For the second time in the last two miles, Rain Song slid from her horse’s back and fell to the ground, reopening the ragged wound in her side. Hump had pushed the horses relentlessly in an effort to put distance between them and Little Wolf, and finally Rain Song became too weak to hang on. The sullen Nez Perce rode on for thirty yards before realizing the horse he was leading was riderless. When he looked back and saw Rain Song’s frail body lying in the trail behind him, he became angry. He yanked his pony’s head around so forcefully that the animal screamed in pain.
Galloping back to the wounded girl, he expressed his anger with his whip, slashing her legs and buttocks with the stinging rawhide. When this attack did not provoke response, he paused and sat staring down at her, wondering but not really caring if she was dead. After a moment, she groaned and struggled to get up, but her efforts were in vain. She was too weak to rise.
Hump climbed down from his pony and squatted by her side, his dull, expressionless eyes fixed upon the wounded girl while he speculated on her chances of survival. Yellow Hand had instructed him to take the girl to his uncle’s lodge on the reservation where she could be cared for until she recovered from her wound. Looking at the half-delirious young woman, he wondered if it was worth it. It would be much easier to leave her here to die. Still, Yellow Hand was a dangerous man when angered. He stood up and looked back the way they had come. There was no sign of anyone following. He was certain the white Cheyenne had not picked up his trail.
“Get up,” he said and prodded her with his foot. She only groaned and rolled over on her back, revealing a blood-soaked buckskin dress. He stared, dumbfounded, not certain if the woman would live or die. Hump was a dull-witted brute and was uncomfortable with the prospect of having to make a decision. But he feared Yellow Hand’s wrath, so he decided he would deliver the girl to his uncle, even if she was a corpse by the time they arrived. He cut down two young trees and fashioned a travois to carry Rain Song the rest of the way to the reservation.
It was well after dark when Hump rode into the circle of lodges, leading a horse and travois. The injured woman on the travois had not made a sound during the last three hours, so Hump was not sure if she was alive or dead. At this point, he was unconcerned. He had delivered the woman to the tipi of his uncle. Consequently, in his mind, he had done Yellow Hand’s bidding and had nothing to fear from his cousin.
Inside the tipi, seated at the back of the lodge as was befitting the head of the family, Two Horses paused to listen. He was sure he heard a horse approaching. Moments later he heard his name called. His wife, Broken Wing, pulled the entrance flap back far enough to peep outside.
“It’s Hump,” she said, dropping the flap again while she looked back at her husband. “He has something on a travois.” She noted the strained look of irritation on Two Horses’s face. Hump was not a favorite nephew, a feeling shared by Broken Wing. He was a powerfully built young man, but was somewhat simpleminded and Two Horses tolerated him only because he was his brother’s son. Two Horses sighed wearily and got up from the fire. He flashed a tired grimace toward his wife as he lifted the flap and went outside.
Hump raised his hand in greeting, then gestured toward the travois behind him. “Yellow Hand told me to bring her to you to take care of her wound. He will come for her in a few days.”
Seeing this was the only explanation the surly Hump was to offer, Two Horses grunted a reply and walked over to the travois. There he discovered, to his astonishment, a half-dead Indian woman, barely able to open her eyes. He looked back at Hump for some further explanation. The scout’s face was without expression. Two Horses turned back to the woman on the travois. In the darkness outside the tipi it was still obvious that the black stains covering the front of her dress were blood. He called for Broken Wing to come outside.
Broken Wing, upon examining the injured girl, immediately took charge. She instructed Two Horses and Hump to carry Rain Song into the tipi, admonishing the clumsy Hump to be gentle. “She is not a deer carcass,” she scolded as she held the entrance flap aside for them.
While Broken Wing tended to the wounded girl, Two Horses and Hump went outside where Two Horses questioned his nephew about their unexpected visitor. After Hump told him of the events that had brought Rain Song to his lodge, Two Horses reluctantly agreed to look after the girl until Yellow Hand came for her. Hump remembered the one thing that Yellow Hand had stressed—that neither the Indian Agent nor the soldiers must know about the girl. Satisfied that he had completed his assignment, Hump left, planning to return to Captain Malpas’s company of troopers in the morning.
