Little Wolf knelt down on a flat rock that jutted out into the swiftly running stream. Cupping the cool water in his hand, he washed the dried blood from the long crease in his left shoulder. Tobin’s bullet had cut a shallow trench in his skin. There was no real damage, as the injury was little more than a deep scratch. He had been lucky to catch the glint of moonlight on the rifle barrel in time to avoid taking the shot in his chest. The bullet wound was nothing when compared to the pain in his heart, knowing that he had been so close to Rain Song and unable to rescue her. He would have returned fire had the big scout not moved to the window Rain Song had called from. Little Wolf could not risk firing into the window for fear of hitting his wife.
The night was not a complete loss. He now knew for sure that Rain Song was being held in the jail. He had wanted to try to talk to her—it had been so long since he last saw her. He wanted to tell her that he would come for her, that she mustn’t give up hope. But the big tracker was more alert than he had anticipated. No matter, she knew he was there, and she had to know that as long as he drew breath, he would come to her, even if it meant he had to kill the entire town.
When he finished cleaning his wound, he moved back away from the stream into the trees and sat down to decide on a plan. The jail was too fortified to break into. Tobin was obviously staying put inside his fortress, knowing Little Wolf could not very well storm the building. That would be suicidal. He had to draw the huge man outside. He thought hard on it. His fighting would have to be done at night. He could not be sure how much support the big tracker had from the town, so he couldn’t expose himself to some storekeeper’s rifle fire. After a minute of thought, he decided that since the town had burned him out, it was only fitting that he return the favor.
* * *
Arvin Gilbert knew something was amiss as soon as he walked in the front door that morning. He went at once to the back door where his fears were confirmed. The door was closed, but it was not locked as he had left it. The bottom panel had been kicked in and the intruder had reached in and lifted the bar. He had been robbed!
He walked quickly back to the front and stood in the middle of the store, looking around him. Some things were out of place, but there was no sign of wanton pillaging. The safe in the corner of his stockroom had not been disturbed, a fact that distressed him momentarily. Did someone know that he only kept a token amount of money in the safe? Hurriedly, he crossed over to the back counter. He crawled under the counter and lifted the floorboard. Brushing aside the straw and sawdust that covered the square iron box, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was still there! Just to make sure, he took a key from his watch pocket and opened the lock. Nothing was amiss. What was the thief after, if not the money?
Returning to the front of the store, he began a careful inspection of his shelves. At first he was ready to conclude that nothing had been taken, but soon he began to discover the loss of first one thing, then another. After canvassing the entire store, he could say for certain what his losses were; a five-gallon can of kerosene, a block of salt pork, two boxes of rifle cartridges, and as near as he could figure, part of a bolt of cotton cloth. Later that morning, when he went down to the saloon, he puzzled over his robbery with Henry Blanton.
“Whaddaya make of that?” Arvin asked his friend.
Henry scratched his head thoughtfully. “It is a mite queer. You sure you ain’t missing nuthin’ else?”
“Nothing I can find. I reckon whoever it was just wanted to do a little shopping for a few things. Hell, if they didn’t have no money, I’da give ’em credit for that much—I’da heap rather give it to ’em then have ’em bust up my door.”
Blanton nodded, understanding. “You ought to make you a solid door like the one I got out back. That one’ll stand up to about anything short of dynamite.” He paused while he poured Arvin a cup of coffee. Then, grinning, he asked, “You gonna report the robbery to our acting sheriff?”
“A lot of good that would do,” Arvin snorted. Then, as a precaution, he looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. For such a huge man, Tobin could move uncommonly quiet.
“It’s all right,” Blanton said, chuckling, “he’s done been here for his load of rations.”
* * *
Even though he had remarked to Blanton that it would do no good to report the break-in to their new sheriff, Arvin still made it a point to be at the saloon when Tobin ambled in for his evening meal. He waited until the surly brute had finished his second plate of side meat and beans before approaching him.
