to lose him if possible. But he also decided that if his ruse to lead him off to the west didn’t work, he had no choice but to kill him. He had figured the big man correctly, knowing that if he made it too easy to follow him, Tobin would become suspicious. Content now that he was free of the man, Little Wolf climbed on his horse and started out north to Canada once more.

  * * *

  Blue Otter, strong in his resolve to live as a free man in the old ways of his father and grandfather, was beginning to question the wisdom in that decision. Perhaps he should have returned to Lapwai with Wounded Bear. His wife, Quill, and her sister were near exhaustion, their feet sore and bleeding from two days straight of walking along the rocky ledges and down through an endless line of waterless gulches. He had chosen to travel the high country where the soldiers’ horses could not follow. But he had paid a price for it in the toll the journey had taken on the women and child. He himself was sore and heavy of limb.

  At last, they crossed over the last ridge that separated them from a wide valley where they might rest. Although their throats were parched from thirst, they stopped near the summit of the ridge to catch their breath before descending through the belt of pines and spruce that girded the mountain. It would take at least an hour to make their way down the mountain to the meadow below, but at the end of that hour there would be water and a place to rest in the willow thickets, and maybe even time to hunt, for they had not eaten since the day before.

  * * *

  Little Wolf remained still as stone. His bow raised, the arrow sighted on a young black-tailed deer, he drew the bowstring back slowly, paused a fraction of a second, then released it. The arrow flew straight to its mark, close behind the animal’s front leg, sinking deep in its ribcage. The young buck was staggered by the impact of the missile, but righted himself in a moment and managed to take three great bounds before crashing to the ground. He struggled to regain his feet, taking several more faltering steps before falling for the final time. Little Wolf was upon him quickly and ended the animal’s misery with his knife.

  He gutted and bled the deer. Then, carrying the carcass on his shoulders, he made his way back to the trees where his horse was tied. After loading the deer on his horse, Little Wolf started back to his camp, holding to the slope and the cover of the trees. He was about to emerge from the pines and go down to the stream when he pulled his horse up suddenly. Had he not been vigilant by habit, he might have missed the flicker of movement in a willow clump near the water’s edge.

  Little Wolf immediately slid off his pony and tied the animal to a tree limb. Making his way down to the edge of the meadow, he positioned himself behind a fallen tree where he could watch the willow thicket. His eyes had not deceived him. He could now see that there were three women, or two women and a child perhaps, hiding deep in the willows. He glanced quickly around the valley. There were no horses. Little wonder he had not seen them before. Two women and a child on foot was strange indeed. Where were their men? They were Indians—of that he was certain. But what could they be doing out here in the mountains, many days’ travel from any village? He decided to watch them for a while.

  He had not waited long before he saw a solitary Indian man, loping slowly across the upper end of the little valley on foot. He carried a rifle and a small animal over his shoulder. From a distance, it appeared to be a rabbit or possibly a marmot. But Little Wolf was sure of one thing—the man had not had much luck with his hunting. Little Wolf had not heard a rifle shot, so he concluded the man was just as reluctant to announce his presence in the valley as he was. He probably killed the animal with a stone, he thought.

  Little Wolf continued to watch the little group as the man entered the thicket. The excited reception the man received from the women told Little Wolf that the people were evidently short of food. It was apparent they were in a desperate state, probably escaping a reservation. If they were intent on running to Canada as he was, it was going to be a long, hard way on foot.

  * * *

  Quill got to her feet and took the rabbit from her husband. Her sister fed more limbs to the fire to bring it to a flame. Blue Otter shook his head as if to apologize although he said nothing.

  “It will be all right,” Quill reassured him. “It will be enough to give us strength. And tomorrow, maybe you will find something bigger.”

  Blue Otter nodded solemnly. “We need food. Tomorrow I may have to go up in the hills and take a chance on shooting the gun.”

  As the sun settled behind the hills to the west, and the valley gradually cloaked itself in shadows, the three adults lay about the tiny fire, watching the child suck the last bit of nourishment from the bones of the rabbit. Blue Otter’s heart was sad, but he resolved to make a better day of it tomorrow. Quill sat staring into the glowing coals and wondered about the fate of her father and mother, who had been taken back to Lapwai by the soldiers. Then her thoughts returned to her own plight and the ordeal facing her sister and herself. King George’s land was a strange and faraway place. She wondered if they would make it. In the land of the Salish now, they had to journey through Blackfoot and Pend d’Oreille country. Would they find hospitable people there? Or would they be killed, or turned over to the soldiers?

  Thinking her husband had made a noise, she looked up from the fire. She gasped uncontrollably, her heart in her throat. A man was standing there at the edge of the firelight, seeming as tall as the willow behind him and as wide as a grizzly. Hearing her gasp, Blue Otter turned to see what had caused her terror. He sprang to his hands and knees and attempted to scramble to his rifle, which was leaning against a tree trunk. The towering spectre stopped him with no more than a casual motion with the rifle in his hand. Blue Otter knew there was no chance.

