Colonel Frank Wheaton, 2nd U.S. Infantry, Commanding Officer, Fort Lapwai, Idaho territory, glanced up from his desk when his aide knocked and stuck his head in. “Sir, there’s a group of citizens from Medicine Creek that want to see you.”
“Oh? What about?”
“Indian trouble,” was the answer.
Arvin Gilbert, Morgan Sewell, and Ike Friese filed into the room and stood before the colonel’s desk. Three other men had ridden over from the settlement with them, but they decided to wait outside. It was obvious to Wheaton, even before anyone spoke, that the three civilians were extremely concerned about something. He glanced from one to the other, noting that all three seemed to be wearing similar grave expressions. He turned back to Arvin Gilbert when it appeared that he was to be the spokesman.
Arvin explained the reason for their visit, relating the two recent murders in the little settlement. Not only had the savage renegade brazenly walked into town and killed two people, he had taken the lives of the two most prominent men in the settlement, the sheriff and the mayor. The purpose of their visit, Arvin explained, was to seek protection. They had no law officer and the people were frightened. This savage was evidently hell-bent on killing the whole town one by one, and they needed the army’s protection.
Upon hearing all the details, Colonel Wheaton was concerned, but he also held a stronger feeling—one of irritation. According to the citizens committee before him, there was little doubt the murders were the work of Little Wolf—the same Little Wolf he had sought to trap unsuccessfully. It was inconceivable, he thought, that one man could so brazenly go wherever and do whatever he pleased. Wheaton was irritated, and more than that, angry that the cavalry unit under Captain Malpas had been unable to track the renegade down, although there had been ongoing patrols, and Malpas had let his Nez Perce scout Yellow Hand range on his own. Wheaton had pushed the problem from the forefront of his mind. Now the savage was becoming more of a problem than ever before.
After assuring the committee from Medicine Creek that the army would indeed come to their assistance, Wheaton sent for Malpas and Lieutenant Paxton. He promised Arvin Gilbert that he would send a company of infantry to bivouac near the town while cavalry patrols scoured the hills in an effort to find the renegade’s camp. Satisfied they were going to get the protection they requested, the men of Medicine Creek headed back to their homes.
Brice Paxton stood by silently while Colonel Wheaton expressed his disappointment with Captain Malpas’s failure to capture Little Wolf. Malpas openly cringed at the criticism, no doubt enhanced by the fact that the colonel was infantry and had no affection for cavalry officers in the first place.
“I want you to find that savage, Captain, and I mean right now.” His eyes drilled holes through the captain’s forehead. “Is that understood?” Before Malpas could answer, Wheaton went on. “Do you have any clue where to look for him?”
“Well, we think he’s got a camp somewhere in the mountains east of the settlement, but that’s a lot of wild territory, and he’s only one man. It’s not like we’re trying to locate a whole band of Indians. He may not stay in one place. We’re doing all we can, Sir. Yellow Hand is searching on his own, camping in the mountains himself. All we can do is cover the territory section by section and hope to flush him out.”
“Very well, Malpas. Get on with it then.” He signaled an end to the meeting. As Malpas and Brice started toward the door, Wheaton added, “And, Captain, don’t take any chances with the murdering savage. When you find him, shoot him.”
“Yessir.”
Brice looked sharply at Malpas and then back at the colonel. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but aren’t we to attempt to capture him first?”
Wheaton jerked his head up to look at the young lieutenant. “Son, I’m not aware that I stammered. I don’t intend to waste any effort on a rabid dog that goes around killing innocent people.”
Brice felt he had to comment. “With all due respect, Sir, shouldn’t some thought be given the fact that a band of those innocent people went up there and burned this man out, killed his people, and abducted his wife?”
Colonel Wheaton was not without compassion, but his practical side told him that Little Wolf would be tried and then hanged regardless. So why waste time if he was to be killed anyway? The Indian’s plight was a sad one, but Wheaton also believed strongly in the Manifest Destiny of the white man. It was only natural that the Indian would resist the white tide that was overrunning territory that he thought was his. The Indian’s time was over. He had roamed over the land long enough. Now he must give way so the country could become civilized. He could understand young Paxton’s concern, but he could not side with the savage. To Brice, he simply said, “I believe my orders are clear.”
Brice didn’t move for a moment, then he snapped to attention and replied curtly, “Yes, Sir.”
Outside, Malpas turned to Brice and said, “Get the whole damn company ready to march in the morning. We’ll go up in those hills and comb every ridge and valley for that bastard.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe we can find Yellow Hand while we’re at it.”
“How many rations?”
“Fifteen days.”
* * *
Yellow Hand slid down from his pony’s back and made his way up through the pines. He stopped short of a small clearing and peered at the burial platforms, one of them slightly higher up in the trees than the other two. Undecided as whether to go around them or not, he continued to stare at the bodies wrapped in hides. They were all recent burials.
He decided to have a closer look, although there was nothing unusual about them except that they seemed to be quite barren of symbols and ornaments, and the hides that were used to wrap the bodies were burned in places, the edges singed. As he led his horse to pass within several feet of the platforms, something caught his eye and he stopped to look more closely. There, tied to the higher platform, were two scalps, both freshly taken by the look of them, one of them no more than two days before.
