Murder at Medicine Lodge

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  “What does this mean?” I asked. “This caa-pet-baa-ga.”

  She whipped those glasses right off her face as she tore the still air with her cry of frustration. Then she was shouting at me as if I’d suddenly gone deaf. “It means an evil man from the North who steals from the poor of the South.”

  “And this man stole the land the pay-paa says he owns?”

  “That’s exactly right.” Mrs. Adams regathered her dignity as her well-proportioned bottom wormed in the creaking chair. “It also means that the lawmen of Louisiana are not looking very hard for his stolen mule. Which is why the man is offering a reward.”

  “One more question.”

  “What now?” she lamented.

  I licked my lips and blundered on. “Everyone reads those pay-paas?”

  Once again she spoke in that gratingly sharp tone. “Yes, they do. All educated people read the monthly papers.”

  I shook my head as if to clear it. “Monthly? I don’t understand.”

  She took a deep breath, expelled it in a heaving sigh. “Papers are…” She searched for a suitable Arapaho word. There wasn’t one. She was forced to stay with English and hope I wasn’t completely thick-headed. “They are printed each time the moon is full.” She lifted the pay-paas and rattled them near my face. “This is an old pay-paa. It came to me from the soldier chiefs who have all passed it among themselves.”

  Her answer caused me to smile.

  ELEVEN

  Money has always been something of an enigma to Indians. The reason is very simple. When trading, the worth of robes, or horses offered in exchange, is instantly clear. You can judge a good robe by how well it has been tanned, the luster of the fur. A horse by its legs, teeth. But money! How can anyone know the real worth of flat metal coins or strips of pay-paa? These things will not keep you warm, will not take you safely across miles of open country. You can’t even eat it. All money can do is lay there in your hand or burn a hole in your pocket.

  It’s because money looks and feels so worthless that Indians have a habit of throwing it away on useless things. Maybe someday we’ll understand it, learn how to use it better, but I don’t think so. When you consider how many people have been hurt or destroyed on account of money, it makes me think that something like that isn’t worth the effort to understand.

  Buug-lah had wanted all of Little Jonas’s money. He had made him give up all his money to keep his mouth shut about that mule. This made me wonder—two things. How had Buug-lah connected Little Jonas to a mule that had gone missing in Louis-anna, and why had Buug-lah seemed to need a lot of money so badly? I had to really think about that. And as I thought, I realized again just how much Buug-lah had reminded me of Raven’s Wing. Whenever Raven’s Wing was with someone important, someone like White Bear, he liked everyone to notice this. That put me to recalling the way Buug-lah had strutted when I watched him walking around with …

  My pleased smile slowly melted as I realized something else. Mrs. Adams had read of Mr. Babcock’s offer of a reward for any information pertaining to his missing mule. I wondered if that reward was worth more money than Little Jonas was able to pay. If so, and Little Jonas realized that Buug-lah was about to report what he knew to Mr. Babcock in order to claim that reward, then Little Jonas would be feeling desperate.

  Well, this wasn’t going well at all!

  I was fuming as Billy and I wended our way through the main body of the camp, searching for Hawwy. With each step I became thoroughly angry, for it seemed that the more I tried to take suspicion away from the one Blue Jacket The Cheyenne Robber liked and respected, the more my findings seemed to lead me straight back to Little Jonas’s prison-tent door. Lone Wolf really wouldn’t give a toss if I proved Little Jonas guilty, but The Cheyenne Robber would mind very much. I deeply wished Skywalker hadn’t gotten me into this, but he had and I was, and somehow I would have to burrow my way out.

  I really could have used Skywalker’s discerning skills. He might not understand English any better than I did, but he did have a canny knack for singling out guilty hearts. That would have been an invaluable help—but one I would have to function without, as he was in our camp, most probably too caught up in councils with Lone Wolf to spare me a passing thought. I deeply resented his habit of over-estimating my abilities. Sometimes he was too trusting in the strengths he believed me to have. And it irritated me half blind when he would casually shrug off my substantial concerns, saying, “If I thought you couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Fuming now, I mentally fired back, “You didn’t ask. You pushed.”

