Medicine Creek

  HIS HOME DESTROYED…

  The horrors exploded in Little Wolf’s brain, slamming against his sense of well-being with the impact of a gunshot. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and he shook his head violently, trying to erase the vision from his eyes. Far below, where his cabin had once stood, there was now a charred sore in the green of his valley. The white men had found them!

  After a paralyzing moment of despair, he collected himself and forced his mind to work on the signs left for him to follow. He began to cover the area, putting together a picture of what had taken place there. It was not pretty, and the more vivid it became, the more his anger grew. There had been twenty or more riders, all on shod horses. They had burned everything to the ground. With that image flaring in his brain, Little Wolf had not the faintest spark of remembrance that he was born a white man. He was Cheyenne pure and simple, and his war with the white man was rekindled into a raging flame….

  Medicine Creek

  Charles G. West

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, February 2000

  Copyright © Charles West, 2000

  All right reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66290-8

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  Thanks, Ronda Ann

  Table of Contents

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  1

  “That’s him! I swear, Lonnie, that’s him, all right! I’ll never forget that face. Oh, he ain’t all painted up for war like the last time I seen him, but it’s him, all right.”

  The man named Lonnie crawled closer to the edge of the clearing and lay flat on his belly behind a short pine. He pulled his field glasses from his jacket pocket and raised them to his eyes. He said nothing for a long time while he scanned the little valley below them, moving the glasses back and forth, from the simple log cabin to the corral, from the lone tipi near the corral to the rough harness shed, and finally to the tall man working with the spotted horse in the corral. After a second sweep of the valley, he spoke, keeping his eyes trained on the tiny ranch below them.

  “Hell, Tolbert, how do you know that’s the same man? From way over here, it’s hard to say who it is. It could be anybody. At this distance, it could be your own brother.”

  Tolbert snorted indignantly. “My brother ain’t never come at me with no damn tommyhawk. I reckon I can see him good enough to know that man down yonder is that murderin’ cutthroat Little Wolf. And he’s settin’ here pretty as you please, not much more than a hatchet throw from the settlement.”

  “Hell,” Lonnie said, “Little Wolf was a Cheyenne hell-raiser.” He stared again through the glasses. “I ain’t sure that feller ain’t white or, leastways, part white.”

  “I swear, Lonnie, don’t you know nuthin’? That’s the thing about it! Little Wolf is a white man, raised by the Cheyennes and he’s as much a damn Injun as any that ever lifted a scalp.” He started to expound on his statement when he suddenly interrupted himself. “Look! Look there! What did I tell you? Whaddaya call them, if they ain’t Injuns?” He pointed toward the back of the corral where two Indian women approached from the stream, carrying water bags.

  Lonnie was silent for a moment, then said, “Well, them’s shore ‘nuff Injuns.” He lowered the glasses and looked at Tolbert. “You sure about this feller Little Wolf?”

  Tolbert’s expression was dead serious. “Lonnie, I was there at the Little Horn when Custer’s hash was fried. I was in that hellfire river when those devils come down on us like a swarm of hornets, and us just trying to save our hair when Major Reno gave the order to fall back to the bluffs. And that devil Little Wolf, he was right there in the middle of it, only he got caught. I was there myself in that damn coulee when they captured him. I seen him good. It’s him, all right. I ain’t right about a lot of things, but I’m right about that buck.”

  Lonnie didn’t say anything for a little bit while he thought about what Tolbert was telling him. When he did answer, he spoke slowly, as if just thinking out loud. “Well, I reckon you wouldn’t hardly be wrong about something like that. And them are Indian women down there. There’s no doubt about that. I can’t say if they’re Cheyenne or Nez Perce.” He paused for a moment as if recalling. “That old Injun we seen driving them horses up the valley was damn shore one of them Nez Perces. That man down yonder may or may not be this Little Wolf you talk about, and I reckon he probably is. But the fact of the matter is, no Injuns got any business in this valley. I thought we run Chief Joseph and them damn Nez Perces out of here last year. I reckon some of ’em just ain’t learned their lesson yet.” He crawled back away from the edge of the ridge. “I reckon we better get on back to Medicine Creek and call the Vigilance Committee together.”

  “Hell, why waste time? Why don’t we just work our way down the side of this mountain a little and take care of the problem right now? I can take that ‘ere Sharps and knock a hole clean through him if I can git a little closer. It wouldn’t have to be too much closer at that. Then we could ride in and run the rest of them poor-devil Injuns outta there. Don’t seem to be nobody else down there but women and that one old Nez Perce.”

