Tom pointed Billy’s nose across the Yellowstone until the lantern glow of Miles City faded away. Then he crossed the river again and headed northwest. About midnight, a light snow began to fall. Good, he thought, they’ll play hell trying to pick up my trail now. Still he pushed on, wanting the security of knowing there was plenty of distance between him and whoever might be following. The snow stopped before daylight, and he was pleased to note that a blanket of at least a couple of inches had settled over the prairie. At sunup, he pulled up in a stand of trees that offered some protection from the wind and made camp. Knowing there was little danger of someone spotting his smoke in the early morning sunshine, he built a fire and spread out his buffalo robe for a few hours’ sleep.
Rested, he started out again in bright sunlight that promised a better day than the one before. The snow had not amounted to much, being no more than a squall and merely a rehearsal for what would soon be coming. It crossed his mind that he had sworn not to spend another winter holed up by himself under a mountain. But here he was, on the run and as alone as a man can get. Maybe he could winter with the crew at the Broken-T. He considered the possibility for a while. Eli Cruze was a man of principles, and Tom was a wanted man. How would he feel about having a fugitive from the law on his crew? The more Tom thought about it, the more he discounted the likelihood of being welcome at the Broken-T. Other ranchers might not be so concerned, but Eli was a man of principles. He dismissed thoughts of wintering with his former companions. Still, he could pick up his money and push on until he found a town far enough away to be out of Fort Lincoln’s or Fort Keogh’s jurisdiction. There were dozens of little mining towns buried back in the hills where civilization was but a glimmer on hope’s horizon. Maybe his brother, Little Wolf, and Squint Peterson were somewhere far off to the west. He was as much an outlaw as his brother, maybe even more so. If he could find them, he might be welcome there…or he might not.
He let Billy choose an easy pace as he rode over the rolling hills of buffalo grass. If he had estimated his location accurately, and he was pretty sure he had, he should be able to make the Broken-T by early the next day. His mind was occupied with thoughts of the friends he had left behind at the Broken-T when Billy suddenly stopped and threw his nose up in the air, snorting the wind. Tom’s first thought was Horses! There must be another horse nearby. Then he glanced down and noticed the obvious trail left by a travois and two horses crossing his own trail. His mind had been so preoccupied that he would have missed the tracks if Billy had not stopped. “A good way to lose your hair,” he scolded. After a quick look around him, to make sure he was not about to be attacked, he studied the trail. It led off across a hill toward a deep draw. The trail was still fresh. They could not be far away, and they were Indians for sure. The ponies were unshod, and, after examining the tracks more closely, he figured there were maybe three or four of them, one pulling a travois. It seemed an odd time of year for a small party to be traveling the plains. They should be on a reservation or in winter camp by now. He decided it might be a good idea to have a look for himself.
The trail was easy enough to follow through the small patches of snow left by the previous night’s storm. There seemed to be no attempt to disguise the tracks. He decided to circle and pick up the trail on the far side of the draw. There was no use taking a chance on riding into an ambush since he wasn’t sure the Indians hadn’t spotted him. He pressed Billy into a gallop and rode to the east for a half mile or so before cutting back north to pick up the trail at the far end of the draw. When he got there, however, there was no trail to pick up. He scouted back and forth for a while before deciding the Indians he followed were still in the draw. He considered forgetting about them and pushing on toward the Broken-T as he looked at the lined sides of the ravine where the Indians must surely be. The best thing he could do might be to leave well enough alone. But his curiosity was too greatly aroused at this point, and he decided he would at least take a look from the hill on the downwind side of the draw, if for no other reason than to eliminate his worry about them.