Tobin eyed the mayor with a glance that might have been reserved for a cockroach. He harbored no tolerance for weakness of any kind, and he saw a weakness in Arvin Gilbert that disgusted him. He made no efforts to disguise his contempt for all the citizens of Medicine Creek, but Arvin was especially revolting to him. So, when the mayor stepped up to his table and paused, waiting to be acknowledged, Tobin simply leered up at him from under bushy black eyebrows. Arvin almost lost his courage and was about to turn around and leave the surly brute to scowl alone.
“What the hell do you want?” Tobin growled, his voice rumbling up from deep in his powerful chest. It stopped Arvin in his tracks.
“Why, nothing—that is, I was just going to pass the time of day,” he lied. Summoning up his resolve, he blurted, “Well, there was something.” He almost faltered when Tobin cocked an eyebrow at this, but figured he had gotten this far, so he spit it out. “Somebody broke into my store last night—busted the back door.” When Tobin continued to glare at the little man, making no reply, Arvin began to sputter, already sorry he had even mentioned it. “Well, you know, you being sheriff and all—like you said—as long as you’re using the jail.” When his words were still met with silence, he made one more attempt to assert his authority. “As mayor, it is my responsibility to insist that the sheriff look into these matters.”
Still Tobin did not respond. The only sign he showed that indicated he had even heard the mayor’s timid protest was a darkening of his already stormy countenance. After a moment during which Arvin stood frozen, not knowing whether to say more or simply turn and remove himself, Tobin slowly rose from his chair. “I ain’t got time to fool with your piddly little problems,” he said gruffly as he brushed by the embarrassed little man and left the saloon.
Voices that had been low and subdued the entire time the baleful scout had sat at the back table noisily eating his supper, once again gained pitch and substance as the tension eased. Arvin turned around to find every eye in the place on him. What do they expect? he thought. I can’t challenge the brute. Looking toward the bar, he met the broad grin of Henry Blanton.
“We used to think Franklin Bowers was hard to get along with,” Blanton said. “What are we gonna do about that devil?”
Arvin had no answer for him. He shook his head slowly, and shrugging his shoulders, abruptly turned and headed for the door. Feeling mortified to have been treated with such disrespect—and in front of a good number of his friends—Arvin simply wanted to go home and hope to forget about the incident.
* * *
It had been a typical spring season in the river valley and Medicine Creek had received a normal amount of rainfall. But during the last few days, as summer approached, it had been uncommonly dry. Even the ruts in the usually muddy street were beginning to dry out. Homesteaders were already complaining about their crops. With a stout breeze blowing from the south that rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods, conditions were prime for disaster.
Like a shooting star, the flaming arrow traced a brilliant arc across the dark moonless night and came to rest solidly in the dry shingles of the saloon roof. The solitary figure on the knoll behind the buildings paused to judge the effectiveness of his first arrow before preparing the second. Seeing that the kerosene-soaked cloth had effectively spread the flames to a sizable area of the dry shingles, he carefully ignited another arrow and launched it. Like the first, it spread rapidly across the dried-out roof, which had become like tinder over the last few rainless days.
After placing several more arrows at intervals along the roof line, he was confident that the kerosene rags had done their work. The townfolk of Medicine Creek had long since retired to their beds for the night, and by the time the building would be blazing hard enough to waken the saloon keeper and his family in their little house behind, it would be too late to extinguish it.
Little Wolf felt no compassion for the man who owned the saloon. He wasn’t certain Blanton was among the burning and murdering riders who stormed down on his little ranch. Even if Blanton wasn’t, he still supported the deed, even fed the half-breed scout who held Rain Song captive. Little Wolf was not concerned with individuals in his mission to rescue his wife. From his point of view, there were only two distinct personalities—the town of Medicine Creek, and Tobin. They were both his mortal enemies.
Leading his horse in the dark, he made his way along the base of the hills that guarded the eastern side of the valley to a point opposite the jail and south of the stables. Here, he tied his horse and sat down to wait. From this vantage point, he could see the front door of the jail.