He immediately looked all around him to make sure he was not being watched. He walked closer and, when his pony shied away, he jerked hard on the reins, forcing the animal to follow. He was not anxious to remain in the company of the dead himself, but he wanted to take a closer look at the scalps. They were white men’s. He could not say for certain, but his instincts told him that these scalps were the work of the Cheyenne warrior. He must be extra cautious now. Little Wolf might be close.
Backing away from the burial platform, he carefully made his way around and up above the site until he found what he was searching for. A hoofprint, no more than a day old. Another few minutes’ scouting turned up a second print. He stood up and peered in the direction the prints pointed. They led across the ridge to the east. Yellow Hand’s pulse quickened. It was the first trail he had struck since losing the original one, when he had followed Little Wolf from the fort. Still on foot, he followed the line toward the top of a second, higher ridge, stopping often to look around him before starting again to follow the tracks.
At the top of the second ridge, he paused to check his backtrail before climbing out on a rock overhang to look out across the valley beyond. A rare moment of sadness washed over him as the thought came to him that this country was once the country of his people, the Nez Perce. This wild and beautiful land, these untamed mountains that stood up against the clouds—how could the white man claim they were now his? The land belongs to no one. The land is the land.
He shook his head as if to clear it of useless musings. It would do no good to dwell on such thoughts. The day of the Nez Perce had passed. He, Yellow Hand, was fortunate to be held in high esteem by the soldiers. The few moments of melancholy passed as quickly as they had come, and once more he became intent on his search for Little Wolf. For, when he found him, Rain Song would be there also. When he had slain the Cheyenne warrior, the woman would come to him. She would be foolish not to. His medicine was strong with the soldiers. She would be the wife of an important man.
* * *
No more than eight or nine miles from the burial platforms, as the hawk flies, a surging mountain stream forced its way through the rocks. It gathered strength as it tumbled past the tree line, speeding recklessly toward a narrow gorge, where it plunged some two hundred feet below into a deep green pool. The sides of the gorge were steep, hiding the clear pool from even a short distance so that very few human beings had discovered the place. Little Wolf had found it quite by accident one year before while following a wounded mule deer.
Now, Rain Song sat working at an elk hide by the side of the pool. She glanced up frequently at Little Wolf and Sore Hand as they sat before the fire talking. Since she was still in mourning for her sisters, her hair was not braided, but loose and wild about her face. The scars on her breast and arms, stark evidence of her mourning, were almost healed, and she waited for Little Wolf to tell her that she had mourned enough.
She paused in her work and sat gazing at her husband. This is a good place, she thought. Why can’t we forget about the white men at the settlement and just live here as we are now? She feared for her husband’s safety. He seemed overly reckless in his passion to avenge the death of his friend and her sisters. Maybe, if he would stay here, the soldiers would forget about him in time and they could remain here, free and away from the rest of the world. He must have felt her warm gaze, for he glanced in her direction. Meeting her eyes, he got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the water.
“Little One, I think you have been in mourning long enough.”
His remark brought a wide smile to her face. Good, she thought. I will oil and braid my hair and make myself pretty. Then maybe he will not be so anxious to leave us again to track down the white murderers.
He reached down and laid his hand on her hair. His touch was affectionate, but when she looked up into his eyes, she saw that his thoughts were far away. Rain Song knew where his mind was, and she feared that his obsession might cost him his life. Looking down at her, he spoke at last.
“I must go now. I have rested enough. The elk should be enough food until I return. Sore Hand will look after you.”
“Why must you go again?” she pleaded. “You have killed two of the white men. Isn’t that enough? Sleeps Standing’s spirit must feel avenged. He wouldn’t want you to risk your life anymore.”
He looked at her with patient eyes. “You don’t understand. It goes deeper than the mere killing of two white men. It is the whole settlement that is guilty of this crime. The town should be killed for the evil they have done.”
Rain Song looked alarmed. “You are intent on killing everyone in the town?”
He shook his head, still patient. “No, but I will kill the leaders of the town. Then the town will die on its own. Already I have killed the mayor and the sheriff. There are others that were leaders in the attack on our home. I know who two of them are. I have seen them while I watched the town. They do a lot of boasting and they ride two of my horses. They must pay.”
“Please stay here with me. You have taken the town’s leaders. That should be enough.”
“No. I made a promise to Sleeps Standing that I would take two lives for each of our lost ones. I must finish what I have started. Then we will leave this place and find somewhere to live in peace.” Looking into her big dark eyes, his heart could not help but melt a little. He reached down, taking her by the elbows, and lifted her to her feet. “Maybe you are right. I’ll rid the earth of these last two vermin and then I’ll consider it done. I vowed to kill six of them, but after these two, the rest of the men are toothless dogs, shopkeepers, and clerks anyway. These four are the leaders of the murderers.”
Rain Song knew it was useless to plead further. He had made up his mind. At least she could be happy to know there would be no more killing after this last mission. She walked with him to his horse and stood with him while he checked his weapons and ammunition. When he was ready, he took her into his arms and embraced her. Then, after a few words to Sore Hand, he was gone.
