It had taken only a few days of searching before Little Wolf found the last encampment site of Wounded Bear’s band. He studied signs that told of the standoff that took place between the Nez Perces and the soldiers. It was more difficult to find the trail he was intent on discovering—that of a single horse carrying double. Amid all the tracks left behind by the Indian ponies and the cavalry, it seemed impossible to distinguish between them and tracks that might have been left by Hump’s pony. Still he searched doggedly, examining every possible sign. Discouraged, he sat down to think the situation over. Then he remembered—Blue Otter had told him that Hump had come to take Rain Song away when they had camped the night before the soldiers caught up with them. He leaped on his pony and galloped back, along the obvious trail the Nez Perces had taken.
The trail led him to another grassy valley and a wide stream. The blackened circles in the grass told him this was where Wounded Bear had camped. As before, he started searching for the single set of tracks that would show him the trail Hump had taken after leaving with Rain Song. After considering and rejecting the various comings and goings of single sets of prints, he decided on a trail of prints in the soft sand of the creek bank. The tracks were deep, indicating a heavier than usual load. If they had been leading toward the camp, instead of away from it, he might have rejected them as those of a hunter carrying a deer. His instincts told him these were the tracks he sought.
Within a mile of the next campsite, circling buzzards led him to Hump’s body. The huge, grotesque birds were making short work of the army scout’s carcass, and Little Wolf had to chase them away with his whip in order to take a look for himself. There was just enough left for him to make a guess that this was the remains of the Indian Blue Otter had called Hump.
He looked from the body to two small saplings where two lengths of rawhide lay, evidence that someone had cut them. Rain Song had been tied there. He had to choke back the emotion that threatened to overflow when his mind formed the picture of his wife lying there. He forced himself to keep his mind on the business of tracking. He backed away from Hump’s carcass and let the buzzards finish their meal.
At least he was confident Rain Song was still alive. But someone else had killed Hump and taken her. The bear-sized tracker who had followed him came to mind at once. When Little Wolf last saw him, he was headed in the general direction that could have led him to this spot. So now he would be trailing two horses. He stood up and peered out across the meadow toward the mountains as if hoping to see Rain Song. The trail led out down the valley toward the south. Medicine Creek, he thought.
Little Wolf rode across a valley floor that danced in the morning breezes rushing through the mountain pass. Tall yellow blossoms waved like golden spears, reaching as high as his pony’s chest and parting before the two horses as they loped along. It appeared that the trail led toward a sheer rock wall at the end of the valley, with no outlet. Still, the trail did not waver. Little Wolf decided the man he followed knew where he was going. It was not the trail of a man who was unfamiliar with the country, wavering in around the rocky bluffs, searching for a way through the mountains. As he suspected, when he was practically boxed in by the bluffs’ stone walls, he discovered a forceful stream that raced through a narrow corridor of solid rock, leading off to the west. If he had not been following a trail across the grassy valley, there was doubt that he would have ever discovered the stream.
Little Wolf reined up for a few moments, studying the narrow passage. The tracks led into the water. He looked to each side of the passage. The walls were solid rock and extended up more than a hundred feet before tapering away to form ledges thick with pine and spruce. It was barely wide enough to allow a horse to pass. He hesitated but a moment more, then nudged his pony gently with his heels and entered the water.
The sides of the stone passage were damp and cold, having seldom seen the sun. The water seemed to gather intensity as it was forced through the narrow confines, causing it to roar like a waterfall and send up clouds of fine mist that engulfed his horses. He looked up at the thin ribbon of blue sky, a hundred feet above him, and the thought occurred to him that a man would be helpless against ambush in this place. There was no room to turn around and go back. Several times his horse nearly stumbled on the slippery rocky stream bottom, causing his packhorse to run up on him. Little Wolf wondered if perhaps he had been fooled and might be riding into a trap. No, he told himself, the horses he followed had come this way so there had to be a way out.
After about a hundred yards, the passage began to open up and pretty soon he saw sunlight ahead. Moments later, he emerged from a wide ravine into broad daylight. He paused to look back the way he had come, at the narrow crack through the base of the mountain, then up at the crest high above. The man knew where he was going—it would have taken the best part of the day to work up and over the mountain. It served to trigger a warning in Little Wolf’s mind. He was obviously in territory the big tracker knew well.
Thoughts of an ambush disappeared when he found the trail again, leading from the water. The man he followed made no effort to disguise his tracks, leaving a plain trail across a short flat and up the gentle slope of a foothill. Down the far side of the hill, the tracks intercepted a frequently used trail that led through the mountains to Medicine Creek. There was little doubt where the big man was taking Rain Song. He nudged his pony to pick up the pace. Medicine Creek was no more than a day’s ride away.