There were three of them, two women and what appeared to be either a sick or wounded man. Tom could not be sure from that distance. Though early in the day, the women appeared to be making camp. Their horses were tethered among a stand of cottonwoods. Tom assumed that meant the man’s condition was too critical to travel farther. It was obvious the three Indians posed no threat to him, but still, he was curious enough to want a closer look. He hesitated for a long time, deciding. Finally, he crawled over the crest of the hill and worked his way down behind a dead tree from which he had a better vantage point. He lay there for perhaps a quarter of an hour, watching the activities of the three Indians. He could not see the man but he was sure that the women were Cheyenne. Tom found it odd that they should be traveling alone, and almost in Blackfoot territory at that. As he watched, he struggled with another decision. These miserable-looking hostiles meant nothing to him. They had once been his enemies. He had fought them, along with the Sioux. They were supposed to be on a reservation anyway. The government had declared that any Cheyennes or Sioux not on the reservation were considered to be hostile. But, he reminded himself, he was not in the army now. It was no longer his job to kill Indians. These three human beings were obviously in need of help, and he found it difficult to turn his back on them. “Ah, what the hell,” he muttered and rose to his feet.
He was almost upon them before his presence was detected, which he found strange in itself. In fact, when he thought about it, it was damn unusual he had even been able to watch them from back there on the hill without their knowing it. The horses discovered him first, causing the women to look up from their task of building a fire. When they saw him, their first impulse was to take flight and both women started to run but they were held by the wounded man on the travois. Not knowing what to do, and obviously unwilling to abandon the man, they stood helpless, shifting from one foot to the other as if in a resolute death chant. Their eyes were wide with fright as they stared at the menacing form of the white man.
Tom held up his hand in a sign of peace and advanced slowly toward them. The women’s unblinking gaze fixed on him, their pitiful swaying now accompanied by a soft guttural moaning. They were preparing to die. Tom made sign language to tell them he came in friendship. It served to halt their death chant, but still the women stared at him in obvious fear. When he was close enough to talk, he attempted to tell them in sign language and the few words he knew in Cheyenne, that he was there to help and meant them no harm. Both women relaxed somewhat. At least they seemed to accept the obvious: they had little choice but to trust the white man’s words. They were in no position to resist. He looked at the two young women. These people were obviously starving. Their weary unblinking eyes, peering at him from the deep hollows of their gaunt faces, told him why they had been unaware of his presence—they were too weak to care. He turned his attention to the man on the travois.
He was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier by the look of his weapons—a bow and lance, now lying impotent beside him on the travois. He was wounded, a thick mud-and-leaf poultice covering an area the size of Tom’s hand on the warrior’s chest. He was not fully conscious, yet Tom could see a faint spark of life in his eyes as he removed the poultice to get a look at the wound. When he removed it, he almost gagged. It was a bullet wound apparently, and it had festered, the scarlet rays of spreading infection radiating out from the center of it.
“Damn!” he muttered. Then in Cheyenne he asked one of the women, “How long?”
She answered in sign, “Nine days.”
He had seen wounds like this in battle when they didn’t receive medical treatment right away. Sometimes, the most insignificant of wounds were mortal when they became infected. It depended on the constitution of the man. Tom had to cut the bullet out and cauterize the wound in hopes that would stop the spreading infection. That was the only thing he knew to do, and there was a definite risk he might kill his patient with the treatment, but he was damn sure going to die without it. But first, he told himself, he had to get them something to eat or he was going to have three dead Indians on his hands.
Something in his manner must have conveyed his intent to the two women, for they seemed to accept his instructions eagerly. He was sure they had been at their wits’ end as the man got progressively worse and they went longer and longer without food. First he helped them gather up more wood to liven up their small campfire. They watched in amazement as he put his two little fingers in his mouth and whistled two shrill blasts. In a moment, Billy came trotting over the crest of the hill, his reins dragging along the ground. From his saddlebag, he got two strips of jerky and gave them to the women. They took them eagerly and immediately started chewing the tough meat. From the looks of the wounded man, Tom figured it was useless to try to feed him jerky. He needed some strong broth, and the only way he was going to get it was if Tom could find some game. So, once the women were warm and their hunger temporarily satisfied, he told them he was leaving, but he would be back as soon as he found some meat. They nodded, but he could see in their eyes that they never expected to see this white man again. After trying his best to reassure them, Tom climbed up on Billy and rode out of the draw toward the open prairie.
