With some reluctance, the sun finally broke through the shrouds of steaming mist that cloaked the western slopes of the Bitterroots, causing the still-frozen spires of countless waterfalls to fairly sparkle as they cascaded down to the basin below. Spring had come. There was no doubt that winter’s grip had at last weakened and the snow would be gone in a matter of weeks. It was a joyous sign to Squint Peterson. He had never been overly fond of the cold weather, and now that he was getting a little long in the tooth, it seemed to affect him even more. He pulled his buffalo coat up around his ears and drew in a deep lungful of the icy air. The first signs of spring had inspired a lightness in his heart. Soon this valley would transform itself into a paradise of thousands of many different colors as wildflowers covered the lower slopes. And the high peaks that surrounded his valley would cast off their heavy winter coats, sending crystal-clear water leaping over the rocks in a frantic effort to reach the grassy floor of the basin. Squint and Robert, or Little Wolf as he still insisted on being called, were expecting at least a dozen new foals this season. Squint had always been interested in raising horses, and he was especially partial to breeding Appaloosas, a skill they had been taught by an old Nez Perce that helped around the ranch. Once this whole valley, and the one on the eastern side of the pass, was the home of the Nez Perces. But most of them were gone now. The soldiers had driven Chief Joseph and his people out and, after a helluva fight, finally run them to ground September just past. The army had not been successful in driving out all of the resistant Nez Perces, however. There were still a few renegade bands back in the small pockets of the Bitterroots. Squint and Little Wolf lived in peace with the surviving bands, mainly due to Little Wolf’s reputation as a Cheyenne war chief. Their situation was one of mutual trust. He didn’t tell the white men in the little town of Medicine Creek about the presence of the few remaining Nez Perces and they didn’t spread the word around that the Cheyenne renegade, Little Wolf, was holed up just thirty miles from their little town.
The past year and a half had been pleasant for Squint, away from the fighting and the army. Little Wolf had taken to ranching just fine. He was still a mite high-strung, but most of the venom had boiled out of his heart. It was mostly the country, Squint decided. The high peace of the mountains mellowed a man’s heart, if he had any heart at all. Even so, Little Wolf still thought like an Indian. When he gave it serious consideration, it was little wonder because Squint was the foreigner in this wilderness. Little Wolf and Rain Song belonged here.
Yes, he thought, these were peaceful times and all that a man like Squint could hope for in the twilight of his years. Still, he could not help but permit worrisome little thoughts to creep into his mind. They had been isolated from the white man’s warring with Chief Joseph’s band. No soldiers had found their way into this secluded valley. How long, he wondered, would that be true? He dreaded the thought of a cavalry patrol stumbling onto the valley. He could not predict how Little Wolf would react. But, if he had to bet on it, he would put his money on his friend reverting back to his warlike upbringing. He shook his head as if to dispel such worries from his mind. Why worry about something that hasn’t happened yet?
His reverie finished, Squint stepped up in the saddle and turned Joe back toward the cabin. The horse headed back down the slope at an easy pace. Like his master, Joe was in no particular hurry to get anywhere. Sore Hand, the old Nez Perce, walked out to greet him as Joe plodded slowly up to the barn and stopped.
“Little Wolf say he go hunt with Sleeps Standing. Him be back tomorrow maybe.”
Squint nodded. He knew that meant Little Wolf wanted him to stay close and keep an eye on Rain Song. He hadn’t planned to go anywhere anyway. Sleeps Standing was another Cheyenne renegade who had found his way into this valley, along with his wife and her sister. He had fought the soldiers at Wagon Box, the battle that signaled the end of the great Sioux and Cheyenne wars. Like many of his brothers, he had no belly for reservation life, and while he was trying to run from the soldiers, he got himself shot. As a result of that wound, Squint and Little Wolf received the amazing news that Tom Allred had been cashiered out of the army. Far back in the mountains as they were, they had very little news of the outside world, and that was the way they wanted it. When Sleeps Standing found them this past winter, Squint was amazed to learn that Tom was no longer in the army. Sleeps Standing told them of his wound and the desperate situation he was in when Tom stumbled upon him and the two women. Without Tom’s help and the food he brought them, all three of them might have gone under. According to Sleeps Standing, Tom was on the run from the army. If he got the story straight, Tom had killed a soldier, maybe more than one. It left Squint more than a little baffled. It didn’t sound like something Tom would be mixed up in. He would have to hear more of the story before he made judgment. At first, he wondered if Tom was trying to make his way to this part of the country, maybe hoping to find him and Little Wolf. But Sleeps Standing said he was headed toward the Musselshell country. Little Wolf had naturally shown great interest in Sleeps Standing’s news. After all, Tom was responsible for his escape from the soldiers. And, although he had never accepted being brothers by blood, he felt he owed a debt to the young cavalry officer in spite of fighting on opposite sides at Little Big Horn. Squint had to remind Little Wolf that he, too, fought on the side of the army in that battle. But that was water under the bridge. Little Wolf retorted that it made no difference anyway. He had gone his way and Tom had gone his. So, why discuss it?