* * *
Lonnie Jacobs sat down on a three-legged wooden stool outside the door of the log cabin he shared with Sam Tolbert. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a square plug of chewing tobacco. Eying it carefully, he took a few moments to pick off the pocket lint that had accumulated on it before cutting off a chew with his pocketknife. A half-empty bottle of Henry Blanton’s cheapest rye whiskey sat beside him on the ground. It was still a good three hours before the sun would set beyond the hills on the western side of the valley. Although there was plenty of daylight left, Lonnie and Tolbert were not fond of working long hours on their little cattle ranch. To them, drinking was a full-time job and it didn’t leave much time for working a ranch. That was a truth easily verified by anyone taking a casual look at the place.
Working up his chaw until he was ready to spit, Lonnie watched with a bored expression while his partner walked over from the corral. “You know somethin’, Tolbert, I’m damn shore sick of settin’ around this little valley. I’m thinkin’ ’bout moving into town.”
Tolbert had heard this talk on more than one afternoon. “Is that so?” he replied. “And do what?” He reached for the whiskey bottle beside Lonnie.
“Well, seems to me the town is needin’ a new sheriff, and that’s right up my alley.”
“The hell you say,” Tolbert snorted.
Lonnie propelled a long brown stream that landed a good six feet distant in the dust. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and the hand on his trouser leg. “’Pears to me Franklin Bowers had hisself a nice little deal going before he cashed in. I don’t see no sense in letting some other damn gunman come in and take it.”
Tolbert looked hard at Lonnie for a few moments. “You’re serious, ain’t you?” He scratched his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “You know, that wouldn’t be a bad deal at that. Why, hell, we could run that town.”
“We? Who said anything about we?”
Tolbert handed him the bottle, smiling as he did. “We’re partners, ain’t we? You’d need a deputy.”
Lonnie grinned. “Yeah, I would.”
They sat and considered the possibility for the better part of an hour. Lonnie on the stool, Tolbert on the ground beside him, the bottle passed between them. After a while, a thought occurred to Lonnie. “You know, Tolbert, we’d best get over to the stable and put our rope on Bowers’s horses before Ike claims ’em. He’s got three of them Appaloosas and a right nice bay and them horses might as well belong to us.”
Tolbert was quick to agree. “We’d best ride in there in the morning and let folks know how things are gonna be from now on. There might be some objections to us taking over the sheriffing.”
Lonnie snorted. “Who’s gonna stop us? Morgan Sewell? Arvin Gilbert? Hell, there ain’t one in the bunch with any sand.” He was about to say more when Tolbert interrupted him.
“Now, who the hell’s that?” he said, squinting his eyes as he looked into the setting sun, which appeared now to almost sit on the mountaintops.
The two had become so engrossed in their plans to take over the town of Medicine Creek that they were not aware they had a visitor until he was already at the corner of the corral. Lonnie shielded his eyes with his hand. The glare of the sun framed the outline of a rider but it was almost impossible to make out his features until he walked his pony right up to the cabin.
Lonnie got up from the stool and took a few steps to the side to get the sun out of his eyes. Tolbert didn’t budge from his position leaning against the cabin. “Mister, you must be lost,” Lonnie said. He took a few more steps to the side, looking hard at their visitor. The man was a stranger to him. Tall, sitting straight in the saddle, he wore buckskin trousers and a coat that looked a size too small. His hair was dark and long, worn Indian style, flowing out from under a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. The man’s clothes didn’t seem to fit him, a fact that didn’t strike Lonnie as being odd. Very few men were well tailored in this part of the mountains. It was the stranger’s expression that struck Lonnie. It was cold and hard, like the rugged mountains behind him. Lonnie noticed that he had a Winchester resting across his thighs. It made him wish that his own rifle was not leaning against the wall inside the door of the cabin.
“Somethin’ we can do for you?” Lonnie asked, a hint of irritation in his tone, seeing as how the stranger had still not uttered a word.
The stranger stared, unblinking, for a few moments before he finally spoke. “Those horses,” he said with a nod of his head toward the corral, his eyes never leaving Lonnie’s.
Lonnie misunderstood. “Them horses? What? You wanna buy a horse?” He glanced at the Appaloosas, then back at the stranger. “I got a blue roan I might be willing to sell. But you ain’t got enough money to buy them Appaloosas.” He glanced over at Tolbert and gave him a wink. “Then, again, maybe you have. How much money you got?”
The granitelike face never showed any emotion. “I’m going to take the horses. I’m not going to buy them.”
This brought a thin smile to Lonnie’s face. “Well now, is that a fact? Mister, you’re about the dumbest horse thief I’ve ever run into. Me and ol’ Tolbert there, we’re pretty easygoing, but we ain’t in the habit of giving good horseflesh to every saddletramp that rides by.” The smile suddenly disappeared. “Is this somebody’s idea of a joke? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m the owner of those horses.”
There followed a deathly silence as it dawned on the two partners who the dark stranger was. For a full minute, there was no sound. Lonnie was frozen by the stranger’s piercing stare. Tolbert, until that moment, had been unable to identify the warrior he had last seen at the Little Big Horn because of the sun in his eyes. Then, realizing that he was soon to be participating in his own death ceremony, Tolbert lunged for the door of the cabin. Before he made it to his feet, he was cut down by Little Wolf’s rifle. Tolbert fell heavily back against the cabin, shot through the lung.
