Medicine Creek

by Charles G. West

  “Slap wore out,” Morris announced as Brice and Baskin rode up. “I found him over yonder, pulling up grass.” He pointed to a patch of tough bear grass.

  “The son of a bitch is on foot,” Baskin said, stating the obvious.

  It was encouraging news for Brice. Tobin could not be far ahead of them now. His own horses were tired, but not to the point of exhaustion. He studied the sun for a moment. That was the problem immediately facing him. There was not much time left before it would be dark between these mountains. There was no sense in fretting over it. He had little choice—he could not lead his men stumbling through the mountains in the dark. They would make up as much time as possible before making camp. Maybe they would get lucky and overtake Tobin before then.

  22

  There was no moon, but enough starlight for a man to see his way, especially if that man was part panther. Tobin rose from the waist-high grass where he had rested while waiting for the cover of darkness. Looking around him in the deep, quiet night, he tasted the cool air and his nostrils flared as the excitement of the kill honed his senses. After a few moments, he checked his rifle and pistol to be certain they were ready. Then he set out for the stand of cottonwoods, making his way almost silently through the high grass.

  Tobin’s brain was barren soil for deep thinking, so thoughts of life’s purpose never took seed there. He had set out to track and kill many times before, but he had never questioned his role as executioner. It bothered him not one bit whether his victims deserved killing. He only knew that it was the most enjoyable part of his job, a part he looked forward to, and one that brought a great measure of pleasure. Generally, he preferred a more open confrontation so he could enjoy the terror his victims knew before they died. With this white Cheyenne, however, he chose to forego that satisfaction and strike quickly, without warning.

  He had little more than two hundred yards to cover before reaching the first trees that lined the shallow stream. Moving silently through the grass, placing each foot carefully, he in no way resembled the stumbling man who had recklessly ascended the steep trail up the ridge earlier that day. One might grudgingly admit to a savage grace in the way the huge man stalked his prey.

  His rifle cocked and ready, Tobin moved from tree to tree until he spotted the red glow of dying coals in the campfire. Under the shadow of the cottonwoods, he had to pause and stare for a few moments longer before spying the sleeping bodies. Ain’t that dear, he thought, smiling to himself, two little doves, all wrapped up in a package.

  He was about to take another step when he was halted by a low snort, and he abruptly jerked his head to the side. The dark form of a horse stamped nervously under the trees. Tobin looked quickly back at the sleeping lovers, ready to open fire. They didn’t move. He watched the bodies intently, looking for any movement that would indicate they had heard. There was none.

  He stepped closer until he could clearly make out the forms of the sleeping man and woman. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his rifle and took careful aim. In the next instant, the quiet of the cottonwood grove was shattered with the ear-splitting roar of the Winchester as Tobin fired, cocked, and fired again, pumping bullets into the helpless bundle by the fire. He fired until his rifle clicked on an empty chamber.

  Cautious even after seeing every shot tear though the tough elkhide, Tobin approached the riddled bed, his eyes never leaving the hide. So that there would be no question that the white Cheyenne was dead, he would sever Little Wolf’s head and present it to Colonel Wheaton. The woman’s fine black scalp would be an excellent addition to his collection.

  He stood over the bodies for a long moment, watching for any slight movement before pulling the wrap of hide away. Convinced they were dead, he reached down and lifted the elkskin and stood staring dumbfounded at two bullet-riddled cottonwood logs.

  Like an animal caught in a trap, he realized at that moment that he was doomed. Suddenly his veins were filled with icewater and his spine became stiff as an iron rod. Time seemed to pass in slow motion, allowing a thousand thoughts to flash across his stunned brain. The thing that could never happen had happened. He had trapped a hundred men before this, relying upon his cunning and superior strength. He could not believe that he had been trapped this time. He had walked right into it, outsmarted by the Cheyenne for the second time.

  In that frozen split-second, he steeled himself for the impact of the bullet he knew was coming. When it did not, he whirled around, angry at having been tricked, his eyes searching desperately, straining to penetrate the darkness. I know you’re here, his instincts screamed at him.