Broken Wing was concerned but not overly stressed to learn the identity of their guest. It would not be possible to keep her presence secret in the small circle of lodges. But the white agent never came to their village, so it was unlikely he would ever find out. Like Hump, Yellow Hand had never been a favorite of hers. They, like many of the Nez Perce warriors, had chosen to turn from the old ways of their fathers and ride as scouts with the soldiers at the fort. Unlike Hump, Yellow Hand enjoyed a reputation of skill and cunning that gave him power among the soldiers and, consequently, created a sense of fear in the reservation of Nez Perces. In spite of her disapproval of her husband’s two nephews, she did not hesitate to administer to the wounds of this unfortunate young woman who had landed in her lap.
“She is Cheyenne,” Two Horses stated as he watched his wife working to close the ragged wound in the woman’s side. “She is the Cheyenne woman the soldiers held captive in the fort, the one the white Cheyenne warrior snatched from the soldiers.”
Broken Wing nodded, then asked, “Is her husband dead?”
“Hump was not sure, but he is certain that he will soon be. The soldiers have found two of his camps and Yellow Hand is leading them on his trail.”
Broken Wing smiled knowingly. “So Yellow Hand has decided to take the woman for himself.” She paused to look into the woman’s face. “I can see why he wants her. She is a pretty thing.” She sent her husband outside while she stripped Rain Song’s dress away and covered her with a soft robe. Rain Song’s eyelids fluttered rapidly as if awakening from a deep sleep. Broken Wing laid a cool hand on her brow. “Don’t be afraid. You are safe now.”
* * *
“Damned if I’m not getting tired of these useless patrols. An entire Indian village could hide in these hills and we couldn’t find them. If that renegade’s got any sense at all, he’s so far away from this territory by now that we’re just wasting time and rations.”
Brice grinned at his complaining friend. In his opinion, Paul Simmons was the least likely candidate to wind up in a cavalry regiment. Paul didn’t like horses and, for the most part, they didn’t like him. It seemed that even the most gentle of mounts would be tempted to take a nip at him, somehow sensing his dislike for them. Consequently, he had gone to a great deal of expense of time and his personal finances to find the one mount that held no grudge toward him. She was a fine-looking animal, a chestnut mare with white stockings named Daisy, and his greatest fear was that Daisy might be shot out from under him.
Paul’s dislike for horses was not the only thing that made him out of place in a cavalry unit. He despised long expeditions in the field which, lately, were constant. Ever since Colonel Wheaton had been thoroughly chastised by his superiors for letting the Cheyenne renegade slip through his fingers, the company had been ordered out on one patrol after another.
“Paul, how the hell did you end up in the First Cavalry anyway?”
“Damned if I know,” Paul shot back. “Because I was near the bottom of my class at The Point, I guess. I had my mind set on a desk job in Washington.”
Brice laughed. “Well, maybe you’ll get there yet.” He liked Paul even though the two had very little in common. Contrary to Paul’s dislike for the field, Brice thrived on it. He enjoyed being out in the hills away from the routine of the fort. Garrison life in general was boring to him, and life at Lapwai was even more intolerable. The fact that the fort was originally built to accommodate no more than two companies made it vastly overcrowded, with Companies E and H sharing space with the 2nd Infantry Regiment. There were only two small duplexes provided for the officers’ quarters, which made it necessary for E Company’s officers to live in tents in the Southwest corner of the parade ground. As far as Brice was concerned, life was better in the field, even if the rations were somewhat lacking.
Paul was about to complain further when Brice silenced him with a raised hand. Both officers looked up ahead to where Yellow Hand sat on his pony, signaling. “He may have found something,” Brice said and spurred his horse into a canter.
The patrol had been following an old Indian hunting trail for the better part of the morning, leading up through a dense stand of pines. The lodgepoles on either side of the trail were thick, seemingly impenetrable, with the floor of the forest as much as a foot deep in pinestraw. There had been no particular reason to follow this trail, aside from the simple fact that it had not been searched before.
When the column caught up to Yellow Hand, Brice saw that the trail had finally emerged from the dark forest of pines only to descend again across a rocky ridge toward a narrow gulch. As soon as Brice had pulled up beside him, Yellow Hand got off his pony and led it a few yards up the trail. Brice dismounted and followed.
“Here,” Yellow Hand grunted, pointing to hoofprints in the soft sand and shell rock. He got up and walked a few yards farther, where he pointed to a pile of droppings. Picking up some of the manure, he held it out for Brice to see. “Fresh, maybe two hours.”
Declining to take the sample, Brice nodded and said, “I’ll take your word for it. Do you think it’s Little Wolf?”