It was late in the year for hunting on the prairie. It would be pure luck if he found anything other than a rabbit or some small game scurrying from a hole. His best bet, he figured, was to ride toward a line of small hills he could see on the horizon. They were partially covered with trees, which indicated there might be a stream there. If there was any game around, it would most likely be there. If he had minded his own business, he thought, he knew he would be no more than a day’s ride from the Broken-T. He immediately reprimanded himself for his selfishness and returned his attention to the business at hand, to find some food for three starving people.
It took the better part of two hours to reach the hills. When he reached the shelter of the trees, he encouraged Billy with a slight pressure of his heels and the horse labored momentarily to scale a steep slope that guarded a small, shallow stream. He reined Billy up to an abrupt stop. Something, some slight movement, caught Tom’s eye and he froze. Below him, on the other side of the stream in a patch of scrub, a branch wiggled. The scrub was too thick to see what had caused the movement. He glanced quickly from side to side before riveting his gaze on the branch. As he watched, he slowly drew his rifle from the saddle boot. The bush shook. Whatever it was was moving now. He raised the rifle and took aim on the scrub, following the shaking branches as they progressed toward an open space. Come on out of there, he thought. Let’s see if you’re man or meat. He waited. The shaking stopped, and he thought for a moment that whatever it was had turned and gone the other way. Then it appeared. He started to squeeze the trigger then stopped. It was a calf! He hesitated for only a moment more before pronouncing, “You’re meat.”
He would never forget the look of gratitude he received from the two Cheyenne women when he rode back that night with the yearling. If there had been any remaining distrust between them before he rode out earlier that day, it was gone now. One of the women skinned the calf and proudly held the hide up for him to admire. He nodded his approval, unable to avoid a wry smile at the prominence of the Broken-T brand. There was plenty to eat that night.
The next order of business was the surgery on the wound. Tom didn’t look forward to it, but knew it had to be done. He explained as best he could what he was going to do, and the women seemed to understand. He explained that it would be very painful for the man. They nodded understanding. One of the women spoke then.
“This man is my husband. If you do not cut the evil from his chest, he will die.”
Tom nodded. He wanted to make doubly sure they understood what he was trying to do. He didn’t want to take a chance on digging out the man’s infection and getting a knife in his own back because of a misunderstanding. He drew his knife from his belt and got the sharpening stone from his saddle pack. While he worked on the blade, he studied the man he was about to operate on. He was still feverish. His wife had tried to feed him some soup she made from the calf’s heart, but he was unable to get any of it down before sliding off into a half stupor. Tom tested the knife’s edge and decided it was as sharp as he was going to get it.
“You might have to hold him down when I start cutting. I don’t know how weak he is, but I reckon you two can hold him.” The women took a hand each and sat on it. When they were ready, Tom straddled his patient and got ready to cut. After pulling the poultice aside and cleaning the wound with hot water, he sat poised, the knife ready to strike. He glanced at his two assistants. “Ready?” They nodded. He looked back at the young man. “Boy, I hope you’re ready, ’cause this is gonna hurt like hell.”
He pressed hard on the skinning knife, cutting deeply into the festering wound. The wounded man’s whole body stiffened and his back arched like a horse about to buck. There was one long low grunt, like what a man would make if he had been hit with a large rock, and then his body went limp and his breath emptied from his lungs. Tom glanced up to see the alarm in his wife’s eyes. She thought her husband was dead. Tom himself wasn’t sure he hadn’t killed him. He felt for his pulse with his finger, then reassured the woman that her husband was still breathing. She responded with a weak smile. He decided he’d better get on with it while the man was totally unconscious. He made a long incision across the length of the wound and immediately had to sit back for a moment to catch his breath when a quantity of bloody pus oozed from the wound. He shook his head and snorted in an effort to rid his nostrils of the acrid odor of rotted flesh. He glanced again at the women. Neither had moved or even reacted. “Damn!” he swore and returned to his task.
It seemed to him that he cut and probed for hours. In fact, it was probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes. In spite of the coolness of the early winter evening, he was sweating heavily by the time he triumphantly held up the ugly little ball of lead for them to see. They smiled their grateful approval. He had removed quite a lot of rotted flesh from around the wound and there would be a noticeable hole in the poor man’s chest but he knew, if he didn’t get it all, the infection would simply continue to eat away at him. When he had done about as much as he thought he should, he wiped off the knife, then buried the blade in the coals of the fire. He noted the puzzled expressions on the faces of both women.