Lonnie was unable to move. His bowels were in the grip of fear’s icy hand. He wanted to run, but he could not. He dropped to his knees, his legs no longer able to support him. The bullet that he dreaded still did not come. All was quiet again, the silence even more pronounced after the sudden roar of the rifle. Now there was only the soft choking gurgle coming from Tolbert’s throat as he tried desperately to breathe. Lonnie’s chin dropped to his chest as huge tears began to fill his eyes.
Slowly, Little Wolf dismounted and walked up to the broken man. Sickened by the sight of the cowardly murderer of his people, he grabbed a handful of Lonnie’s hair and jerked his head back so he could look directly into his eyes. Lonnie screamed, then started sobbing. “I didn’t have no part in it, I swear. I didn’t kill them women! I wasn’t even there!”
Little Wolf lifted him by the hair until he was halfway up. Lonnie whimpered thinly, then suddenly grunted as he was doubled over by the force of the knife that sank deep into his stomach. Little Wolf withdrew the blade and stepped back to let the man fall at his feet. Feeling no need to hurry while the two white men lay mortally wounded, Little Wolf went back to his horse and took his bow from the loop of rawhide behind the saddle. He drew one arrow from his quiver for each man, a calling card to let the people of Medicine Creek know these men had paid for the senseless murders of Sleeps Standing, Lark, and White Moon. Tolbert, lying against the side of the cabin, was already dead, and did not move when the arrow smashed his breastbone and buried itself deep inside his chest. Little Wolf notched the other arrow and turned back to Lonnie. Lonnie was still alive but was no longer whimpering, his vocal cords paralyzed by terror and pain. His eyes were wide, almost bulging from the shock of facing certain death. Fueled by his passion for revenge on those who had slaughtered his longtime friends, Little Wolf was reluctant to end the white man’s torment. He stood staring down at the wounded man with eyes that burned with a cold flame. Finally, he drew the bowstring back and released the arrow that hastened Lonnie Jacobs’s departure. To complete the execution, he ripped each man’s shirt open and, with his knife, carved three long slashes on one man’s chest and four on the other.
When it was done, Little Wolf stood silently looking around him. As before, when he dispatched the sheriff and the mayor, the killing did nothing to ease the anguish and sense of loss he felt. He decided then that Rain Song was right. There was no purpose in taking more lives. There had been enough slaughter. These would be the last two scalps to adorn Sleeps Standing’s burial platform. He would go back for Rain Song and Sore Hand and go farther south, deeper into the Bitterroots, and try once again to make a new start. Relieved to be done with the business, he lowered the corral poles and led the Appaloosas out. With his horses once again in his possession, Little Wolf struck out across the valley toward the mountains and the camp by the waterfall.
* * *
Captain Hollis Malpas held up his hand to halt the column of troopers behind him. “What is it, Charlie?”
The half-breed scout, Charlie Rain Cloud, pulled up from a gallop and wheeled his horse alongside the captain. “Dead men!” he blurted.
“Dead men? Where?”
“In the valley, two white men laying dead by a little cabin.”
Brice Paxton pulled up beside them. “That cabin would be Tolbert and Jacobs’s place. That’s the only cabin I know of in that valley.”
Malpas nodded and said, “More of that devil’s work, I expect.” He prepared to signal the troop to move out.
“Ain’t no hurry,” Charlie Rain Cloud said, “he’s done and gone.”
E Company filed into the little valley and, under orders from Malpas, split up to circle the cabin in the event their quarry might still be lurking about. When it was determined that there was no one else around, Malpas dismounted the troops while Charlie looked around for sign.
Sergeant Baskin walked up beside Brice, who was standing over the body of Sam Tolbert. He stared at the bodies of the two partners for a few moments before commenting. “Cheyenne arrows. Looks like it’s our man, all right. This’un was killed with a rifle. Looks like our renegade just wasted an arrow.”
“He wants us to know who did it. It’s all about revenge. These two were part of that posse we met over at Medicine Creek.” He looked down at the scalpless corpses. Noticing their mutilated chests, Brice suddenly realized the significance of the slashes. “Number three and number four. I wonder how many he figures to kill.” He didn’t voice it, but the thought occurred to him that the two men probably got what they deserved.
After Charlie Rain Cloud had scouted the area and concluded that Little Wolf had left there at least a day before, Malpas decided to search the mountains east of the settlement of Medicine Creek. According to Charlie, this was the country Yellow Hand was scouting and Malpas figured the Nez Perce scout had a better idea where to find Little Wolf than anyone else. He decided to divide the company into three patrols, headed by each of the three officers. The company remained intact until they crossed the river. On the far side, Paul Simmons, along with twenty men, broke off and pushed directly east. Brice also with twenty, continued north, working his way toward the east to follow a narrow valley that led into the mountains. Malpas, with the balance of the company, followed the river, planning to veer off to the east before reaching Medicine Creek. He kept the half-breed scout with him, while Paul and Brice each took three of the remaining six Nez Perces as scouts.