The roof of the saloon burned for more than half an hour before the interior structure caught fire and major flames began to reach up into the nighttime sky. It seemed like only seconds after this that the alarm went out. The saloon keeper, a nightshirt tucked haphazardly into his trousers, ran hysterically back and forth from the front of the burning building to the back. After a moment, he ran into his house and emerged seconds later with a shotgun, which he fired into the air—three shots, which was the town’s distress signal. In a matter of minutes, people from several buildings poured into the dusty street in response to the alarm. A bucket brigade was hastily organized, but it proved to be a fruitless effort. The river was too far away and the buckets of water that were passed along were too few to have any effect on the flames.
The one person Little Wolf was most concerned with failed to respond to the town’s emergency. Little Wolf watched the door of the jail intensely, waiting for the burly scout to show himself and provide the opportunity Little Wolf waited for. Surely, Little Wolf thought, the town’s sheriff would respond to the fire. Still, there was no reaction from Tobin, even when Blanton’s son was sent down to the jail to fetch him. From a position closer now that would afford a clear shot at the door, Little Wolf watched as Blanton’s boy banged on the solid door of the jail, yelling at the top of his lungs. In a very short time, the boy was silenced by a gruff voice from inside that obviously told the lad to button his lip and get the hell away from his door.
His plan had failed. Little Wolf now understood the singleness of purpose the big scout had. Tobin was totally unconcerned with Blanton’s loss, and he was smart enough to realize that the fire was possibly set to lure him into the white Cheyenne’s rifle sights. Little Wolf was disappointed, but not discouraged. How long, he wondered, would the people of the town tolerate their sheriff’s reticence? With the patience that had come with many drawn-out battles with the army, Little Wolf resolved to test the will of Medicine Creek to demand action from Tobin.
* * *
Ike Frieze trudged wearily back to his stables. Near exhaustion, his face and arms were black with the soot and smoke from the saloon fire. With the other men of the town, he had tried to tote water from the river in an effort to keep the fire from spreading to the front of the building. When it became apparent that this was a useless effort, he, along with Blanton and his son, dashed into the raging building to carry out anything they could. When the whiskey barrels went up, they knew they were finished. There was nothing left but to stand by and watch it burn.
By his watch, it was two-thirty when Ike was awakened by Blanton’s shotgun. He glanced at his timepiece as he approached the stables—it was almost five o’clock. It would soon be daylight. In about two and a half hours, Blanton had been wiped out. Ike shook his head sadly to think how devastating a similar disaster would be to him. Then, as if just noticing the grime on his hands, he walked around the building to the horse trough to wash his face and arms.
The water was cool and refreshing and he splashed it liberally on his face and neck. Realizing that his whiskers had been singed by the flames, he dunked his head in the water. The hand that clamped down on the back of his neck had the strength of a vise, and Ike was helpless to pull his head from the water. It had happened so suddenly that he had not had time to take a breath and he realized he was drowning. Even with his arms and legs flailing in an attempt to save himself, his desperation was not of sufficient strength to escape the trap he was in. He could hold his breath no longer.
A moment before sliding into unconsciousness, he was suddenly lifted out of the water trough and brought roughly to his feet, gasping for the cool morning air. At the very threshold of death moments before, he was concerned only with gulping great lungfuls of air. When he recovered his senses to a degree, the next sight that met his eyes almost sent his confused brain reeling. It was him! Little Wolf!
Ike had never seen the notorious Little Wolf, but he knew with certainty that this painted savage that stood towering over him in the gray predawn light could be no other. The sight was so terrifying to him that he could utter no sound except a feeble whine that seemed to simply ooze from his trembling lips. He knew he was about to meet death. Paralyzed by his fear, his body sagged and would have collapsed, had not the Cheyenne supported him with one hand around his throat.
“Stand up,” Little Wolf commanded, his voice low and hard as iron. “I am not going to take your worthless life now. I have a purpose for you.” Upon hearing the words that he was to be spared, the frightened little man summoned enough strength to support himself. Still holding him by the throat, Little Wolf backed him against the side of the barn. “The big scout is holding a Cheyenne woman in his jail. I will burn this town to the ground if she is not set free. You must tell the others this. Do you understand?”