Yellow Hand shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be.”
“Well, let’s follow it and see who it is.”
Yellow Hand nodded and climbed back in the saddle. The tracks he had found left the trail and led higher up in the rocky bluffs above them. Brice could hear a few low remarks in the ranks behind him, questioning the wisdom in continuing to climb up the steep mountain. He ignored them. Before long, the trail became so steep that it was difficult for the horses to climb without sliding in the shifting gravel. The soldiers had to sidle along the slope to prevent the horses from going over backward and taking an unfortunate rider on a wild tumble a quarter of a mile down to the trees below. Brice now began to question his wisdom in leading the column along a route so treacherous. He glanced up at the summit of the mountain, several hundred feet above them. Glancing back at Yellow Hand in front, he could see that the scout’s Indian pony was having no easier time of it than the heavier army mounts.
From his position high above the single line of blue shirts inching their way across the slope, Little Wolf sat passively watching the troopers laboring to traverse the precarious terrain. He had purposely left a trail they could not possibly miss, and now he waited patiently for the Nez Perce scout to pass a point directly below his position. When Yellow Hand reached that point and entered a narrow gulch, Little Wolf rose to one knee and prepared to go into action.
Brice Paxton glanced nervously at the trees below. This is crazy, he thought. Up ahead some forty or fifty yards, he could see that Yellow Hand appeared to have reached more solid ground. Encouraged, he called back to Paul Simmons, “If you can stay in the saddle for a few minutes more, it looks like there’s solid footing ahead.”
“The question is, can I stay in the saddle a few more minutes?” Paul answered. He hesitated when Daisy sank over her fetlocks in the loose sand and shell rock. “I hope to hell we don’t have to go back this way.”
No sooner had the words left his lips when the mountain above them erupted in a massive rock slide. Started by a single boulder the size of a washtub, it gathered loose shale and boulders, building as it came crashing down the steep slope, catching larger boulders in its path until, within seconds, it appeared the entire mountain was sliding away. Horses screamed and reared back. Men cried out in alarm, fighting to remain in the saddle. In the wink of an eye, the column of cavalry was plunged into chaos as horses got sideways on the slope, trying to turn around on the narrow trail. First one, then another trooper parted company with his mount and was sent sliding and tumbling down the mountainside, clutching desperately at scrubby pines as they were swept past them.
Brice, at the head of the column, barely escaped being whisked down the mountainside by the slide that passed before him like a tidal wave of earth, boulders, and shell rock. He managed to hold his horse steady, backing him up to a wider place in the trail before turning around. Paul Simmons was in front of him now, struggling desperately with his mount.
“Hold her back, Paul! Don’t let her try to run! Hold her back!” Glancing back over his shoulder, Brice could now see that the slide was not spreading toward them. They were safe where they were, if they could calm the horses. “We’re all right here. It’s behind us,” he called out to the troopers still struggling to control their terrified mounts. “Take it real slow.”
Looking down below him, he counted four horses and riders scattered in various places along the steep slope. Only one horse had tumbled all the way down to the edge of the lodgepoles. Its rider was making his way down to recover his mount, sliding on all fours to keep from building momentum. The horse, however, appeared to have broken its neck because it lay still, not moving, its head bent at a peculiar angle. It was pure luck none of the men were killed, Brice thought.
He ordered the men to start inching their way back down the trail toward the pine forest. Even though the slide had ended, the trail before them was buried, cutting them off from Yellow Hand, who was stranded on the other side. He’ll have to find his own way down, Brice mused.
Yellow Hand, watching the sudden slide from the safety of the gulch, sensed there was a reason why he was spared but was now unable to get back to the column. He looked quickly around him. All was quiet ahead. He looked back at the wall of dirt and rock that now blocked his way back to the column. Something told him that the rock slide was no accident. His eyes darted nervously back and forth across the rocks above, straining to catch a glimpse of anything moving. Seeing nothing, he had no choice but to continue on, following the gulch, hoping it would lead to a way down the mountain.
Behind him, on the other side of the rock slide, he heard Lieutenant Paxton calling out to him, telling him that they would wait for him at the base of the mountain where they had camped the night before. Yellow Hand heard it, but the message held no importance for him at that moment. His one concern now was Little Wolf. The Cheyenne had cut him off from the soldiers for one purpose only, and Yellow Hand’s senses were alive now as he tried to pinpoint the likely spot where Little Wolf might be lying in ambush.