  Lonnie gave it a few moments’ consideration before deciding. “I reckon we better not. It’d be better if we let the committee decide on it first. Then there won’t be any question about it. I mean, about him being a white man. You know, nobody ever thought much about it when that other feller was here, that Peterson feller. He was the only one ever came into town. But he ain’t been seen or heard of for months. Reckon where he is?”

  “Probably planted around here somewheres. That damn Cheyenne most likely slipped a knife in his gizzard when he wasn’t lookin’. I’m tellin’ you, Lonnie, white or red, or a little of both, that buck’s Cheyenne through
and through. We best kill him if we get a good shot at him.”

  “Dammit, Tolbert, there’s a right and wrong way to handle this thing. We’ll do well to go on back and tell the others what’s what out here. Then we can come back with twenty or thirty men and do the job right. That way, it’s the committee doing something about it instead of just you and me bushwhacking somebody.” He paused while he took another hard look at the man far below them in the valley. “Besides, we don’t know for shore there ain’t no more Injun friends of his’n hanging around somewhere.” As if to emphasize his concerns, he had no sooner uttered the words when another man, obviously an Indian and a much younger man than the old Nez Perce, appeared from behind the cabin. “See what I’m telling you?” Lonnie asked. “There ain’t no tellin’ how many bucks are hiding out around here. We better come back with plenty of help.”

  * * *

  The object of Lonnie and Tolbert’s last remarks paused at the corner of the cabin to watch the tall, dark-haired man in the corral. He could not help but marvel at the firm yet gentle touch his friend employed in the training of the horse. The horse responded as if anxious to do the man’s bidding. Sleeps Standing shook his head and smiled as he recalled the many battles he had fought at Little Wolf’s side. What an odd contrast: the patient and gentle nature of the horse trainer, when compared to the fierce and relentless warrior of the past. Standing there watching the friend he had known since they were both small boys, Sleeps Standing paused a moment to consider their present state.

  Little Wolf still thought a lot about his old friend, Squint Peterson, although he never mentioned it. Sleeps Standing had only known the huge bearlike scout a short time before he was killed, but he too took an instant liking to the white man. It was too bad Squint was killed, but it was a good death. He died in battle, like any warrior should.

  For a time, Sleeps Standing thought that Little Wolf was showing signs of going back to the white man’s ways, especially when his white brother and his wife came to live with them in the valley. But Tom and Ruby Allred had been gone for over a month now, back to the Mussleshell country to help a friend run his cattle ranch. As with Squint, Sleeps Standing held a fondness for Tom, for Tom had saved his life when he had been gravely ill, a soldier’s bullet festering in his chest. In spite of this, Sleeps Standing was inwardly glad to see Tom and his wife leave the valley. It seemed that almost instantly afterward, Little Wolf reverted back to the upbringing of his youth as the son of Spotted Pony. Now there were only the six of them left; his wife and her sister; Sore Hand, the old Nez Perce; Little Wolf and Rain Song; and himself. To Sleeps Standing, this was enough. If the white man’s world would leave them in peace in this secluded valley, no person could ask for more. He put his idle thoughts aside when Little Wolf opened the corral to let the Appaloosa out to graze with the other horses.

  “I think you will make a pet out of that horse. He will soon want to sleep in the cabin with you and Rain Song.”

  Little Wolf smiled. “He’s a good horse, smarter than the others, I think.” He looped the hackamore he used to train the spotted stallion with over the top rail of the corral and walked over to the water bag Rain Song had hung on the corner of the cabin. “I think I’ll give him the bit tomorrow.”

  Sleeps Standing watched him while he drank from the bag. Finished, he held it out to his friend. Sleeps Standing shook his head no. “I have been thinking—”

  “This could be serious,” Little Wolf interrupted, pretending to be concerned.

  Sleeps Standing ignored the obvious tease. “Sore Hand told me that he saw his brother’s son on the far side of the ridge when he went to bring the horses in. He was riding with three other Nez Perce men. They have been hiding in the mountains ever since the rest of their people left with Chief Joseph.”

  Little Wolf did not reply but listened with interest. This was not unusual—there were more than a few small pockets of free Nez Perces still hiding out in the mountains, refusing to go to the Lapwai reservation in Idaho territory. He met them frequently himself when hunting high up in the mountains.

  “Sore Hand said that his nephew and the others with him were going to go north to King George’s land. He said it was no longer safe to stay here. The white men from the settlement found one of their camps last week and they were lucky to escape.” Sleeps Standing paused to gauge the effect of his words upon his friend. When there was no immediate response, he prodded Little Wolf. “Do you still think we will be left alone here? That the white men will not try to drive us out as they have with the Nez Perce?”

  Little Wolf shrugged. “Why should they bother us? We are peaceful here and have little contact with them. We have been here over two years and none of the white men have even found this valley yet.”