Before leaving the river, Malpas instructed his two lieutenants, “Scout out any trails you come across. It’s pretty hard going in some places in these mountains and he will more than likely stick to the trails. We’ll rendezvous back here in three days. And, gentlemen, watch yourselves.”
* * *
After climbing steadily through a seemingly endless band of lodgepole pines that ringed the line of mountain ridges, Yellow Hand stopped dead in his tracks and looked hard through the trees. A movement on the other side of them had caught his eye. He tied his horse to a limb and continued on foot. For the last half hour or so, he had heard the sound of rushing water and yet he had not found a stream. Now the sound was close. Moving cautiously, he made his way through the tall pines, so thick he had to weave his way through them. He climbed higher up toward the crest of the ridge. There it was again! A movement, a glimpse of something or someone darting along the ridge above him. He hurried to gain the top of the ridge. Crawling the last few yards to the crest, he peered over the spine of the ridge in time to see the fleeting image of a man just as he disappeared into a thicket below.
Yellow Hand’s heart beat against his breastbone. I have found him! The sound of the rushing water was now louder than ever and he strained to see the source through the trees. Working his way quickly down to the thicket where he had last seen the man, he dropped to his knees and searched the brush before him with his eyes, his rifle ready. He could see no sign of the man, but now he discovered the waterfall that sent water crashing down the face of the cliff. A moment later, the man appeared again. He emerged from the thick forest and walked across a small clearing toward a pool at the bottom of the waterfall. There, sitting by the edge of the pool, he saw her. Rain Song!
Yellow Hand’s heart was pounding now. He looked back at the man. It was not Little Wolf. He was an old man, a Nez Perce he remembered having seen on occasion at the reservation at Lapwai. Bad luck, he thought, disappointed that Little Wolf was not there. Too bad for you, old man, but you must die. I can’t be bothered with taking you back to Lapwai.
Although dissatisfied to find that the man he sought to kill was not there, Yellow Hand was still pleased with himself that he had found the woman. He would take her with him and then see if Little Wolf dared to track them down. As long as he had the woman, he no longer had to search through these mountains. He would let Little Wolf come to him, and then he would kill him. Unable to keep a smile from his face, he rose to his feet and went back to retrieve his horse.
* * *
Rain Song took a large rock and pounded down a stake that had loosened as the drying elk hide pulled against it. Satisfied that it was now secure, she sat back on her heels and gazed out across the rocky stream toward the waterfall. A busy water ouzel caught her eye. The tiny bird had built his nest of moss close by the water’s edge and was constantly darting in and out of the rushing water, searching for his supper. This is a good place, she thought. When Little Wolf returns, I will beg him to let us stay here and make our home. The thought of her husband caused a warm trembling inside her breast, and she smiled when she pictured in her mind the tall, graceful warrior who loved her. At almost the same time, she heard Sore Hand call out that someone was coming.
She quickly got to her feet and looked toward the ridge behind her. There was a rider making his way through the pines. At first she thought Little Wolf had returned and her heart began to race with excitement. She started running to meet him, but halfway across the grassy bottom, she stopped. The rider had emerged from the thicket, and it was not Little Wolf. She could see that it was not a soldier, but another Indian. She was not alarmed, since it was not a white man approaching, but she remained still, watching the rider as he reached the bottom of the hill and rode toward them.
When approximately within fifty yards, the stranger brought his rifle up to his shoulder. At the same moment the rifle cracked, she realized the man was Yellow Hand. She heard herself scream as she saw the bullet rip into Sore Hand’s chest and the old Nez Perce was knocked over backward. Frozen by the horror she had just witnessed, she stood stone still for a few moments before gathering her senses enough to turn and run back toward the waterfall. Yellow Hand galloped after her.
He easily overtook her before she had covered half the distance to the water. With his rawhide whip, he trapped the running girl’s ankles, causing her to trip and stumble to the ground. Yellow Hand was off his horse and upon her in a flash. She fought like a young mountain lion, straining and struggling against the superior strength of the Nez Perce scout. But soon it was over. She lay exhausted and helpless under him.
When he was certain she had no strength to break away, he relaxed his grip on her wrists a little. “Do not fight. I have no desire to hurt you.”
“Then let me go!” she spat back at him.
“No, I will never let you go. I have come to do you a great honor. You will be my wife now.”
“Ha!” she laughed defiantly. “I will never be your wife.” She struggled against his grip. “You talk of honor. You are a murderer. You killed Sore Hand, a member of your own tribe. He has done nothing to anger you.”
“He was in my way. Besides, he was an old man. He would have died soon, anyway.”
His comment made her furious and she once again summoned strength to struggle against her imprisonment. He squeezed down hard on her wrists, merely smiling at her futile struggles. “I am a patient man. You will see that it is the best thing for you to be my wife. I can give you many things your Cheyenne dog cannot. I am the number one scout at the fort. You will be proud to be my woman.”
“I would die first. I would rather mate with a coyote than go to your tipi.”