He dismounted. Holding his pony’s bridle, he moved cautiously down the rocky gulch, walking close to the wall of rock on one side, and using his horse to shield his other side. As he moved farther along the narrow rock corridor, he could no longer hear the sounds of the troopers behind him. It became as quiet as death, with no sound now except the low moan of the wind sweeping through the boulders above. Yellow Hand would admit no fear of any mortal, yet he had an uneasy feeling that left a metallic taste in his mouth. At every step, he expected the rifle shot that was bound to ring out at him from somewhere. Why did it not come? He felt a rivulet of sweat trace its way from his armpit down his side. He stopped and stared hard at the trail behind him. Where was the Cheyenne dog? The cautious, uneasy feeling became anger, and his face twisted with rage as he frantically searched the cliff’s above for sign.
Rounding a sharp turn in the stone corridor, Yellow Hand discovered that the gulch spread out into a shallow ravine with scrub pines along the sides. He stopped and looked it over carefully, his gaze darting from tree to tree. It was the way down he had hoped for—the decline, though not gentle, was not too steep to ride his pony down without fear of going head over heels. Looking down toward the bottom of the ravine, it appeared there was a clearing in the trees. He looked all around him again, above and below. He could see no place that offered real concealment for anyone waiting in ambush. Could his senses have given him the wrong message? Maybe the rock slide was nothing more than a natural slide after all. Yellow Hand was almost disappointed. Maybe I won’t get the chance to kill the Cheyenne dog today, he thought.
He climbed up into the saddle and sat there for a long moment. He was convinced then that there had been no danger of attack. If Little Wolf was lying in wait for him, this would have been the moment, when he was sitting on his mount, exposed to anyone in the rocks above. There was still no sound save that of the wind. He prodded his pony and started down the ravine toward the clearing.
Although the slope was not dangerously steep, still Yellow Hand had to hold his pony back in an effort to keep from building too much momentum. His pony, nimble though he was, almost stumbled several times as he planted his front legs stiffly before him in the loose gravel, his rump high behind him. Yellow Hand almost lay on his back at times in order to remain in the saddle.
At last, the slope leveled off enough to enable him to sit more easily in the saddle. The pony, upon feeling solid ground beneath his hoofs once more, broke into an easy run, almost a full gallop. Yellow Hand did not hold him back as he made for the cover of the trees and the clearing behind. Free of the burning anticipation of the bullet he felt was certain to come minutes before, Yellow Hand nevertheless deemed it prudent to seek the safety of the tall pines. He did not like the feeling he’d had while exposed on the slope above, a feeling that a rifle’s sights were trained on his back. He was anxious to remove himself from that position and once again take on the role of the stalker. He would wait to pick up the renegade’s trail again.
The rawhide rope was all but invisible against the background of pine needles on the floor of the forest. Not more than two feet off the ground, tied firmly between two stout pines, it was impossible to see by a rider riding recklessly into the shade of the trees. Yellow Hand’s first thought, when he was suddenly hurled into midair, was that his pony had been shot out from under him. In the confusion of that split second, it did not register in his mind that he had heard no gunfire. He was more concerned with trying to break his fall so as to minimize his injuries. He landed hard, rolling to lessen the impact. As soon as he could recover his senses enough, Yellow Hand scrambled to his feet, still dazed by his fall. Looking into the lodgepole forest, he blinked his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the shade. Suddenly his whole body stiffened.
There he was! Standing before him, his feet planted wide, coolly watching the efforts of the confused Nez Perce scout to gather his senses. In the midday darkness of the lodgepole shade, he appeared as a demon, naked from the waist up, his face painted with red and white stripes leading from his nose across his cheeks. He stood squarely, seemingly as tall as the pines around him. For the first time in his life, Yellow Hand experienced raw, undiluted terror.
His senses clear now, sobered by the spectre before him, he glanced around to determine his chances for survival. His pony, having recovered from his stumble, was now several yards down the trail, past the menacing figure planted before him. Yellow Hand’s rifle was still in the saddle boot. There was a pistol in his belt, but the rifle leveled at his midsection acted as the deterrent that kept him from reaching for it. There was no place for him to run. A bullet would find him before he took a step in any direction. After a few frantic thoughts, he resigned himself to his execution and began to mumble a low death chant.
“Shut up!” Little Wolf spat in the Nez Perce tongue. “Stop your cowardly whining, killer of women and old men. It is not time to sing your death song yet.”