  I imagined his gloating smile.

  * * *

  We found Hawwy talking to the newspaperman I had noticed during yesterday’s disastrous meeting between Lone Wolf and the generals. He was a small man, plain of face, with sad-dog brown eyes and lifeless brown hair. When he spoke, even to my untrained ear, he had an odd accent. Hawwy introduced him to me as Henry Stanley. Smiling broadly, Mr. Stanley extended his hand for me to shake. Accepting it, I found his grip to be surprisingly strong. And he held on to me too long. I had to forceably pull my hand away from his. Fearing he might try to take hold of me again, I clasped my hands behind my back as I regarded Hawwy.

  “He talks funny. He sounds like he’s singing and talking at the same time.”

  Hawwy ducked his head to the side, a smile worrying his mouth. When he was able to maintain a more composed state, he spoke to me through Billy. “He comes from far away, from across a big lake. He is from a tribe known as the Welsh. He is very interested in learning about Indians, most especially the Kiowa.”

  “He came across this lake just to learn about Kiowa?”

  “Yes.”

  I studied Mr. Stanley at length, then said, “Tell him there are already too many wanting to know about Kiowas. These strangers are crowding our homeland, eating up our food. We would prefer they all go home.”

  Hawwy bayed unseemly laughter. I failed to see that I’d said anything even mildly amusing but evidently I had for when Hawwy translated for Mr. Stanley, he laughed delightedly as he scribbled madly away on a small hand-sized pay-paa.

  I glanced from Billy to Hawwy. I was not comfortable with this situation, but neither of them seemed to notice. I was pulled back into the moment when Mr. Stanley addressed me directly, talking in a loud voice and saying his strange words in such a way that left me to realize that the little man thoroughly believed that if he talked loud enough, slow enough, I would understand him. What an idiot. So when Billy translated, saying the newspaperman wanted to know about our religion, particularly our Sun Dance, I talked loud and slow too.

  “Our … beliefs … are none … of your … business.”

  Mr. Stanley stood there for a moment, eyes so wide the twin brown orbs swam in white, lower jaw unhinged as he ogled me. Then, as realization hit home, that I had merely done to him what he had so absurdly done to me, he began to laugh. The sound was merely a wheeze at first, then it became a boom. For a little man, he was amazingly loud. Then he clapped Hawwy on the back, saying “By Jove, by Jove.” He said other things too but, the Jove is the thing that struck me most. I couldn’t understand why he was calling Hawwy, Jove.

  I desperately needed a few moments alone with Hawwy, what I got was the annoyingly talkative Henry M. Stanley in tow.

  I tried—and just as hard as I knew how—to shut out that man’s constantly babbling voice. I learned then that it is the most difficult thing imaginable to shun someone thoroughly immune to this conduct. Even though his questions received nothing more than a stony expression, he went right on asking. Not having any patience for this foolishness, I talked over him, a thing which, by any culture’s standards, is rude. Stanley didn’t seem to understand “rude” any better than he understood he was being shunned, for the louder I spoke to Hawwy, the louder Stanley spoke to Billy, asking questions of me.

  I was literally shouting when I asked Hawwy, “Do you know where the dead man’s things were ta
ken?” Unable to outshout Stanley either, Hawwy merely nodded.

  And then the four of us set off together.

  * * *

  As it happened, Hawwy knew exactly where Buug-lah’s things were, because they were bundled up and stored in his doctoring tent. There were four bundles in all, and as each of us poked through the bundles, I asked who had packed them up.

  Hawwy looked at me blankly. Then he turned his head toward Billy and back to me again. “We did.”

  Now that surprised me. “The two of you? Why?”

  Hawwy sat down on a stool, ran a hand through his curly hair. He looked vexed. Then he turned to his trusted friend. Our needing to speak back and forth through Billy in English was a mistake, for the jug-eared Stanley jotted down every word.

  “Major Elliott was complaining. He and the others on arrest didn’t have enough room inside the prison tent. Billy was helping to move spare cots inside when Elliott began tossing out everything else. Billy picked up the things the major was scattering and brought all of it here. Then he and I packed up the things just the way you see them now.”