* * *
“What’s all the fuss about?” Arvin Gilbert wanted to know as he walked up to the bar in Blanton’s Saloon. He was looking toward the back of the saloon, where several men seemed to be arguing.
Henry Blanton shook his head impatiently. “Johnny Blevins,” was all he offered, knowing that was explanation enough for Arvin. Johnny was as friendly and reasonable a man as you’d want when he was sober, which was most of the time. A hard-working man trying to scratch a living out of the soil, Johnny let the hard times get the best of him from time to time. When that happened, he usually rode into Medicine Creek to drown his troubles in Blanton’s cheapest whiskey. Sometimes he got a little bit rowdy, and Franklin Bowers would lock him up and let him sleep it off. Johnny was always remorseful the next day and made his apologies before riding back to his farm.
Arvin and Henry ignored the loud bursts of conversation from the back table while Arvin had his evening drink before going home to supper. As it usually did in recent days, the conversation worked its way around to the new resident in the town jail.
“How long do you suppose we’re gonna have that damn grizzly laying around the jail, gittin’ fat on my grub?”
Arvin shrugged. “I don’t know. It don’t look like he’s accomplishing a helluva lot, does it?” He took a sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Of course, you know you can go down there and politely tell him to move on.”
“Did I say I was tired of livin’?” Blanton snorted. “Seriously, Arvin, he’s running up a helluva bill. I ain’t never knowed a man could eat that much. We’re gonna have to do something about him. I sure don’t want him taking root around here.”
Arvin was about to reply when the voices at the back table raised to a shouting match. “Looks like Johnny’s getting riled up again.” He had no sooner said it when both men were suddenly startled by a gunshot. “Damn!” Arvin yelled and both men jumped.
Henry ducked behind the bar. When no more shots followed, he slowly raised his eyes high enough to see over the bar. Johnny was standing, though not on steady legs, his pistol in his hand. Henry glanced up at the new hole in his ceiling. “Dammit, Johnny, put that damn gun away before you kill somebody!”
Johnny turned toward Blanton, straining to focus his whiskey-glazed eyes. “I’m just tryin to have a little drink and play some cards. And I ain’t gonna stand for nobody dealing offen the bottom of the deck.” He cast an accusing eye at Bert Thompson.
Henry knew Bert wouldn’t cheat anybody. He didn’t have enough skill to deal from the bottom anyway. “I reckon you’ve had about enough to drink, Johnny. Why don’t you just go on home now?”
“I’ll go home when I’m damn good and ready,” Johnny replied harshly, and for emphasis, shot another hole in the ceiling.
“Dammit, Johnny!” Blanton shouted. He was not especially enthusiastic about taking further action. Blanton didn’t care to force the issue even though he was sure Johnny would never do any real harm. Still, a drunk with a gun in his hand was always dangerous. He turned to give Arvin an exasperated look.
“Hell,” Arvin suggested. “Why don’t we let that big side of beef earn his keep. He said he’d act as temporary sheriff.” He grinned and added, “Maybe Johnny’ll shoot him.” That seemed like a good idea to Blanton. He sent his boy down to the jail to fetch Tobin.
Tobin was not pleased to be disturbed. It was after seven o’clock and he generally liked to bed down at that hour. He started to tell Blanton’s boy to tell his daddy to go to hell, but changed his mind and decided to take care of the trouble. He found Henry and Arvin waiting for him on the walk in front of the saloon.
“Much obliged, Mr. Tobin. It ain’t much, really. It’s just Johnny Blevins. He’s had too much to drink. He don’t mean no harm. Bowers used to let him sleep it off in the jail.”
Tobin met Blanton’s remarks with a bored stare. Without saying a word, he brushed past the two men and pushed through the swinging doors. Inside, he paused only a moment to look the situation over. His rifle in his hand, his smoldering gaze came to fix on Johnny Blevins, who was still standing at the table. Although he still had his pistol in his hand, it was hanging down, pointed at the floor, and he appeared to have calmed down quite a bit. Tobin moved deliberately to the back table and confronted Johnny.
“Drop that damn pistol,” Tobin demanded.