“You do not sew the wound together? Do you want me to do it?” one of the women asked.
“Yes,” Tom replied. “It must be sewn up but first it must be sealed off or he might keep on bleeding inside. Can you sew it?”
“Yes,” she answered solemnly. “I did it for my father but he died anyway.”
Well, I’d just as soon have you do it, he thought to himself. This one will probably die, too. He doesn’t look any too perky right now. To the woman, he said, “I’ll burn the wound now and then you can sew it up.”
He withdrew the knife from the glowing coals, the point of the blade heated to a red glow, and, before it had a chance to cool, he thrust it into the open wound. Both women recoiled in shock as foul smoke rose from the burning flesh. Tom held his head to one side to avoid the smell as he pressed the knife firmly against the exposed wound. Satisfied that his work was done, he turned the patient over to the women. They stripped some sinew from the slaughtered calf and used it to sew up the wound as neatly as any army surgeon he had ever seen. Then he convinced them to leave the dirt and buffalo dung poultice off and let the wound breathe. He took a long look at the man before covering him with his buffalo robe. As he gazed at the still body of the Cheyenne warrior, he thought, Well, we’ll see if God wants to perform one of his many miracles, because I wouldn’t bet on you making it till morning. The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had spent years trying to kill these people. Now he was trying to keep one from dying.
* * *
The man was strong. Morning came and he was still alive, much to Tom’s amazement. He had troubled thoughts about his predicament all during the night. If he had kept his nose in his own business and kept on riding, instead of stopping to help the Indians, he would be at the Broken-T that morning. As it was, he felt somewhat trapped. Since he had undertaken to play the Samaritan, he felt obligated to stay with them until they could travel again on their own. He wasn’t sure how long that would be, and he wasn’t sure what he should do if the man didn’t make it and he was left with two Cheyenne women. So he was greatly relieved to see his patient regain consciousness during the afternoon. Tom was further amazed to see that the man’s fever was gone and his wife was able to get some of the broth in him. After another night’s rest, the man was lucid, and there was little doubt that he was going to recover.
The young warrior was totally confused as to the events of the past several days and what had taken place to cause him to come out of his great sickness. He was further astonished to find a white man in their company. He was alarmed at first sight of Tom, but his wife soon calmed his fears and explained that, were it not for this white man, he would most likely be among the spirits. When he understood what had happened, he was anxious to express his gratitude.
“My name is Sleeps Standing,” he told Tom. “My wife, Lark, has told me of your kindness to her and her sister. I am in your debt.”
Tom smiled and shrugged. “You owe me nothing. I’m just happy to see you recovering.”
During the days that followed, Tom became more acquainted with his three new friends. It seemed a strange friendship, more akin to a truce. Although the two men were not enemies at this point, still Tom learned that they had fought on opposite sides at the Little Big Horn when Tom had fought his way in to Major Reno’s relief with Captain Benteen’s regiment. Who could say how many times before this meeting they might have actually fired at each other? Tom had led many patrols against the Cheyenne and Sioux. For Sleeps Standing’s part, he had never met any white man on peaceful terms before. He came to trust Tom, and they would talk in the evening by the campfire when Tom returned from his daily hunting trips. Sleeps Standing explained to Tom that he and the two women were running from the soldiers. They had hoped to join some of their people in the mountains to the north. He refused to report to the reservation after the big battle at Wagon Box, saying he would not live as a white man’s dog in a pen. He and several other warriors started on a journey to the land of the Nez Perces with their women and old people. They had been on the trail for little more than a week when the soldiers found them and attacked. This was when he received the wound in his chest. He managed to escape with his wife and her sister, whose husband was killed. All the others were slaughtered. No prisoners were taken.