  My relief that the dead man’s things had not been gone through or picked over was considerable. But the fact that everything he’d owned was still virtually intact prompted my next question.

  “Has anyone else asked about his things?”

  Hawwy nodded. “Two. I told each in turn that they would first have to ask Captain Mac’s permission, as he was seeing to it that the dead man’s things would be sent on to his next of kin.”

  “Did either of these men receive permission?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, because neither of them came back.”

  “Who were they?”

  Hawwy’s thick eyebrows lifted and his mouth twisted to the side. Following this facial shrug, he answered, “Sergeants Hicks and Cullen.”

  “No one else?”

  Hawwy shook his head.

  I didn’t ask anything more. I set to digging through the bundle in front of me.

  Buug-lah had fine things. His underwear, as Hawwy called the clothing, was made from soft, incredibly light material. I held the long flimsy leggings up, a quizzical expression on my face.

  “He wasn’t given those by the army!” Billy brayed. “Those johns are silk.”

  Well, I had no idea what johns or silk were, but I understood, by the chuckles filling the tent, that whatever they were, it was supposed to be amusing that Buug-lah had them. With a shake of my confused head, I tossed the leggings aside. The thing that caught my attention, and surprised me more than the fine-quality underleggings, was that the dead man had an extraordinary wealth of heavy socks. Living in close quarters with Hawwy, I knew he only had four pair. I counted twelve pair belonging to Buug-lah. I lifted them up, one pair at a time, and compared them, noticing that the pairs were of different sizes. In the last pair, one sock seemed especially heavy. Shaking it out, a small, rough-looking leather bag fell to my feet. Scooping it up and opening it, I found two shiny gold watches hanging from gold chains, and a pretty ring.

  I had seen watches before, the first being a watch that Hawwy had given Cherish’s father, Chasing Horse. When he heard the ticking, then the tinkling music the watch played, Chasing Horse became terrified of the thing, yelling that it was alive. Then he hit the watch with a rock, smashing it into silence. Hawwy never found out that his gift had been ruined, for Skywalker retrieved it, took out all the broken pieces then restuffed the case with magical herbs. The final thing he did was to suspend the watch from a long leather cord. Now that the watch was good medicine, Chasing Horse was happy to wear it hanging from his neck. Whenever he saw Hawwy, he made a grand display of showing the watch but he never allowed Hawwy to get close enough to hear that he’d killed it.

  Closely examining one of the watches, I pressed the tiny latch on the side and the case lid sprang open, startling me just as it had once done Chasing Horse. But this watch hadn’t been wound for a while so it was quiet. I glanced up at the others, worried that my flash of fear had been noticed. I needn’t have been concerned. Each of them was heavily involved with his own discoveries, Billy trying to pry open a small tin box, Hawwy engrossed in looking through a thick picture book, Stanley reading small pieces of creased pay-paas. I returned my interest to the watch.

  Neat letters had been cut into the gold metal. I traced each letter with my finger. C-H-I-C-K-S. I had no idea what they meant. Giving up, I placed that watch to the side and picked up the second. Knowing now just what would happen when I pressed the tiny spring, I showed no emotion at all when the case top popped open. I was expecting to find mysterious letters again. What I found instead was a small picture of a young woman with a strange smile. The smile was strange because of slightly bucked teeth, otherwise, she was a pleasant-looking woman, light hair piled high and curly on her head, a long neck accentuated by frothy lace.

  I sat there for a long moment, wondering who she was, and then Stanley started yelping. Hawwy stopped turning the stiff pages of the picture book, Billy stopped digging the tip of his knife at the lock on the tin box. We all stared at Stanley as he rattled on. Completely in the dark, I remained seated as Billy and Hawwy jumped up and went to stand alongside Stanley, the latter reading excitedly and turning one of the pay-paas. The next thing I knew, Billy was kneeling before me, saying something about a “reb.”