  Sleeps Standing was not reassured. “The white man will not stop until he has all the land. I think that before long, he will want our valley too. Maybe we should also go to King George’s land, before the white men send soldiers here to kill us.”

  “We have lived here in peace and have traded with the people in the settlement for the things we need. They know us. I think we will be left alone.” Little Wolf spoke to salve his friend’s worries, but inwardly he had to admit to some doubts himself. It had been the natural thing for him to go back to the Cheyenne ways when Tom left. But with Tom gone, it had become necessary for him to ride into Medicine Creek himself to trade his horses for the staples and supplies that were needed. He didn’t like doing it. In fact, it had never been his intention to do it. That was Squint’s role in their partnership. After Squint was killed, Tom took it on until he decided it best for him and Ruby to head back to the Musselshell. So, once every three or four months, Little Wolf became a white man again. He pushed his long hair up under one of Squint’s old hats, put on some clothes and a coat Tom left him for the purpose, and rode into the settlement to trade. On each trip, he made as few contacts as were absolutely necessary, picking up his supplies and fleeing back to the mountains. No one had ever questioned him about the location of his ranch. Arvin Gilbert at the general merchantile had asked about Squint but Little Wolf did not let on that Squint was dead, telling him instead that Squint went back east with Tom.

  He suddenly realized that his thoughts had wandered. Sleeps Standing was still watching him intently, waiting for more reassurance. Little Wolf complied, saying, “No, my friend, the men from the settlement will not bother us. They think there are white men here, breeding horses. Some of them drank whiskey with Squint. Why should they bother us?”

  Sleeps Standing did not appear to be convinced, but he would not spend additional thought on it if Little Wolf said they would be fine. “I suppose you are right. It’s just that these are troublesome times. The Nez Perces lived in peace with the white men for many, many winters until the white men decided they wanted the Nez Perces’ land.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I hope they don’t decide they want this valley.”

  Little Wolf did not reply but he knew that what Sleeps Standing said was true. The white men had killed the only mother and father he remembered. They had killed his first wife, Morning Sky, and they had put a price upon his head. After fighting the soldiers at the Little Bighorn, he had decided it was time to quit fighting. So he and Squint and Rain Song had traveled far away from the Bighorn Valley until they came upon this little valley in the heart of the Bitterroots. Little Wolf thought they would be safe here, far away from the soldier forts and the gold miners. But in a year’s time, the white men had created a settlement no more than thirty miles from the valley, as the hawk flies. Still, he told himself, that was thirty miles of mountains and narrow valleys, tree-covered ridges and rocky streams. The land was not suitable to farm and, as yet, there had been no evidence of gold in the streams. So why would the white men want to take this valley? There was nothing for them here.

  “You put tiresome thoughts in my head,” Little Wolf said, laughing. “I’m hungry. I think I’ll go see if Rain Song has finished cooking the me
at.”

  * * *

  Puddin Rooks secured the padlock on the plank door of his storeroom and stuck his head through the open kitchen doorway. “Maggie, I’m going to the committee meeting. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Ain’t you gon’ eat no supper first?” His wife wiped the sweat from her brow with the skirt of her apron. “I was just fixin’ to put it on the table.”

  “Naw. I’ll eat somethin’ when I get home. I ain’t hungry now, nohow. My stomach’s been riled up all afternoon. I might get me somethin’ to settle it down at the saloon.”

  “John Rooks,” she scolded, being the only person in town who didn’t call her husband Puddin, “you better not go gettin’ yourself all likkered up in that saloon!”

  “Dammit, Maggie, I told you I have to go to a committee meeting. I ain’t goin’ to get likkered up. You do beat all! As the mayor of Medicine Creek, it’s my responsibility to attend committee meetings and the damn saloon is the only place big enough to hold everyone. You know that.”

  “I know that it usually takes a gracious plenty likker to run one of those committee meetings. I reckon that’s the reason you don’t hold ’em in the church.”

  Puddin just shook his head. “I’ll be back when I git back,” he said and pulled his head back out of the doorway. After all, he was the mayor, and it was his responsibility to chair the Vigilance Committee meetings, even though he was not the elected head of the committee. That would be Franklin Bowers. Puddin pictured Bowers in his mind, tall and lean as a rake with what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his dark face. Bowers was the logical choice for the committee head. He was the town’s sheriff and accustomed to dealing with lawbreakers and ruffians of all description. Consequently, he was well suited to handle the Indian problem. That thought caused Puddin to recall a few years back when he first came to the wide river valley that was now home to more than three hundred souls, all white. Of course, it wasn’t always like that.