  “Have no fear,” Little Wolf said. “I have come as a friend.” He stepped into the circle of light and they could now see that what had appeared to be the huge shoulders of a monster was, in fact, the carcass of a deer draped across his shoulders. Little Wolf let the animal drop to the ground.

  As the two women set immediately into the butchering, Blue Otter stood up to welcome their benefactor. After expressing his gratitude for the deer, he told their visitor that they were Nez Perce and were trying to make their way to Canada. He looked up at the stranger towering a head taller than he, and did not have to wait for Little Wolf to introduce himself. “You are the white Cheyenne.”

  “My name is Little Wolf. I am Cheyenne.”

  They sat beside the fire and talked while the meat roasted over the flames. When Little Wolf heard Blue Otter’s recounting of their journey, he scarcely could believe his ears. Blue Otter told him of the Cheyenne woman Hump had brought to Wounded Bear’s tipi, how Broken Wing had taken care of her wounds. He then told of her flight from Lapwai with Wounded Bear’s family, thinking Little Wolf was
dead.

  “I thought she was dead too,” Little Wolf interrupted.

  Blue Otter nodded understanding. “She was sure that must have been the reason you did not come for her.” He went on to tell of the abduction of Rain Song by the evil Hump. Then he told of the attack by the soldiers and their subsequent escape. “It has been hard. As you can see, we are weak and hungry. And there is still a long way to go.”

  “Rain Song, where is she now?” He tried to remain calm but the tremble in his voice revealed his apprehension.

  “I cannot be sure, but Hump often lives on the reservation. He and Yellow Hand never stayed at the fort with the other scouts.”

  Little Wolf’s first impulse, upon hearing that Rain Song was alive, was to leap on his pony’s back right then and find her. He knew he could not, however. He would have to wait until morning light. He stayed to eat with them, then got up to leave. “I must leave and prepare to go after this man Hump. I’ll be back in the morning before I go.”

  “Good,” Blue Otter responded. “We will finish the deer in the morning.”

  At first light the following morning, Little Wolf appeared as suddenly as he had the night before. This time he was leading four horses. “I must go after my wife now. I wish you well on your journey to King George’s land. You have a long way ahead of you, too far to walk. I’ll leave you these four horses. I won’t need even a packhorse. They are a strong breed, as you well know. They will carry you to your freedom.” In an effort to stem an overwhelming flow of gratitude from the destitute Nez Perces, he insisted that five horses would only slow him down now that he must travel fast.

  Blue Otter thanked him profusely anyway, knowing that the white Cheyenne may have saved their lives. He recognized one of the horses, but did not comment. It was Yellow Hand’s pony. They parted company then, the Nez Perces to the north toward Canada, the Cheyenne back the way he had come to find Hump.

  14

  Tobin grumbled to himself as he prodded the weary buckskin along. He had been in a black mood ever since realizing that the man he hunted could be anywhere between here and the Divide. He continued on this old Salish trail because his instincts told him the Cheyenne was heading back to Medicine Creek. The buckskin stumbled and Tobin lashed out at him, laying his whip across the exhausted horse’s rump. Even a man with Tobin’s scarcity of compassion had to relent eventually and let his horse rest, if only to prevent being set afoot. So, reluctantly, he made his camp for the night.

  There still being a full hour of daylight left, he climbed up to the crest of the ridge before him to take a look at the country that lay ahead. From this higher vantage point, he could see the narrow ribbon through the trees ahead that indicated the trail he intended to follow in the morning. He turned and peered intently at the trail behind him, then to the east and west. There was nothing in any direction that might indicate there was another living soul within miles of where he stood. He grunted his displeasure and turned to retrace his steps to his camp below. That was when he saw it. It was no more than a gray wisp, a single, slender smoky thread, drifting up to be caught in the evening breeze. He locked his gaze on the slender ribbon, staring intently at it until he was sure of what he saw. There could be little doubt it was a small campfire, one a man would make if he didn’t want to attract attention.

  A wide smile, more nearly resembling a grimace, spread across Tobin’s grizzled features, certain his instincts had been right. He remained staring at the thin line of smoke for a few minutes, judging the distance. Two miles at the most, he calculated. He glanced back at his weary horse, pulling at the grass around the cotton woods. “Damn!” he uttered, for he knew he would be pushing a dead horse if he tried to ride him now. He looked back at the smoke. “Hell, I can walk two miles.”

  Making his way back down the hill as quickly as he could, he was already thinking of the pleasure it would bring him to pay Little Wolf a little visit that night. “Thought you was pretty slick,” he mumbled, the smile still etched across his hairy face. Tobin figured he could cover the distance between them before dark if he didn’t tarry. From habit, he checked his rifle and pistol. Then, leading his horse, he set out on foot.

  * * *

  Rain Song lay on her side, her legs drawn up under her protectively. Her legs were not bound but her hands were tied, each one to a separate sapling so that they were about a foot apart. He had gone to hunt, but she made no effort to free herself. She knew it was useless. She had strained against her bonds as soon as he left, but to no avail. Now she lay exhausted from the effort, knowing what was sure to come when Hump returned.