  In order to force him to make sense, I first had to calm Billy down. Which wasn’t easy. Stanley and Hawwy were all worked up and their excitement was becoming so huge that it threatened to tear apart the canvas fabric of the tent. Grabbing Billy by the arm, I forced him to follow me outside where we could talk with some degree of peace.

  Billy was agitated, pacing back and forth, waving his arms, crying repeatedly, “Don’t you know what this means?”

  No, as it happened, I didn’t.

  Billy stopped in front of me, yelled in my face. “It means we’ve got a Gray Jacket wearing a Blue Jacket. A spy.”

  “But, isn’t that war … over?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Billy scoffed. “A spy’s a spy. And maybe he couldn’t get out of the Blue Jacket army when the Gray Jackets gave up, which would explain why he’s here. And if the dead man found out—”

  “He couldn’t be allowed to speak.”

  “That’s right!”

  I still wasn’t convinced. Canting my head to the side, I asked, “How does Stanley know this?”

  “He read it from the pay-paas.”

  Stepping closer to Billy, I said, “I want him to read the pay-paas again. Slowly. And you must repeat every word, exactly as it is spoken.”

  Billy looked worried. “That will be hard. There are some words that aren’t easy to cross over into Kiowa.”

  I pulled a Skywalker trick. Smiling, I said, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure you could do it.”

  * * *

  Back inside the tent, Stanley read slowly and Billy translated with remarkable skill. Evidently the first page was missing. Stanley and Hawwy, during the time Billy and I were outside, had gone through all of the small pieces of pay-paas looking for the first page but couldn’t find it. Stanley read from what he had, the second and last page.

  … things are not improved here, my darling. Yankees own everything now and taxes are exorbitant. We lost the town house as well as the big farmhouse to taxes and have been forced to take up residence in the overseer’s house. As there isn’t much of a farm left and as Daddy is unable to pay an overseer’s wage, that man was obliged to go. I understand the poor soul is quite bitter, what with losing not only his income but the only roof over the heads of his wife and children, but these are grievous times. Daddy did only what he had to do. I am fearful that his protective intentions have run afoul on yet another front. Mama.

  She declares those people turned the overseer’s house into a sty. She says that’s what comes of hiring layabouts. But with the war, Daddy found help where he could, even if that meant taking on men from the shanties. Even so, sh
e says that they have turned a respectable home into a shanty, that no decent family will ever set foot over the threshold of a falling-to-ruin little shotgun house stuck out in the bottoms. She is distressed that her two daughters will never marry men of their station. Oh, but if she only knew she had only the one daughter to concern herself with, for one is married already, albeit in secret.

  Daddy says that Mama should just be quiet and thank God that we’re not all living in a tree like savages. They argue like that all the time now, Mama and Daddy, and hearing them just breaks my heart. Before the war they were so loving and considerate to one another, never did I hear them utter a harsh word. Our world has indeed come to a miserable end. None of this do I blame on you, so fear not in this regard. You are a man of strong principles, even though I do sometimes struggle to understand them, and unlike the vicious tongues of our mutual acquaintance, I do not believe you have brought shame to the illustrious Mosbey name.

  I know you dearly wish to be home, my love, and my arms ache from want of you, but please do not do anything rash. Daddy still does not allow your name to be spoken and if you came home this very minute and confessed all, why, Daddy would shoot you through the heart and I would die just as surely as you. For a while longer we must forbear and bide in the surety that our hearts were meant to be so lovingly entwined.

  Yours forever, loving you,

  Opal-Marie

  Following a significant pause, I said, “I’m afraid I still don’t understand how these words cause all of you to believe this man is a spy.”

  Hawwy became frustrated. Stanley studied me as if I were a talking bug. Billy sat down next to me, speaking earnestly, trying to help me understand.

  “It was the name mentioned in the letter. Mosbey.”

  I was still at a loss. Billy tried again.

  “This man Mosbey—”

  “John Singleton Mosbey,” Hawwy barked, distaste evident in his tone.

  Billy frowned up at him, silently reminding him that interrupting a speaker was terrible manners. Hawwy looked away. Taking a deep breath, releasing it slowly, Billy continued.