He smiled. “We will see. As I said, I am a patient man, but don’t think I will not punish you if you disobey me. Now, get up.” He got off of her and pulled her to her feet. She attempted to kick him between his legs, but he avoided her foot and gave her a hard slap for her trouble.
Refusing to cry out, she stared defiantly into his eyes. “You are a dead man,” she hissed. “Little Wolf will find you and kill you.”
He laughed, showing his contempt for the Cheyenne warrior. “He is a dead man if he tries to follow us. He had better pray that the soldiers get him before I do. His death will be slow and painful if I catch him.”
Yellow Hand knew it was unreasonable, but still he had hoped the woman would realize Little Wolf had no future and she would come willingly. There was no uncertainty about her feelings, however. She had already made them quite apparent. So he felt he had no choice but to bind her hands and feet to her pony to prevent her from escaping. He felt that, in time, she would eventually weaken in her defiance and become a proper wife to him. But if she didn’t, he would keep her tied to a stake, if that’s what it took. His passion for this woman was strong, and he could not abide the thought of another man having her.
Rain Song sat silently on her pony while Yellow Hand tied Sore Hand’s horse on a line behind his. She looked at the body of the old Nez Perce who had lived with her and Little Wolf ever since they first came to the Bitterroot country. His body looked small and frail, lying in the lush grass of the streambanks. When Yellow Hand had finished tying off the spare horse and had climbed up on his own, she spoke.
“Aren’t you at least going to bury him? He is a Nez Perce, like you, one of your own people.”
“I don’t have time to waste on that old man. The buzzards and the coyotes will perform his burial ceremony for him.” He kicked his horse hard and led them off down the narrow ravine.
* * *
Brice Paxton reined up and raised his hand to bring the patrol to a halt. Sergeant Baskin pulled up beside him. “What is it, Sir?”
Brice pointed toward a low ridge off to their left where one of the Nez Perce scouts had just appeared, riding on a course that would intercept the column. “Looks like he might have found something.”
Brice ordered the patrol to resume the march at a walk to meet the scout. In a few minutes, the scout was within shouting distance and Brice called out, “Yellow Hand!” and pointed back toward the top of the ridge. He rode to meet the column. When the scout had closed the distance between them, he told Brice that he had found Yellow Hand and that Yellow Hand had discovered the Cheyenne’s camp.
Brice led the column at a full gallop, following the scout back toward the ridge. Near the top, they found the other two Nez Perces talking to Yellow Hand. Yellow Hand walked his pony to meet the lieutenant when he saw the column making its way up to him.
“Is it true?” Brice wanted to know. “Did you find Little Wolf’s camp?” Yellow Hand nodded. “Is he there?”
“Not there,” Yellow Hand replied. “Old man,” he struggled to put his words into English, “old man there, fight. I kill him.”
Brice was confused. “Old man? Little Wolf was not there? Was the woman there?”
Yellow Hand shook his head. “No woman there.”
“Well, how the hell do you know it was Little Wolf’s camp?”
Yellow Hand’s expression remained unchanged. He solemnly nodded his head up and down and said, “It Little Wolf’s camp. Old man friend of Little Wolf.”
Brice looked at Sergeant Baskin. “I don’t know, Sergeant. Whaddaya think?”
Baskin shrugged. “I don’t know either. Yellow Hand’s the best we got. He’s probably right, and if he is, maybe we can set up a little welcoming party for Little Wolf when he comes back.”
Brice was mildly surprised when Yellow Hand balked at leading the column to the Cheyenne’s camp. Instead, he gave the Nez Perce scouts detailed directions so they could find the camp. He insisted that Colonel Wheaton gave him specific orders to continue scouting for the renegade on his own. This made no sense to Brice. If he was certain the camp was Little Wolf’s, then it figured that was the place to catch him and the woman. Brice was not alone in questioning Yellow Hand’s reasoning. One of the other Nez Perce scouts seemed to be arguing the point with him as well. In the end, Yellow Hand remained stoically intent on going off on his own, saying that Little Wolf may or may not return to the camp. If he didn’t, Yellow Hand might strike his trail somewhere else. He insisted that he needed only one man to ride with him, pointing to the scout known simply as Hump, the cousin of Yellow Hand.
“Well, go on then,” Brice said. “Are you sure these two scouts can find the camp?”
“They find,” was Yellow Hand’s curt reply before leaping upon his pony’s back and riding off across the ridge. Hump, ever somber and expressionless, wheeled his pony and galloped after him.
Brice stood for a moment watching the departing scouts. “What the hell was that all about? You think ol’ Yellow Hand might be a little afraid of meeting up with this Cheyenne?”
Baskin shook his head. “Naw, I doubt it, not Yellow Hand. He’s just got a briar up his butt about something. Who knows?”
It was not a briar on Yellow Hand’s mind, but a Cheyenne flower, securely tied to a tree in a wooded canyon some three miles distant from where the column now stood. He was intent upon having the woman, and he feared that if the lieutenant knew she was a captive, he would order Yellow Hand to give her up.
* * *
Rain Song pulled against the rawhide as hard as she could. She strained until blood ran down her arms from the cuts caused by the tough thongs around her wrists. Still she struggled until the rawhide became slippery with her blood. It was no use. Yellow Hand had done his work well. She could not free herself. Frustrated and exhausted, she lay back against the rough bark of the pine. It had been hours since the Nez Perce scout had tied her to the tree and ridden off to intercept the soldiers. The sun was well past its high point and sinking closer to the mountaintops.
