“Now I’m gonna tell you gentlemen how things is gonna be around here until I’m done with what I come for. I’m taking over the jail to hold that little Injun woman until her buck comes after her. I don’t expect no interference from any of you good citizens. The reason I’m taking it over is that I don’t see nobody in this town that can stop me.” He paused, shifting his piercing gaze on each man in succession. “Unless one of you gentlemen want to object right now.” He dropped his hand to rest on the handle of his pistol. “No? I didn’t figure. Well, there’s five of you and only one of me.” He took a step backward to give himself some room. “That ‘pears to me to be about the right odds. We can settle this thing right now.”
To a man, the committee froze. Not one among them had the nerve to stand up to the ominous hulk before them. It was painfully clear to the town council that what some had feared might happen after the death of Franklin Bowers had come to pass. Even if Bowers was still here, he could not have stood up to this fearsome maverick. For a long moment no one spoke. The men of Medicine Creek stood immobile in shocked silence. The imposing figure stared unblinking at Arvin Gilbert, a slight smile returning to split his dingy whiskers. Finally, Reverend Norsworthy broke the silence.
“There’s no need to threaten violence, Mr. Tobin. We’re all civilized men here. At least I certainly hope we are. We’re not looking for any trouble. We just wanted to talk this over.”
Tobin relaxed. His lips parted in a wide grin, exposing a row of dingy brown teeth. “Why now, that’s more like it. I knew you gents wasn’t lookin’ for any trouble. And as long as nobody gits in my way, there won’t be any.” Again Tobin let his gaze fix on each man individually for a few seconds. “I’m a fair man. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since you ain’t got one, I’ll fill in for your sheriff for a while. Then, if some drunken saddletramp steps over the line, why I’d be more than pleased to bust his skull for ya. How’s that for being neighborly?”
This seemed to animate the frozen committee once more, triggering a great deal of nodding and gestures of agreement. Moments before there had been a wolf at the door. Now the wolf had offered not to eat them. Arvin Gilbert was the first to reply.
“Well, that does change things a mite at that. I mean, with you offering to act as sheriff, it’s only fittin’ you use the jail.” He looked around at his fellow councilmen and received nods of approval. There was an almost audible sigh of relief for the salvation of their dignity.
“Good, then.” Tobin almost looked genial. “Now I take it this here meeting is over.” He started to enter the jail, then paused. “As part of my pay, I’ll take my meals in the saloon, and you can feed my prisoner. Two meals a day ought to be enough for her. I’ll need three, sometimes more if I’m real hungry.” He stood there a moment longer to see if there were any objections. There were none.
The committee abruptly turned on their heels and made for the saloon, no one saying a word until they had passed the barbershop and were practically at the door of the saloon. Only then did Blanton feel safe to object.
“Well I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel like we just got buffaloed.”
Arvin shook his head slowly. “Henry, I’d say we’re lucky he didn’t decide to shoot up the whole town.”
“Lucky?” Henry blurted. “Maybe you feel lucky. But I’m the one’s got to feed that big son of a bitch. How about that? And I’m expecting the town to pay for that. I ain’t gonna take him to raise.”
“I reckon we’ll handle it the same as when Bowers held a prisoner. It won’t be all your expense.” He shot an accusing look at Blanton. “Although you could damn sure afford it. You make more money than anybody else in town.”
Things were different around the little settlement in the valley now that the jail was occupied by the strange visitor and his Indian prisoner. There was a sinister cloud that seemed to hover over the entire town, entirely due to the presence of this one man. While Tobin made no outward attempts to intimidate the citizens of Medicine Creek, they were intimidated just the same. It was akin to living in a cave with a rattlesnake. You knew if you riled the snake he would surely strike. So it was best to avoid the snake if possible. Consequently, Tobin went his own way in peace, almost in a vacuum, because most of what he saw of the people of Medicine Creek was the back of their britches as they darted around corners whenever he walked the street. This was the kind of fear and respect Tobin appreciated. He knew the town was his for the taking and he began to give that notion serious thought. First, however, was the business with Little Wolf.