Johnny looked at the giant man as if only then discovering his presence. The puzzled look on Johnny’s face was evidence that he was too drunk to know he was still holding a gun. Tobin didn’t give second warnings. Faster than anyone there could believe a man that size could move, he brought his rifle barrel down on Johnny’s forearm with so much force, the bone was clearly heard to snap. The gun clattered on the plank floor. Johnny screamed and clutched his broken arm, completely sobered by the pain. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he made no move to defend himself. Tobin didn’t give him the chance to surrender. While Johnny was bent over in agony, his right arm dangling limp and useless, Tobin smashed the rifle barrel up against the side of Johnny’s head, laying open a long gash. Johnny went down in a heap. He had barely hit the floor when the toe of Tobin’s boot landed squarely against his ribs, rolling him over against a table leg. Johnny expelled a loud, painful grunt as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Unable to defend himself, he tried to crawl under the table to escape his attacker. With one hand, Tobin flipped the table over and sent it crashing against the wall. With the other hand, he set in with the rifle, raining one powerful blow after another upon the back and head of the helpless man. Johnny tried to cover his head with his arms but soon the relentless beating rendered him unconscious and he went limp on the floor, no longer responding to each heavy blow of Tobin’s rifle. Still Tobin hammered away at the unresisting lump of flesh. It appeared he was intent upon breaking every bone in the unfortunate man’s body. At last he stopped, long after Johnny was reduced to nothing more than a bloody pile on the barroom floor.
The barroom was filled with a stunned silence. Not a man moved—no one dared, afraid the terrifying brute might turn his wrath upon him. The horror of the terrible beating was etched on each man’s face as they stood silently staring in disbelief at the broken body of Johnny Blevins. Tobin turned to face the patrons of the saloon. Arvin was shocked to see there was no longer any trace of fury reflected in the giant man’s face. Quite the opposite, Tobin’s eyes were clear and his features calm. The man was as cool as a cucumber, and it frightened Arvin even more.
After studying the faces of the collection of Medicine Creek citizens who had just received an honest introduction to the man known simply as Tobin, the brute spoke. Calmly, in a measured voice, he issued a clear warning. “I said I’d take care of these little set-tos for you, but I don’t like to be bothered when I’m fixin’ to go to bed.”
Henry Blanton was the first of the townsmen to find his voice. “Johnny didn’t mean no harm. Bowers just locked him up and let him sleep it off.”
Tobin cocked his head and fixed Blanton with a cold stare. He held it for a long moment before speaking. “There ain’t no need to lock him up now, is there?” He glanced back at his victim, still unmoving on the floor. “I reckon it’ll be a while before this bastard decides to raise another ruckus.” He reached down and ripped off a large square from Johnny’s shirt and cleaned the blood from his rifle. That done, he started for the door. The gathering parted before him. As he reached the door, he said, “Reckon he’ll need some doctoring. Suit yourself on that. All the same to me whether he lives or dies.”
They waited until his footsteps could no longer be heard on the boardwalk, and then they all moved at the same time. “Is he dead?” someone asked as they crowded around the victim.
“Somebody go get Morgan,” Arvin said.
When Morgan Sewell arrived, he was stunned to see the broken man he had been summoned to treat. “My God! What happened to him?” When told of the cause of Johnny’s injuries by several of the men, he was aghast. “This is worse than Edgar Rawlins when he got mauled by that grizzly—and Edgar died.”
“Can you patch him up?” Blanton asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. First, I reckon we better see if he’s even alive.” He bent down on one knee and attempted to straighten Johnny out. After a few minutes of gentle prodding and poking, he put his car to Johnny’s chest and listened. “Well, I don’t know how, but he’s still breathing. I can put a splint on that arm. The rest of it will just have to be up to the good Lord.”
When Morgan had done all he could for Johnny, a couple of his friends put him in a wagon and took him home. No one was overly optimistic about his recovery. Time would tell. Arvin stood talking to Morgan and Blanton as they watched the wagon roll out of sight.
“I tell you what, I can see a lot more of that kind of thing happening around here.” It was Blanton who voiced the thought that was running through the minds of all three men.
Arvin agreed. “I’m afraid you’re right, Henry. We’re gonna have to do something, but I don’t know what. We might as well have a grizzly living down there in that jail.”
“I reckon the Vigilance Committee will have to do something about him. Run him out, like we done with the Injuns.”
“I don’t know, Morgan,” Arvin responded. “I don’t think this will be that simple.” He didn’t voice it, but Arvin wasn’t sure there were enough men in Medicine Creek to take on this grizzly. “Might be we’re jumpin’ the gun a little. You know, he might be just making an example outta poor ol’ Johnny so everybody else will stay in line.”
* * *
Little Wolf could hear the rumble of a wagon and the voices of two or more men long before they drove into sight. It was a bright moonlit night so he guided his horses up off the trail into a patch of fir trees. Little Wolf sat in the saddle and waited for the wagon to pass below him. When it was abreast of his position in the trees, he could clearly see them in the bright moonlight. Two men rode in the seat of an open farm wagon. There appeared to be another man lying in the bed of the wagon, either drunk or wounded, he couldn’t tell for sure. He had no interest in these men—he was merely intent on avoiding them. When they had driven out of sight, he guided his horse back down and continued to follow the trail leading to Medicine Creek.