Tom stayed with them for three more days until Sleeps Standing regained enough strength to travel. Both men knew they could not stay camped there on the prairie for much longer. Already, the days were getting colder. The small grove of trees would not offer enough protection against the frigid weather that was soon to blanket the prairie. Also, there would be no game to hunt. So, as soon as he was strong enough, Sleeps Standing instructed the women to pack up the camp and prepare to leave. On the morning the white man and the three Cheyennes parted, Lark and her sister both hugged Tom and thanked him again. He and Sleeps Standing clasped hands, and the Cheyenne warrior pledged his undying friendship to his white friend.
“Here,” Tom said, “let me take a look at that wound before you go.” He waited while Sleeps Standing pulled his robe aside exposing the still hideous wound. “I think it’s healing right along. I’m sorry I had to make such a mess of it. I had to get all the rotten part. Left a helluva hole.”
Sleeps Standing laughed. “It does not matter.” He turned to his wife and remarked, “Now I have a hole in my chest like Little Wolf. He would laugh to see it.”
The mention of the name brought Tom up short. “Little Wolf? Did you say Little Wolf?”
“Yes, Little Wolf.” He seemed amused by Tom’s reaction. It was a name that brought fear to the hearts of many white men. “You have heard of him?”
Tom found it hard to believe the coincidence. “Yes, I have heard of him,” he replied softly. He realized there was more than one Indian with the name of Little Wolf, so he added, “At least I know one Cheyenne warrior named Little Wolf.”
Sleeps Standing smiled proudly and stated, “Little Wolf is my brother-in-law. His wife is Rain Song, my wife’s other sister. He and I have fought many battles side by side.”
Tom was speechless for the moment as he considered this strange twist of fate. He had thought a great deal on the probable fate of his brother, even though other more pressing needs had occupied most of his thoughts. Finally he looked at Sleeps Standing and stated calmly, “Little Wolf is my brother.”
They did not understand at first, thinking that Tom was saying all Cheyennes were his brothers, a statement of friendship. Sleeps Standing smiled broadly and nodded his approval. Tom realized he did not understand the significance of his statement.
“Little Wolf,” he repeated steadily, “Little Wolf is my brother.”
Sleeps Standing did not answer. Tom could see the confusion in the man’s eyes as he looked first to his wife and then to her sister. Seeing the same confusion in their eyes, he turned back to Tom. “Little Wolf, the son of Spotted Pony, is a Cheyenne war chief,” he tried to explain.
“I know this,” Tom responded. “He is a mighty war chief now, but he is my brother. We have the same mother, same father.” Still met with a look of disbelief, he asked, “Is his skin white, like mine?”
Sleeps Standing did not answer at once, as if having to pause and think about it. Then he conceded, “Yes, his skin is white, but his heart is Cheyenne.” It was plain to Tom that even though Sleeps Standing now counted him as a friend, he was reluctant to believe Little Wolf could be related to any other white man, Tom included. Such was the lofty status his brother held among the Cheyenne.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Sleeps Standing answered. “He has gone away into the far hills, beyond the land of the Nez Perces. It is my hope that I will find him someday.”
The Cheyenne’s answer was sincere—Tom decided he was not being evasive. “Did he go alone? Was there another white man with him? A big man?” He held his arms wide at his shoulders, emphasizing Squint Peterson’s massive bulk.
Sleeps Standing nodded excitedly. “Yes, a big white man,” he answered.
Tom stood thinking about the coincidence of this meeting with Little Wolf’s brother-in-law. He could not decide what to do about this information. In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find his brother at all. Maybe Little Wolf had no desire to be reunited with him. After all, they hardly knew each other. Their only common interest was Squint Peterson, who was friend to them both. It was little more than speculation anyway, he decided. Sleeps Standing had no idea where to find Little Wolf, and only knew that he was in the high mountains. That covered a hell of a lot of territory. He decided it best to forget it for the time being. His immediate concern was to find a place to pass the winter. He had already lost almost a week’s time with the three Indians.
They wished each other well and parted company, the Indians headed to the north toward Canada, the white man to the west. Before they said their final good-byes, Tom said, “If you find Little Wolf, tell him you met Tom Allred.” Sleeps Standing nodded and smiled, then rode out of the wooded draw.