Mistaking Little Wolf’s intention, Yellow Hand was not surprised that his captor meant to torture him, killing him slowly. “I am a warrior. I deserve to die with dignity,” he blurted.
“Do not talk to me of dignity. You have the dignity of a coyote.” He motioned with his rifle. “Take the pistol from your belt and throw it to me.” He anticipated the thoughts running through the doomed man’s mind. “Take it out with your left hand, slowly. If you try to use it, I promise you your death will take many days.” When Yellow Hand drew the pistol and tossed it at Little Wolf’s feet, Little Wolf reached down and picked it up. He opened the cylinder and ejected the bullets, then tossed the gun aside. “Now the knife.” When he had relieved him of all his weapons, Little Wolf said, “We will now see if you are a warrior, as you claim.”
A bewildered Yellow Hand looked on, astonished, as Little Wolf ejected the shells in his own rifle and tossed it aside. He then took his own knife and threw it into the trees where he had thrown Yellow Hand’s. It was plain to him then what was to occur and it left his mind in a state of confusion. He had a chance to save his life, but there was a feeling deep inside his soul that told him he did not want to fight this painted demon before him. He stood motionless, watching Little Wolf as he stepped closer to him.
Little Wolf knew that he could have easily killed the scout as he stood there defenseless, cutting him to pieces with his rifle. But that would not have satisfied the burning hatred he had for this man. In his grief for his wife and the rage he harbored for the man who killed her, he knew that he would not be content with ending the murderer’s life with a bullet. That would be far too merciful. He had to kill him with his bare hands, rip the life from him, as Yellow Hand had torn Rain Song away.
Yellow Hand geared himself to fight for his life, moving a few steps to his right and then waiting for Little Wolf to approach. Little Wolf closed then, his body tensed and ready to spring, like a mountain lion preparing to kill. Yellow Hand made the fatal mistake of looking into the Cheyenne’s eyes. They were cold, unblinking, measuring, and Yellow Hand felt his body shudder. He had seen his own death in Little Wolf’s deep dark eyes.
In the next instant, Yellow Hand bolted, making a desperate dash for the trees where Little Wolf had thrown the knives. Little Wolf was on him instantly, overtaking the terrified man before he had cleared the narrow trail, sending him sprawling with one blow between his shoulder blades. Like a cat, Little Wolf showed no mercy in his attack. Yellow Hand tried to roll away from him, but Little Wolf was on top of him in a heartbeat, his hand clamped on the helpless man’s throat with the force of a puma’s jaws. Slowly, he clamped tighter and tighter. Yellow Hand flailed at his tormentor, trying to break his grip. Little Wolf ignored the blows, clamping down tighter and tighter on Yellow Hand’s throat until the Nez Perce could hear the crunching of his own windpipe as it collapsed under the fierce pressure. Consumed by the fury within him, Little Wolf clamped down harder and harder until the object of his terrible vengeance ceased to struggle. Even then, he did not release his death grip on Yellow Hand’s throat, staring trancelike at the bulging eyes that looked up at him but no longer saw.
After what seemed a long time, he sat back on his heels, still staring at the body of the Nez Perce scout. The storm that had raged inside him was at last stilled and he sat there on the ground, exhausted. Vengeance was not to be a balm for his tormented soul, however. At that moment, he missed Rain Song more than ever.
* * *
The late afternoon melted into dusk and still there was no sign of Yellow Hand. Brice told Sergeant Baskin to have the men make camp there by the stream since it would soon be dark. They would wait until morning for the scout to show up. Paul strode up from the stream where he had been washing away some of the grime that had covered him when the rock slide sent clouds of dust swirling around the troopers. He stood there listening as Brice gave Baskin his orders. When the sergeant walked away, Paul sat down against a willow and stretched his legs out before him.
“I swear, Brice. Do my legs look like they’re trying to bow a little? I’ve got to get transferred out of this damn cavalry.”
Brice laughed. “You know, they do look like they’re beginning to curve a little.” He couldn’t resist teasing his friend a bit, although Paul’s legs were as straight as the day he was assigned to the 1st Cavalry.
“Damn. If I don’t get my desk job, I’ll end up bowlegged as hell. I’ll be like Baskin there. He’s so damn bowlegged he can take a dump standing up and he won’t even get any on his boots.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Paul. You’ll get your ass shot before that happens.”