Ike nodded his head up and down frantically, unable to find his voice. Barely able to believe he was still alive, he could not look into the eyes that bored into his face with determined intensity. Instead, he hung his head and continued to nod his understanding of Little Wolf’s warning. When he was released, Ike slid down the wall of the barn to a sitting position and remained there long after Little Wolf walked to the corner of the corral and leaped onto his pony. The shaken little man was still sitting there when the tall Cheyenne rode unhurriedly into the hills behind the stable as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the trees.
* * *
Tobin opened the door slowly, his eyes searching the hills behind the buildings across the street from the jail. He knew it would be one hell of a lucky shot if he got hit from that distance. But that didn’t mean he’d count out the possibility. Stepping out on the wooden walk, he looked hard up and down the street before starting toward Blanton’s.
When he walked up, Blanton, Arvin Gilbert, Ike Frieze, Morgan Sewell, and several men whose names he didn’t know were standing by the still-smoking ruins that once were a saloon. Blanton had saved everything that could be salvaged, which amounted to very little. His face was a mask of dejection as he poked at a smoldering piece of timber with his toe.
“Well,” he said when he saw the huge scout approaching, “here comes the sheriff.”
Tobin ignored the hint of sarcasm in Blanton’s tone. Instead, he glanced toward the house, now standing naked behind the blackened timbers of the saloon. Looking back at the gathering of men, he remarked, “Looks like you had a little fire.” He said it as casually as if he’d said, Looks like you had a little rain.
Blanton looked dumbfounded, hardly believing the surly tracker’s indifference to his tragedy. He opened his mouth to retort but Arvin quickly spoke. “Tell him, Ike. Tell him what that damn savage said.”
When Arvin nudged him forward, Ike found himself standing almost toe to toe with the ominous scout, a position he was not especially comfortable with. It was the second time in the span of a few hours that he had looked directly into the eyes of death. Nevertheless, he pulled his shoulders back and stammered his message.
“He said you’d best let his squaw go. Said if you didn’t, he’s gonna burn the whole town to the ground.” Having said his piece, he stepped back between Blanton and Morgan Sewell.
Tobin grinned. He didn’t give a damn if Little Wolf burned down every building on the street. He knew there was one he wouldn’t set fire to, not as long as his wife was in the jail. He also figured that, when he didn’t budge, Little Wolf would become more and more frustrated, and get bolder and bolder until he got careless. That’s when Tobin would get him. In the meantime, all Tobin had to do was sit cozy and wait him out.
The grin faded from his face when he looked back at the group of men before him. “I ain’t got time to stand around here. Where’s my breakfast?”
Blanton’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Arvin, who appeared to be as shocked as he was. “Why, god-a’mighty, man—I’ve just been burned out!”
“I can see that, but the house is still standing. The damn kitchen’s in the house, ain’t it?”
As fearsome as the beast was, his callousness was too much for Arvin Gilbert to ignore. He stepped forward. “Now see here, Mr. Tobin, Henry’s got more important things—”
That was as far as he got before the giant man struck out like a timber rattler, clutching Arvin by the throat. “Damn you, you little weasel! I’ve had about all I’m gonna take of your little mealy-mouth whining.” He shoved Arvin back into the men standing behind him. “We made a bargain. I’d stay in the jail and you’d see to my grub. Now, I’m hungry and if you don’t get that woman of yourn to cooking right now, I’m gonna visit her myself.” He glared at Blanton. “By God, she’ll cook then.”
The men of Medicine Creek were stunned. They stood in shocked silence for a few moments before Blanton, his limbs trembling with rage, dutifully turned and went to the house to tell his wife to fix Tobin something to eat.
Tobin turned to leave. “Bring it down to the jail—and tell her to hurry up or I might help that damn Cheyenne burn this town down.”
Arvin called after him. “What about what Ike said? That Indian means business. You’re gonna have to let the woman go. It’s not worth risking our homes and businesses for one woman.”