Tobin’s prisoner sat alone in a corner of her cell for most of every day. She was provided a bucket for her toilet and twice a day a boy from the saloon brought her a plate of food. True to his word, Tobin did not bother her. In fact, he barely spoke to her. Even when checking on her, which he did several times during the day and sometimes at night, he rarely spoke. It was as if he was merely checking the bait in his trap to make sure it had not spoiled. Rain Song feared this man. She found herself torn between hoping Little Wolf found her and praying that he didn’t. She feared what might happen if Little Wolf fell victim to this great bear that held her captive. She never doubted her husband’s strength and cunning, and no one ever questioned Little Wolf’s courage. But this man Tobin was not like any other man she had ever seen. He was not only ruthless, he was powerful and possessed a cunning in his own right, like the gray wolf and the coyote. As much as her soul ached for Little Wolf, she feared for his safety. Maybe it was best he never found out she was alive, and was on his way to Canada and safety.
15
It had taken only a few days of searching before Little Wolf found the last encampment site of Wounded Bear’s band. He studied signs that told of the standoff that took place between the Nez Perces and the soldiers. It was more difficult to find the trail he was intent on discovering—that of a single horse carrying double. Amid all the tracks left behind by the Indian ponies and the cavalry, it seemed impossible to distinguish between them and tracks that might have been left by Hump’s pony. Still he searched doggedly, examining every possible sign. Discouraged, he sat down to think the situation over. Then he remembered—Blue Otter had told him that Hump had come to take Rain Song away when they had camped the night before the soldiers caught up with them. He leaped on his pony and galloped back, along the obvious trail the Nez Perces had taken.
The trail led him to another grassy valley and a wide stream. The blackened circles in the grass told him this was where Wounded Bear had camped. As before, he started searching for the single set of tracks that would show him the trail Hump had taken after leaving with Rain Song. After considering and rejecting the various comings and goings of single sets of prints, he decided on a trail of prints in the soft sand of the creek bank. The tracks were deep, indicating a heavier than usual load. If they had been leading toward the camp, instead of away from it, he might have rejected them as those of a hunter carrying a deer. His instincts told him these were the tracks he sought.
Within a mile of the next campsite, circling buzzards led him to Hump’s body. The huge, grotesque birds were making short work of the army scout’s carcass, and Little Wolf had to chase them away with his whip in order to take a look for himself. There was just enough left for him to make a guess that this was the remains of the Indian Blue Otter had called Hump.
He looked from the body to two small saplings where two lengths of rawhide lay, evidence that someone had cut them. Rain Song had been tied there. He had to choke back the emotion that threatened to overflow when his mind formed the picture of his wife lying there. He forced himself to keep his mind on the business of tracking. He backed away from Hump’s carcass and let the buzzards finish their meal.
At least he was confident Rain Song was still alive. But someone else had killed Hump and taken her. The bear-sized tracker who had followed him came to mind at once. When Little Wolf last saw him, he was headed in the general direction that could have led him to this
spot. So now he would be trailing two horses. He stood up and peered out across the meadow toward the mountains as if hoping to see Rain Song. The trail led out down the valley toward the south. Medicine Creek, he thought.
Little Wolf rode across a valley floor that danced in the morning breezes rushing through the mountain pass. Tall yellow blossoms waved like golden spears, reaching as high as his pony’s chest and parting before the two horses as they loped along. It appeared that the trail led toward a sheer rock wall at the end of the valley, with no outlet. Still, the trail did not waver. Little Wolf decided the man he followed knew where he was going. It was not the trail of a man who was unfamiliar with the country, wavering in around the rocky bluffs, searching for a way through the mountains. As he suspected, when he was practically boxed in by the bluffs’ stone walls, he discovered a forceful stream that raced through a narrow corridor of solid rock, leading off to the west. If he had not been following a trail across the grassy valley, there was doubt that he would have ever discovered the stream.