“You really know how to cheer a person up, don’t you?” Turning serious for a moment, he asked, “What do you suppose happened to Yellow Hand?”
“I was wondering myself. He might still be trying to find a way down that mountain, and might have had to cross over to the other side to find a way down. If he doesn’t turn up by morning, I suppose we’ll have to go looking for him.” It riled Brice that he was bound to look for Yellow Hand. He had never cared much for the aloof Indian scout before the incident with the Cheyenne woman. Since then, he had developed a rather strong dislike for him. But he couldn’t very well order the troop back, leaving Yellow Hand to fend for himself. That wouldn’t set a very good example for the rest of the Nez Perce scouts.
Night passed and morning came bright and clear with a chill on the air. Still there was no sign of Yellow Hand. Now Brice feared the scout was in trouble. He called Paul and Sergeant Baskin over to discuss the best direction to start searching in. They decided it would be pointless to retrace their tracks of the day before. They would still be unable to pass the rock slide. Having that avenue closed to them, Brice decided to skirt the base of the mountain in hopes of finding a way up that would bring them past the slide and intercept the trail beyond that point.
It took them all morning, probing the mountainside for a way up. But each time they climbed through the ring of lodgepole forest that circled the mountain, they were met with slopes so steep and shifting that they would have to turn back and try in another spot. Finally one of the troopers riding out ahead reported that he had found what looked like a trail through the pines and, from below, there looked to be a ridge high up above it that might be passable. This seemed to offer some possibility, so Brice ordered the column forward.
The patrol weaved its way through the forest, following the game trail in single file. They had almost come to the upper edge of the thick stand of lodgepoles when the point man returned to meet the column, pushing his horse as fast as he could manage in the dense timber.
“Lieutenant!” he called out as he reined up sharply beside Brice. He took a moment to quiet his horse before reporting his find. “I found him. It ain’t pretty.”
The patrol followed the trooper up the trail to a small clearing less than a hundred yards from the upper treeline. The clearing had no doubt been caused by a fire some years before, because there were singed tree trunks scattered throughout the clearing, nearly covered now by knee-high bushes. Brice didn’t see it at first until the trooper pointed toward the right side of the trail. There, from the limb of a stunted pine, hung the body of Yellow Hand. The scout’s killer had used Yellow Hand’s whip to tie his ankles and hang him upside down. The scalplock had been taken, the skin around the crown of his head hanging jagged and loose from the scalping knife.
“Damn,” was all Brice could manage at first. He dismounted to examine the body up close. Baskin moved up beside him. Paul remained in the saddle, seeing all he wanted without need for closer inspection. “Damn,” Brice repeated. He noted the dried blood that had formed from rips in the dead man’s throat and the small droplets of blood on the ground under his head. “Not much blood,” he said.
“Nossir,” Baskin replied. “Looks to me like that devil crushed his windpipe, and damn near broke his neck.” Looking around the body at the trampled bushes, he said, “Looks like there was a helluva tussle.”
“Looks like,” Brice answered. He moved around behind the body. “What do you make of this, Sergeant?”
Baskin stepped over beside Brice and looked at the ripped shirt of the late Nez Perce scout. It revealed areas of torn flesh on the dead man’s back and shoulders. He studied the wounds for a moment before answering. “Buzzards, or magpies maybe. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been here since yesterday afternoon. Hanging here in these trees, ain’t nuthin’ found him but the birds. It mighta been another day before the walking critters found him.”
“Damn,” Brice muttered again. “Cut him down from there.” He stepped back as Baskin motioned for the first two troopers in line to dismount. “Let’s get him in the ground and then we’ll push on. Maybe we can pick up his trail.”
“Yessir,” Baskin mumbled. The lieutenant knew as well as he did that their chances of following Little Wolf’s trail were the same as following a piss trail up the river. It was Brice’s notion that it would be fitting to bury Yellow Hand among the thick lodgepoles. The sergeant, having done his share of digging during his years in the army, persuaded him that it would be best to bury the Indian in the rocks above the treeline. “We’d be trying to dig through pine roots for the rest of the day,” he explained. So several of the troopers set to it and carved out a shallow grave a few yards above the trail at the head of a massive boulder. After Yellow Hand was laid to rest, they piled rocks on top to keep predators away.