There was no answer from the huge man. He considered cracking Arvin’s skull, but he decided to ignore him this time. There would be time for that after the renegade Cheyenne was taken care of. But he made a mental note to skin the irritating little rodent before his business was done in Medicine Creek.
The group of stupefied men watched the departing bulk of their hostile sheriff in stunned silence. They made up the core of the Vigilance Committee, and if there had been any question before, there was no doubt now that theirs was a serious problem. Something was going to have to be done about it. When Tobin first rode into town and took over the jail, it was plain to see that he would be a difficult man to deal with. Now it was apparent that he could not be reasonably dealt with at all. He knew no law but his own selfish agenda, and he had not a care for right or decency. Arvin was right when he said the man was little more than an animal.
“What are we gonna do about that man?” It was Morgan Sewell who posed the question that was foremost in every man’s mind.
A homesteader named Jake Bannister, who had witnessed the confrontation just taken place, spoke. “I know what you do when you got a mad dog roaming the streets. And I say we sure as hell got us a mad dog here in Medicine Creek.”
Morgan turned to face him. “What are you saying, Jake? That we should just shoot him? In cold blood?”
Jake shrugged his shoulders as if hesitant to put it that bluntly. “All’s I’m saying is, we got a committee to handle things like Injun trouble and other lawlessness. If the situation calls for drastic action, then so be it.” He looked around for support. “We just do what we have to do.”
There were a few nods of agreement but no one spoke out for a long moment. Arvin, feeling it his responsibility to lead, finally posed the question before them. “Are we talking about a firing squad? Or one man to do the job? I don’t know if I like the idea of a planned murder. Maybe we should give him a strong warning from the committee—let him know we won’t stand for any more of his behavior.”
Blanton spoke up. “Are you crazy, Arvin? You can’t give that murderer any warning. He’d kill us all!”
“Well, he’s gonna kill us all anyway before it’s over—either him or that damn Cheyenne he’s trying to catch,” Morgan replied. “I say we all get our guns and go down there and order him out of town. He ain’t likely to stand up to all of us.”
“What if he still won’t go?” Arvin asked.
“Then shoot him down where he stands, same as you would any mad dog,” Jake Bannister answered.
Arvin shook his head slowly. He was not comfortable with the way the discussion was headed. The impromptu meeting was interrupted for a few moments when Blanton’s wife called for her son to come get Tobin’s breakfast. They watched as the boy walked away, holding a tin plate piled high. Arvin’s brow was furrowed with concern. “This is serious business we’re talking about here. I think we better have another meeting to decide what action we’re gonna take. I don’t want us to go off half-cocked.”
At least there was general agreement on that point. It was also decided that action would need to be taken soon, so a meeting was planned for that evening. Since their usual meeting place was now little more than a pile of ashes, it was decided to gather in Arvin Gilbert’s general store.
The meeting got started a little sooner than usual due to the fact that Arvin could not provide the whiskey and beer that was normally consumed in Blanton’s saloon. Though early in starting, the meeting went on later in the evening than most sessions of the vigilance committee. No one was anxious to confront the dark and fearful man holding the town hostage. But after much heated discussion for and against, there was general agreement that the town could not survive with Tobin ensconced as sheriff. The question to be debated and decided upon was exactly what action the committee should take. Part of the group favored an execution-style ambush, giving the sinister scout no chance to defend himself. Most of the debate for this group was led by Jake Bannister. However, a larger portion of the committee—influenced by the passionate rhetoric of Reverend Norsworthy and the pleading of Arvin Gilbert—voted to visit their unwelcome guest in sufficient number to guarantee no resistance. Half a dozen men, armed and determined, should be enough to force the brute to leave town, they reasoned.
As Arvin so eloquently phrased it, “It’s our town. We built it from the ground up with our own sweat and muscle. We’ve banded together before in times of trouble. If we stick together, no one can defy us, not even an evil coyote like Tobin.”
So it was decided. The meeting broke up around ten o’clock, after a committee of six men were selected to confront the surly half-breed early the following morning. “Before breakfast,” Blanton requested. “I don’t aim to feed that mean son of a bitch one more time.”