Little Wolf reined up for a few moments, studying the narrow passage. The tracks led into the water. He looked to each side of the passage. The walls were solid rock and extended up more than a hundred feet before tapering away to form ledges thick with pine and spruce. It was barely wide enough to allow a horse to pass. He hesitated but a moment more, then nudged his pony gently with his heels and entered the water.
The sides of the stone passage were damp and cold, having seldom seen the sun. The water seemed to gather intensity as it was forced through the narrow confines, causing it to roar like a waterfall and send up clouds of fine mist that engulfed his horses. He looked up at the thin ribbon of blue sky, a hundred feet above him, and the thought occurred to him that a man would be helpless against ambush in this place. There was no room to turn around and go back. Several times his horse nearly stumbled on the slippery rocky stream bottom, causing his packhorse to run up on him. Little Wolf wondered if perhaps he had been fooled and might be riding into a trap. No, he told himself, the horses he followed had come this way so there had to be a way out.
After about a hundred yards, the passage began to open up and pretty soon he saw sunlight ahead. Moments later, he emerged from a wide ravine into broad daylight. He paused to look back the way he had come, at the narrow crack through the base of the mountain, then up at the crest high above. The man knew where he was going—it would have taken the best part of the day to work up and over the mountain. It served to trigger a warning in Little Wolf’s mind. He was obviously in territory the big tracker knew well.
Thoughts of an ambush disappeared when he found the trail again, leading from the water. The man he followed made no effort to disguise his tracks, leaving a plain trail across a short flat and up the gentle slope of a foothill. Down the far side of the hill, the tracks intercepted a frequently used trail that led through the mountains to Medicine Creek. There was little doubt where the big man was taking Rain Song. He nudged his pony to pick up the pace. Medicine Creek was no more than a day’s ride away.
* * *
“What’s all the fuss about?” Arvin Gilbert wanted to know as he walked up to the bar in Blanton’s Saloon. He was looking toward the back of the saloon, where several men seemed to be arguing.
Henry Blanton shook his head impatiently. “Johnny Blevins,” was all he offered, knowing that was explanation enough for Arvin. Johnny was as friendly and reasonable a man as you’d want when he was sober, which was most of the time. A hard-working man trying to scratch a living out of the soil, Johnny let the hard times get the best of him from time to time. When that happened, he usually rode into Medicine Creek to drown his troubles in Blanton’s cheapest whiskey. Sometimes he got a little bit rowdy, and Franklin Bowers would lock him up and let him sleep it off. Johnny was always remorseful the next day and made his apologies before riding back to his farm.
Arvin and Henry ignored the loud bursts of conversation from the back table while Arvin had his evening drink before going home to supper. As it usually did in recent days, the conversation worked its way around to the new resident in the town jail.
“How long do you suppose we’re gonna have that damn grizzly laying around the jail, gittin’ fat on my grub?”
Arvin shrugged. “I don’t know. It don’t look like he’s accomplishing a helluva lot, does it?” He took a sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Of course, you know you can go down there and politely tell him to move on.”
“Did I say I was tired of livin’?” Blanton snorted. “Seriously, Arvin, he’s running up a helluva bill. I ain’t never knowed a man could eat that much. We’re gonna have to do something about him. I sure don’t want him taking root around here.”
Arvin was about to reply when the voices at the back table raised to a shouting match. “Looks like Johnny’s getting riled up again.” He had no sooner said it when both men were suddenly startled by a gunshot. “Damn!” Arvin yelled and both men jumped.
Henry ducked behind the bar. When no more shots followed, he slowly raised his eyes high enough to see over the bar. Johnny was standing, though not on steady legs, his pistol in his hand. Henry glanced up at the new hole in his ceiling. “Dammit, Johnny, put that damn gun away before you kill somebody!”
Johnny turned toward Blanton, straining to focus his whiskey-glazed eyes. “I’m just tryin to have a little drink and play some cards. And I ain’t gonna stand for nobody dealing offen the bottom of the deck.” He cast an accusing eye at Bert Thompson.