They made an attempt to pick up Little Wolf’s trail, knowing they could not expect much success. It was easy enough at first, for the tracks were obvious, leading up away from the trees. Above them, the peaks of the mountains stood high against the deep azure of the sky, their snowy crowns glistening in the afternoon rays of the sun. Breathtaking yet foreboding, they seemed to defy invasion by mortal man. The horse ain’t been made that can scale those cliffs, Brice thought, knowing the man they trailed would, out of necessity, have to descend pretty soon. Still, the trail led upward until they came to a vast field of solid rock. That was where the trail ended. Not surprised, Brice ordered the column to turn back.
Halfway back to Lapwai, the patrol met Hump, who was on his way to rejoin the column. As stoic as ever, Hump showed little emotion when told of his cousin’s death at the hands of the Cheyenne renegade. Brice was amazed by the sullen scout’s reaction to the details of Yellow Hand’s demise. If he could have read the thoughts the news generated in the brute’s limited brain cells, he would have understood Hump’s lack of grief. The scout’s first reaction was to realize that the woman, Rain Song, was now his property, and perhaps Yellow Hand’s position as chief Indian scout as well. His eyes immediately shifted toward Charlie Rain Cloud, who would be his major competition for the job. No, there would be no mourning for Yellow Hand in Hump’s tipi.
* * *
Colonel Wheaton reluctantly cut back on the daily patrols searching for the renegade Cheyenne warrior when, day after day, his officers reported back with no contact and no trail to follow. Their Indian scouts could only shrug their shoulders and explain that they could not follow where there was no trail. On the last several patrols he had led, Brice noticed an increasing tendency to hang back on the part of the Nez Perce scouts. They seemed reluctant to venture far afield, preferring to work in closer to the column of cavalry. The scouts also tended to give up on a trail early on, arguing that it was not Little Wolf’s trail but only that of a harmless hunter. It became clear to him that the Indian scouts had come to believe Little Wolf was perhaps more than a mortal man. Finally, Charlie Rain Cloud confirmed his suspicions.
“This white Cheyenne, many people think he talks with the spirits. He has many kills, but all revenge. All who have tried to catch him are killed. Yellow Hand was killed, Yellow Hand was a mighty warrior. All the scouts at the fort feared Yellow Hand. Little Wolf killed him. People are saying maybe it is best to leave the white Cheyenne alone and let him go his own way.”
It soon became apparent to Colonel Wheaton that the morale as well as the effectiveness of his Indian scouts had become decidedly diluted, due to the existence of one man. He would have been inclined to clean the slate himself and declare the renegade gone from the territory except for one thing: General Sherman was adamant in his demand for the Cheyenne’s capture and hanging. He continued to apply pressure on Wheaton for results, and threatened to send General Howard back to do the job. Wheaton knew that it was no more than that—a threat. The one-armed general’s reputation had grown to heroic proportions since he had chased Chief Joseph’s band of Nez Perce from the Wallawa Valley. Still, the pressure from his superiors was intense enough to warrant Wheaton’s decision to invoke more desperate means. Sergeant Baskin first learned of the colonel’s desperate move from the regimental sergeant major, and he passed it along to lieutenants Paxton and Simmons.
Brice and Paul stood talking near the infantry barracks when Sergeant Baskin came out of the commissary storehouse, heading toward the kitchen. When he spotted the two officers, Baskin veered toward them,
“Well, Sir,” he started, addressing Brice, “looks like our job’s been give away. The colonel’s sent for Tobin.”
Brice raised his eyebrows, mildly curious. “Who’s Tobin?”
“Folks used to say he was the best scout around these parts. Used to ride for General Howard till they had a falling out over something to do with the way the general was chasing Chief Joseph. Folks say he’s part Injun.”
Paul snorted an amused snicker. “Is that so? Which part?”
Baskin glanced at him soberly. “The part that ain’t panther, according to what I hear.”
“Well, I guess he’ll be welcome.” This from Brice. “We could damn sure use some help.”
“Maybe,” Baskin said. “But, from what I’ve heard, Tobin ain’t any too welcome anywhere he shows up.”
“Why is that?”
Baskin shrugged. “This is just what I’ve been told, mind you. The man’s got a bone-deep mean streak. He’s supposed to be a helluva tracker, but he don’t usually come back with prisoners. Seems they most all get shot trying to escape—least that’s his side of it. And that ain’t all they say. Sergeant Becker in H Company says he killed a whore over in Lewisburg. Everybody knew it was him what done it, only they couldn’t prove it.”