She had had nothing to eat or drink since she had been abducted, but her thoughts were not of food or water. Her soul called out for Little Wolf. He must come, for she feared Yellow Hand meant to carry her far away. In her despair, huge tears began to form in her dark eyes, slowly welling over until they were pushed down her cheeks, leaving long streaks in the dusty film that had covered her face.
Suddenly he was there. Walking his pony through the curtain of pines, Yellow Hand pulled up before her. Behind him, another man followed. Yellow Hand sat looking at her for a moment before dismounting to stand over her. She stared defiantly at him, refusing to cower before him. He reached for the canteen on his saddlehorn.
“Drink.”
She did not refuse, and drank eagerly from the canteen held to her lips. He let her drink until she pulled away and leaned back against the tree again. He replaced the canteen and knelt beside her, his face close to hers.
“I’m sorry I had to leave you tied, but it was necessary to save you from the soldiers.” His eyes searched hers for some sign of gratitude. There was none. “You won’t have to worry or be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of you. You will be my wife. The soldiers won’t harm you if you are my wife.”
“Little Wolf will come for me. He’ll kill you for what you have done.”
“Ha! Little Wolf is dead!” He rocked back on his heels, his face displaying the disdain he held for the Cheyenne warrior.
Her eyes opened wide, shocked by his blunt retort. “Little Wolf is dead?” she almost screamed. “I don’t believe you. Little Wolf is not dead!”
Yellow Hand smiled, then nodded solemnly. “He is dead,” he lied. It was not really untrue, he told himself, for there was little doubt that the Cheyenne renegade soon would be. He, Yellow Hand, had found Little Wolf’s camp and the Cheyenne warrior was sure to come back for his woman. When he did, he would find Lieutenant Paxton waiting for him with twenty soldiers. It was best now if she thought he was already dead, for the sooner she would accept it, the sooner she would turn to Yellow Hand to care for her. He glanced at Hump, who was now seated on a dead log, watching the confrontation but seemingly disinterested in what was being said. It was of no concern to him what Yellow Hand did with this woman.
Yellow Hand took her hands in his and examined her bloody wrists. “You have hurt yourself. That was foolish. You will soon learn that you are my woman now.” He attempted to embrace her but she pulled away from him as far as her bonds allowed.
“Do not touch me! I am Little Wolf’s wife!”
“Not anymore!” he shot back, his patience strained, his attempted gentle approach having failed. “The Cheyenne dog is dead. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.” He took her by her shoulders and shook her violently. “You are my wife now!”
Still glaring defiantly, she said nothing then. After a moment, she lowered her head and cried silent tears. He watched her carefully for a few minutes, thinking it best to let her exhaust her defiance. After a while, when she had remained calm and quiet, he decided she was at last resigned to her fate. Taking his scalping knife, he cut the thongs from her feet. When she made no effort to move, he cut her wrists free as well. Then he took a couple of steps back and stood watching her.
She sat there for a long time before she moved. Then she began rubbing her ankles where the thongs had bound her. Watching Yellow Hand cautiously, she slowly rose to her feet, her legs stiff and sore from the position she had been forced to sit in for hours. When she had regained the feeling in her limbs, she looked into his eyes and softly spoke. “You must let me go now, for I will never be your wife. I love Little Wolf. I can be wife to no other.”
Yellow Hand almost cried out his frustration with the woman. He almost wished he had not come to desire her so. But he knew he must have her. So, if she must be broken like a wild horse, then he would break her. He was obsessed with her now, and the fact that she continued to reject him frustrated him to the point of humiliation. He stepped up to her and slapped her hard across the face. She was knocked backward a step by the blow, but uttered not a sound. This infuriated him even more. He glared at her, his eyes like burning coals, and raised his hand to strike her again. She thrust her face forward to receive the blow, unyielding in her defiance. He hesitated but slapped her again, though not as hard as before. He growled in his anguish.
“Let me go,” she said, her voice low and soft.
“You will be my wife.”
“No,” she replied.
In response, he took the rawhide thongs and looped one end around one of her wrists. With the other end, he tied her to his own wrist. He then bound one of her ankles to one of his own. “We will sleep together as husband and wife. This way we will be married.”
She struggled at first but soon realized he was too powerful to resist. When he had tied them together, she stood passively for a moment. Mistaking her calm for resignation to her fate, he reached for her. When she reacted, it was so sudden he was taken by surprise. Moving as quickly as a serpent strikes, she reached under his arm and grasped the long scalping knife in his belt. His first thought was to protect himself so he jumped backward, throwing his free hand up to defend against the attack. To his surprise, she did not strike out at him. Instead, she thrust the knife deep into her own body with a force that sank it almost to the handle.
The blow caused her to gasp in pain. Then, her words straining through her pain, she uttered, “You will sleep with a corpse. I go to join Little Wolf.”