  Thanks to Broken Wing’s efforts to convince the dull-witted brute that Rain Song was still too weak from her wound to be of any use to him, Hump permitted her to rest for a couple of days, content to appease his lust with an occasional crude groping of her body. Although she endeavored to feign illness, he, even with his slow mind, would be put off no longer. The thought of a union with the hulking savage was enough to send her mind reeling. But, knowing she was helpless to prevent it, she tried to strengthen her resolve to withstand his abuse. She was determined to live through whatever happened, for now she knew that Little Wolf was still alive. She heard a horse approaching and a tear slowly seeped from her eye and traced a path down her cheek.

  Hump threw the carcass of a small deer on the ground and dismounted. He dragged it over and held it up for her to see. “You see, no one is a better hunter than me. I will also be a better husband than your white Cheyenne.” He pulled the carcass back by the fire. “I will butcher the meat. Then you will cook it. After we eat, we will make love.”

  The thought sent a cold shiver the length of Rain Song’s spine, but she tried not to show her fear. “I am still too weak. I would not be good for you. It would be better to wait.”

  “No!” Hump roared. “I am tired of waiting. I think you are lying to me. I think you are not weak anymore. First, I will have food, then I will have you.” He hacked away angrily at the deer carcass, cutting off strips of flesh to be roasted over the fire. Hump was slow of wit but he would be fooled no longer. He had lived alone for so long, due to his inability to convince any woman to live with him, that he naturally prepared the meat himself. He placed it on branches to hold over the fire, forgetting that he had just told the woman she would cook it. As he worked, he glanced often at the woman lying helpless before him. From the lust in his eyes, there was no disguising the thoughts that dwelled in his simple mind. Rain Song swallowed hard to choke back a sob. She tried not to think of Little Wolf because she was ashamed for him to know what was about to happen to her.

  He sat watching her while the meat cooked. His mind was of a single thought beyond filling his stomach. He had waited for her since Yellow Hand’s death and now he would have her. She answered his stare with only fleeting, fearful glances. The horror he saw in her eyes only served to heighten his pleasure and increase his desire for her. He was somewhat puzzled when her eyes seemed to fix on him and grew wide with alarm. Confused, he realized too late that she was staring at something behind him. He turned to stare into the barrel of a Winchester rifle. A split second later, part of his brain was spattered on the feet of the woman tied to the sapling behind him.

  Rain Song screamed, certain the next bullet would come her way. There was no second shot, however, as the hulking man dressed in animal skins calmly dragged Hump’s body closer to the fire and turned him face down. Without speaking, he sat down on Hump’s body and pulled a strip of the roasting meat from the fire. After he had eaten most of the skewered meat, he glanced at Rain Song, seeming to notice her for the first time.

  “Well, little missy, it don’t appear to me you was too anxious to mate with your boyfriend here.” He laughed, enjoying his joke. “Can’t say the same for him, though. He was so busy lookin’ at you, he didn’t have no time to pay attention to the likes of me.” He laughed again, a deep, hollow laugh. “I reckon that cost him.”

  Rain Song was terrified. She had dr
eaded the abuse she was bound to receive at the hands of Hump. But this new menace made her blood run cold. His dark eyes, set back behind heavy scowling brows, seemed to dissect her with their steady gaze. The huge man looked her over from head to toe. She could almost feel his touch as he examined every inch of her without ever leaving his seat on Hump’s corpse. There was an aura of death about him, and she feared she would not see another sunrise.

  Finished with his supper at last, he wiped the grease from his hands, using his shirt for a towel. Releasing a loud belch that sounded like the bawling of a buffalo calf calling for his mama, he swung one leg around so that he straddled Hump’s body. From that position, he calmly drew a long skinning knife from his belt. Taking a handful of the dead Nez Perce’s hair, he yanked his head up and neatly scalped him. Rain Song looked away.

  Tobin laughed. The scalping done, he got to his feet and walked around the fire to stand directly over the terrified woman. “Now lemme see,” he started, stroking his chin whiskers as if thinking on it real hard. “I reckon I can guess who you might be. You ain’t who I expected, though, when I seen your smoke back yonder.” He bent down to get a closer look. She tried to draw away from him. “You ain’t Nez Perce, that’s fer damn shore.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “Cheyenne, ain’tcha?” The look in her eyes told him he had guessed correctly. “You ain’t dead after all. No ma’am, I wasn’t expectin’ you—the varmint I was looking to find was your husband. But finding you might just make my job a whole bunch easier.”

  He reached down and grabbed her ankle with one huge paw. With the other hand, he flipped her skirt up to her waist. She kicked at his hand with her free leg but he caught it in his hand and held her fast by both ankles, her skirt still above her waist. She cursed and spit at him. He ignored her venom while he looked her over as callously as if examining a horse. “Yeah, I figured you to be a pretty little thing, to make a man go to all that trouble just to get you back.”