  There was a faint sound to his left. He immediately turned toward it, bringing his rifle up to fire—but it had only been the soft popping from the glowing embers of the campfire. Then, when Tobin glanced up from the fire, he saw him. The faint light afforded by the flickering coals danced lightly across the phantomlike features of the Cheyenne warrior, casting a shadowy veil about his naked shoulders. The warrior stood there motionless, his arms down at his sides, a war axe his only weapon, watching Tobin impassively.

  Though puzzled by Little Wolf’s defiant stance before him, Tobin did not hesitate to take his advantage. He smiled and raised his rifle. “You shoulda kept on running, renegade.” With that, he pulled the trigger. The metallic click reminded him that he had not reloaded the rifle. In angry disgust, he dropped the useless weapon and reached for the pistol in his belt. Less than a second later, he heard himself yelp in pain as the war axe struck his hand, sending the pistol flying across the campfire.

  Both men sprang to retrieve it, but Little Wolf was quicker than his larger adversary. Diving across the fire, he rolled on the ground, snatched up the pistol and landed on his feet, facing Tobin. Tobin was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of his own pistol, which was now leveled at his midsection. There followed a long eerie pause while the two faced each other. Tobin, again bracing for the bullet, was astonished when Little Wolf threw the pistol into the darkness behind him. The significance of the Cheyenne’s action was not lost upon Tobin.

  “So that’s how it’s gonna be.” He could not repress the smile that spread across his face, for he knew the advantage had been returned to him. He drew the long skinning knife from his belt and lunged to meet the Cheyenne.

  The impact of their bodies was like that of two bull elks, with Little Wolf recoiling backward a step from the superior weight of Tobin’s body. Tobin grunted his satisfaction. No man had been able to stand up to him in hand-to-hand combat. With one huge hand, he held Little Wolf’s wrist, nullifying the war axe. The other wrist was locked in Little Wolf’s grip. They struggled against each other, their faces only inches apart. Tobin, confident in his overpowering strength, began to apply the pressure that would bend Little Wolf’s back until it broke. After straining for several seconds, the sinister smile faded from Tobin’s face. The Cheyenne would not bend. The veins stood out in the big tracker’s neck as he summoned all the force he possessed. Yet it was to no avail. The tall Cheyenne warrior stood like a steel post, the hate and fury of years of pain and suffering flashing like sparks in his dark eyes. The moment of vengeance had at long last arrived.

  Suddenly a cold chill ran the length of Tobin’s spine, a feeling he had never experienced before. In a panic, he tore his wrist loose and stepped back. Little Wolf crouched and waited, his war axe ready. Desperate now, his swaggering confidence gone, Tobin feared for his life. In a sudden move, he lunged at Little Wolf with his knife. Little Wolf stepped deftly aside and brought the axe down in a crushing blow.

  Tobin screamed in pain when the war axe came down on his forearm like a bolt of lightning out of the darkness. The sharp crack of the bone caused him to release his grip on the knife. Knowing he was fighting for his life, he tried to pick up the knife only to receive a second bone-smashing blow across his other forearm. He could not hold on to the weapon and it dropped to the ground. Terror like he had never tasted in his life before gripped Tobin’s body as he staggered bac
kward for a few steps, his useless arms dangling limply by his sides, still unable to clearly see his attacker in the dark shadows of the cottonwoods.

  Cornered and knowing he was beaten, Tobin searched desperately from side to side, trying to see his executioner as Little Wolf circled him. He took another step backward, almost stumbling into the fire. Wanting to run but unsure of which direction to flee, he stepped around the softly glowing embers of the campfire, his fear overpowering the numbing pain in his arms. When he looked up again, he saw him.

  Tobin gasped, unable to move. Facing him, Little Wolf stood tall and seemingly impassive, calmly watching the desperation of the helpless half-breed. Stunned and already dead in his mind, Tobin stood helpless, his eyes wide and unblinking. In the next instant, Little Wolf was suddenly upon him, before the huge man even knew he had moved. The war axe landed solidly in the side of Tobin’s head and buried into the skull like a woodman’s axe in a tree stump.