Yellow Hand was horrified. Rain Song’s frail body slumped and, even though she weighed little more than one hundred pounds, the dead weight was enough to cause him to stumble. He was barely able to maintain his balance as the mortally wounded girl sank to the ground.
Stunned by her desperate and final act of resistance, Yellow Hand could only stare in shocked confusion, unable at first to believe his eyes. Forced by the rawhide thongs to stand in a stooped position, he had to withdraw his knife from the wounded girl’s body in order to free himself. One last involuntary gasp from Rain Song’s lips was the only sound she made when the blade was withdrawn. Then she lay still. Shock, followed by astonishment, and finally anger tore through Yellow Hand’s brain. He grimaced as he sawed the bonds that held him to the girl. When he was free, he stood over her body, unable to look away from her. Suddenly his humiliation and rage became overwhelming, and he roared out in anger. He did not interpret Rain Song’s ultimate sacrifice as testimony to her love for her husband. To him, it was a stark insult to his prestige as a warrior and a leading member of his tribe. As relentlessly as he had pursued her before, he now viewed her body with disgust. In a fit of anger, he took the still-bloody knife and prepared to slash her throat. Hump, also stunned by the girl’s impulsive actions, now blurted out the words that saved her life. “She’s not dead.” It was enough to stay the executioner’s hand, as Yellow Hand harnessed his anger long enough to see for himself.
* * *
Perhaps if Little Wolf had not taken the time to take the scalps of the two white men to Sleeps Standing’s burial platform, he would have been in his camp when Yellow Hand struck. Now, as he made his way down through the pines, he became immediately alert. Sensing something wrong, he stopped at the edge of the thicket and scanned the clearing by the waterfall. There was no sign of Rain Song or Sore Hand. The horses were nowhere in sight. It was unusual that both Rain Song and Sore Hand would be away from the camp at the same time.
Aware now of the pounding of his heart, he searched the narrow ravine with his eyes, his anguish mounting with every second that passed. Moving slowly and quietly across the clearing, he was almost to the edge of the water when he discovered Sore Hand’s body, lying at the base of a twisted laurel near the edge of the clearing.
Moving quickly then, his rifle ready, his eyes darting constantly from left to right, he went to his old friend’s side. Thinking him dead, he bent low over him and placed a comforting hand upon the old Nez Perce’s shoulder. Sore Hand’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. Little Wolf sat back, surprised. The old man was still alive, although barely.
“Little Wolf?” The question was feeble and barely audible.
“Yes, I’m here, old friend.” He waited only a moment, then asked, “Rain Song, where is she?”
“Gone,” he gasped, straining to make the words. “The army scout, Yellow Hand…took her…”
Before Little Wolf could ask more, the old man’s eyes fluttered again, then opened wide as if staring into death’s cold face. His final breath escaped in a long sigh, and then he was gone.
Little Wolf, suddenly weary, sat down beside the old man. Sore Hand had evidently been mortally wounded for hours, but the old Nez Perce had clung desperately to life, determined to stay alive until Little Wolf found him so he could tell him that this was Yellow Hand’s work. Gazing into the faithful old man’s face, he silently thanked him, then gently closed Sore Hand’s eyes. “Sleep, my friend,” he whispered.
Though anxious to go after Rain Song, Little Wolf remained long enough to bury his old friend. He knew it was important to the old man to have his body returned to Mother Earth so that his spirit could roam freely in the land of the dead. He felt it was the least he could do for one who had been so true a friend to him and Rain Song. At least Yellow Hand had not scalped the old man.
When Sore Hand’s body was safely interred beneath the branches of a tall pine, Little Wolf started out after Yellow Hand. The trail was not hard to follow. He suspected that Rain Song had made every effort to mark it whenever she could, judging by the occasional broken branch. His senses alive and ever searching, he hurried after them, watching the trail before him for a possible ambush. Yellow Hand was cunning. He had watched the Nez Perce scout when the soldiers searched for him after he had rescued Rain Song from the fort. He might be clever enough to lead him into a trap.
After leaving his camp by the waterfall, Yellow Hand had doubled back toward the river, seeming to head in a general direction that would take him back to the fort on Lapwai Creek. But before reaching the river, the trail abruptly turned again into the mountains, leading up into a stand of pines that covered most of a low ridge. She had been here—he was certain of it. The pieces of cut rawhide, some with blood on them, along with the tracks around the tree, told him she had been tied there. There were other tracks that told him there were two who held her captive. There was a struggle, evidenced by a great deal of blood on the ground. Devastated, he sat back on his heels and tried to form a picture in his mind of the events that had happened there. She had been carried away. Someone was badly wounded. Was it her? She might be dead, but then why would they take her body with them? Perhaps to display, hoping to entice him to come after her.
Under the crushing weight of his despair, he gave no thought to his own safety. He didn’t care if a bullet found him at that moment for, without her, his soul was already dead. In his mind, he could see her, alone and crying out for him, and he wanted to slash his own body in his grief.
After a few minutes, he forced his mind back to concentrate on the task before him now. He would find her, whether she was dead or living. These two, Yellow Hand and his accomplice, must pay for what they had done, even if it took the rest of his life. Following the trail left by the four horses, Little Wolf set out again, a warrior with only one thought: revenge.