Henry knew Bert wouldn’t cheat anybody. He didn’t have enough skill to deal from the bottom anyway. “I reckon you’ve had about enough to drink, Johnny. Why don’t you just go on home now?”
“I’ll go home when I’m damn good and ready,” Johnny replied harshly, and for emphasis, shot another hole in the ceiling.
“Dammit, Johnny!” Blanton shouted. He was not especially enthusiastic about taking further action. Blanton didn’t care to force the issue even though he was sure Johnny would never do any real harm. Still, a drunk with a gun in his hand was always dangerous. He turned to give Arvin an exasperated look.
“Hell,” Arvin suggested. “Why don’t we let that big side of beef earn his keep. He said he’d act as temporary sheriff.” He grinned and added, “Maybe Johnny’ll shoot him.” That seemed like a good idea to Blanton. He sent his boy down to the jail to fetch Tobin.
Tobin was not pleased to be disturbed. It was after seven o’clock and he generally liked to bed down at that hour. He started to tell Blanton’s boy to tell his daddy to go to hell, but changed his mind and decided to take care of the trouble. He found Henry and Arvin waiting for him on the walk in front of the saloon.
“Much obliged, Mr. Tobin. It ain’t much, really. It’s just Johnny Blevins. He’s had too much to drink. He don’t mean no harm. Bowers used to let him sleep it off in the jail.”
Tobin met Blanton’s remarks with a bored stare. Without saying a word, he brushed past the two men and pushed through the swinging doors. Inside, he paused only a moment to look the situation over. His rifle in his hand, his smoldering gaze came to fix on Johnny Blevins, who was still standing at the table. Although he still had his pistol in his hand, it was hanging down, pointed at the floor, and he appeared to have calmed down quite a bit. Tobin moved deliberately to the back table and confronted Johnny.
“Drop that damn pistol,” Tobin demanded.
Johnny looked at the giant man as if only then discovering his presence. The puzzled look on Johnny’s face was evidence that he was too drunk to know he was still holding a gun. Tobin didn’t give second warnings. Faster than anyone there could believe a man that size could move, he brought his rifle barrel down on Johnny’s forearm with so much force, the bone was clearly heard to snap. The gun clattered on the plank floor. Johnny screamed and clutched his broken arm, completely sobered by the pain. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he made no move to defend himself. Tobin didn’t give him the chance to surrender. W
hile Johnny was bent over in agony, his right arm dangling limp and useless, Tobin smashed the rifle barrel up against the side of Johnny’s head, laying open a long gash. Johnny went down in a heap. He had barely hit the floor when the toe of Tobin’s boot landed squarely against his ribs, rolling him over against a table leg. Johnny expelled a loud, painful grunt as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Unable to defend himself, he tried to crawl under the table to escape his attacker. With one hand, Tobin flipped the table over and sent it crashing against the wall. With the other hand, he set in with the rifle, raining one powerful blow after another upon the back and head of the helpless man. Johnny tried to cover his head with his arms but soon the relentless beating rendered him unconscious and he went limp on the floor, no longer responding to each heavy blow of Tobin’s rifle. Still Tobin hammered away at the unresisting lump of flesh. It appeared he was intent upon breaking every bone in the unfortunate man’s body. At last he stopped, long after Johnny was reduced to nothing more than a bloody pile on the barroom floor.
The barroom was filled with a stunned silence. Not a man moved—no one dared, afraid the terrifying brute might turn his wrath upon him. The horror of the terrible beating was etched on each man’s face as they stood silently staring in disbelief at the broken body of Johnny Blevins. Tobin turned to face the patrons of the saloon. Arvin was shocked to see there was no longer any trace of fury reflected in the giant man’s face. Quite the opposite, Tobin’s eyes were clear and his features calm. The man was as cool as a cucumber, and it frightened Arvin even more.
Medicine Creek Page 20