  Little Wolf stepped back as the giant body slumped to the ground. He stared down at the lifeless mound for a few moments, his sober countenance disguising the fury that raced through his veins. “You will cause no more fear in this world,” he pronounced softly, then took the half-breed’s scalp. “You can now wander with no scalp in the spirit world.”

  * * *

  Brice Paxton came up out of his blanket, awakened from a sound sleep by the series of rifle shots. He looked toward the fire where he could see others stirring also, and knew that it had not been a dream. It could only mean one thing—Tobin had found Little Wolf. Maybe finishing him off, he thought.

  His immediate reaction was one of anger. He had hoped to prevent the savage Tobin from performing the cold-blooded execution he knew the baleful tracker planned. It appeared he might be too late. He wondered about the woman. “Sergeant!” he yelled at Baskin, who was already out of his blanket and coming to get his orders. “Saddle up! I want to find that bloodthirsty son of a bitch.”

  Baskin did as he was told and roused the men from their beds, knowing all the time that it was a useless exercise. That fact soon became painfully clear to his young lieutenant when he realized it was so dark in the narrow valley they camped in, that it was difficult to even find the picket line where the horses had been tied.

  Conferring with his sentries, Brice found agreement as to the general direction the firing came from, but uncertainty as to how far away it might have been. Sergeant Baskin advised him that the men were ready to ride but he wasn’t sure there was enough light to follow the trail.

  Paul walked up to the fire leading Daisy. “Brice, have you taken leave of your senses? Are you really planning to head out in these mountains in this dark? You’re liable to lead the whole detail off a cliff.”

  Brice made no reply. He stood there looking in one direction then another, as if seeking some sign of daybreak. He bent close to the fire and looked at his watch. There would be no daylight for at least two hours. He at once realized how impulsive he had been and felt a strong wave of embarrassment at having routed his sleeping troopers prematurely. Baskin and Paul stood there, waiting for him to make a decision.

  “My mistake, Sergeant. I guess Lieutenant Simmons is right, we can’t go stumbling around these bluffs in the dark. Have the men stand down. Leave the horses saddled. We’ll ride at first light.”

  “Yessir.” Baskin disappeared into the darkness, shaking his head.

  When Baskin had left, Paul laughingly complained, “Dammit all, Brice, I just got to sleep about an hour ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul. I feel like a damn fool. I just want to get to that son of a bitch Tobin before he rides off and disappears in these mountains.” He laughed at his own embarrassment. “I guess this is just one more thing Baskin can talk about with the other NCO’s back at Lapwai.”

  23

  Stingy fingers of dawn crept over the mountaintops and lit the tips of the tallest pines covering the slope where Little Wolf had made their camp. Below him, in the little valley, he could just begin to make out the separate forms of the cottonwoods that guarded the stream. He could not see Tobin’s body yet, but he felt peace knowing it was there. The thought caused him to turn his head to gaze down at Rain Song, who was still sleeping. As if she felt his thoughts, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him. A smile immediately began to spread when she awakened to see her husband.

  “Are you going to sleep all day?” He attempted to make a stern face for her but was unable to keep the smile from his face. “I was about to leave you here and go to King George’s land alone.”

  “Do not tease.” She got to her feet and came to him. Putting her arms around him, she held him tightly. “Never, never leave me again,” she said, sighing.

  He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “We must go now. The soldiers may be here soon, looking for the big one.”

  From shades of gray, the valley accepted the daily ritual of sunup and soon it was light enough to clearly see the grove of cottonwoods. Leading his horse, they made their way down to the valley once more to recover the elk robe they had made a bed with. Rain Song shook her head and sighed as she held it up to examine the pattern of bulletholes, bullets that had been meant for them. They had very few supplies, so the robe would have to do until they found a place that was safe for them. Then Little Wolf would provide her with as many hides as she wanted.

  Little Wolf retrieved Tobin’s weapons and stripped his body of any items that might prove useful to them. He loaded them, along with the elk hide, onto his horse. “We need another horse,” he said as he helped Rain Song up into the saddle. He climbed up behind her and turned the Appaloosa toward the north and a new life.

  Walking the horse through the high grass of the valley floor, they were within a hundred yards of the tree-covered slopes again when they heard the short snap of a lead slug just over their heads, followed almost immediately by the report of the rifle. Looking back, he saw the advanced scout of the cavalry as he prepared to shoot again. This time, the shot was to the right of them. Behind the scout, galloping from the south end of the valley, he saw the column of troopers coming on fast.

  He gave the Appaloosa his heels and the horse responded immediately, thrashing through the grass that whipped against his chest and forelegs. The soldiers were closer than he had suspected, and now they were going to have to run for it. The trees were not far and he made for them immediately. But he knew that his horse was carrying too great a load to attempt to outrun the soldiers. If he could gain just a little more time, he was confident he could lose them in the mountains.

  They galloped into the trees with the troopers no more than two hundred yards behind. As soon as they entered the pines, Little Wolf leaped from the horse and quickly gave Rain Song instructions. “Go as fast as you can. Follow the slope up toward the ridge to your right. I’ll hold the soldiers off until you are well away. I’ll come after you as soon as I can.”

  “Little Wolf, no!” she started but he silenced her protests.

  “Go!” he said sternly. “It’s our only chance. I’ll find you.” He slapped the Appaloosa on the rump and the horse bolted away. Taking both his and Tobin’s rifles, he ran to a position behind a fallen tree and prepared to stop the soldier’s advance.

  “He’s gone to ground!” an excited trooper shouted. “We got him now!”

  “Hold your fire!” Brice ordered and halted the column. He reined up beside the forward scout and dismounted, his eyes searching the trees for sight of the Cheyenne.

  “He’s holed up behind that big log yonder,” the trooper said, pointing toward the fallen tree.

  Baskin moved up to join Brice. “He’s looking to pin us down out here in the grass while his woman gets away.”

  “Looks like,” Brice answered. “Hold your fire,” he repeated the order. “Where the hell is Tobin? Any sign of him?” he asked.

  “No telling where that coyote is.” Baskin began to get a little nervous when Brice gave no further orders for a few moments. “This here g
rass ain’t the best cover for a skirmish line, Lieutenant.”

  Brice didn’t answer him. Instead he continued to stare at the tree trunk where Little Wolf waited. Exactly what is your crime? Protecting your wife, avenging your friends, protecting yourself from those who have hunted you. You have killed soldiers, but what could we expect, since you were raised a Cheyenne. Many of the men in my own company were once my enemies during the rebellion. They were given their freedom. Why not you? All you want is to be left alone. He might be court martialed for doing it, but Brice knew what he must do.

  “Brice, goddam, let’s do something.”

  Brice looked quickly at Paul. “All right.” Then he turned to Sergeant Baskin. “Sergeant, have the men fall back out of rifle range.” He looked behind them. “Back to the edge of those cottonwoods by the stream.”

  Baskin didn’t understand. “Fall back? Ain’t we gonna go after that bastard? Hell, we’ve finally got him treed.”

  Brice shook his head. “No, we can’t chase him anymore, and if we stay out here, he’s gonna start picking us off one by one.”

  “Can’t chase him anymore?” Baskin was thoroughly confused. “Why not?”

  Brice looked at the sergeant with a cold eye. “Because he’s in Canada. We can’t legally follow him into Canada. Looks like he got away.”

  Baskin couldn’t believe his ears. “Canada? Oh, nossir, we’re a hundred miles from Canada, and, even if he was—”

  Brice cut him off. “I believe you’re confused, Sergeant. That’s Canada.” He turned to Paul. “Doesn’t that look like Canada to you, Paul?”

  Paul was mystified for a second, then he smiled broadly. “Why, yes it does. I believe you’re right.” In respect for his own hide, and the possibility of this conversation being recalled in a court martial at some future date, he thought to himself that he had only said that the country looked like Canada.