The citizens of Medicine Creek didn’t concern themselves with what went on in the small, isolated valley where Squint Peterson and his partner raised horses and a few head of cattle. They kept to themselves and that was all right with the townspeople. Various rumors floated around, but folks figured that as long as they weren’t threatened in any way, why concern themselves? Squint was the only person from the valley who ever came into town, and he seemed square enough. It had been confirmed that his partner was also a white man, though no one had ever seen him in town. It wouldn’t have surprised most folks if there were a few Nez Perces hiding out in the valley, but they didn’t expect any trouble from that quarter. So, from Squint’s way of thinking, things were working out just fine. Life was peaceful and a little bit dull—just the way he liked it. It would not remain that way for long, however.
* * *
In two weeks’ time, spring was evident in earnest. The mountain passes had opened up, and the streams were over their banks with the melting snow from the mountains. Confined for months by the heavy snows, Little Wolf and Sleeps Standing were at last able to range far from the valley on their hunting trips, staying out for several days at a time. This time they had been out only one night, working their way along the eastern slope of a high range of mountains that bordered a long valley the Nez Perces called Sweet Grass.
Sleeps Standing saw them first. “There,” he said, pointing toward three small figures making their way across the valley below them.
As the figures approached the foot of the mountain, they could see that there were two men and three horses, one a packhorse. Little Wolf and Sleeps Standing watched for a while in silence, then Little Wolf spoke. “They are not hunting. What are they doing in this land?” It was difficult to tell at that distance whether they were white or Indian. Both figures were wrapped in heavy hide robes. It was apparent that they were trying to follow a trail through the mountains by the way the lead man scouted through the patches of snow that remained in the lower draws and gullies.
“One of the horses is lame,” Sleeps Standing commented. Little Wolf only grunted in reply as they continued to watch the progress of the strangers. The horse carrying the second rider seemed to be hobbling badly and appeared close to faltering. The distance between the first rider leading the packhorse and the lame horse gradually increased, until the second rider was several hundred yards behind by the time the lead man reached the pines at the foot of the mountain. He dismounted and appeared to be making a fire.
“They camp early,” Sleeps Standing remarked.
Little Wolf said nothing, but continued to watch. It was obvious now that one of them might be Indian but the other was definitely a white man. When the second rider caught up, he dismounted and the two seemed to have a lengthy discussion. After a few minutes of talk, the Indian mounted again and, leading the packhorse, started out alone, leaving his companion standing by the fire.
“Let us see where this one goes,” Little Wolf said, and started off across the ridge. Sleeps Standing followed. From a position halfway down the opposite slope, they could follow the man’s progress until he was out of sight. He skirted the mountain until he came to the river. Once there, he paused for a moment, then turned south along the riverbank, and finally disappeared from their view. Little Wolf was curious enough by then to return to scout the second rider.
They crossed back over the ridge and made their way down almost to the valley floor, where they stopped in the tall trees to observe the man by the fire. He seemed intent only on keeping the large fire burning. No effort was spent in making camp or in taking care of his lame horse.
“What is he doing?” Sleeps Standing finally uttered.
After a long time, during which the man appeared to do nothing more than shuffle aimlessly around the fire, Little Wolf tired of the game. “White men!” he said in disgust. “Who knows what they think? Come, let us take our meat back to the valley.” With that, he leaped upon his horse and prepared to leave. When Sleeps Standing mounted his horse, Little Wolf held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. Something had caught his attention back at the campfire.
“What is it?” Sleeps Standing asked.
“Look,” Little Wolf replied, pointing toward the fire.
When Sleeps Standing’s eyes followed Little Wolf’s outstretched arm, he smiled at what he saw. The stranger had walked over to the edge of the brush and was now squatting to urinate. The rider was a woman. Now, in spite of his impatience, he was really curious. Why had the man ridden off and left his woman? He had taken the packhorse with him. It was obvious the man did not leave to hunt for food, for he made straight for the river and took the south pass out of the valley. It is not my concern, Little Wolf told himself. If the man wants to leave his woman by herself with a lame horse, why should I care?
“Are we going to find out?” Sleeps Standing interrupted his thoughts.
He looked at his friend for a moment, then glanced back at the woman, then back at Sleeps Standing. Finally he shrugged and wheeled his horse back toward the campfire. Sleeps Standing followed.
* * *
She dried herself with a small piece of cloth, quickly pulled the buckskin trousers up and tied them, then strapped the heavy cavalry pistol back around her hips. Her backside was still chilled by the exposure to the raw spring air, and she was anxious to get back to the fire. She was not aware of the two figures approaching until they were almost within fifty yards of the fire. At one moment they were not there and then the next moment they were right behind her. She was startled, an involuntary cry of surprise caught in her throat. Indians! She glanced frantically from side to side, fearful that there may be more even now surrounding her. But there were only the two. Her hand fumbled for the handle of her pistol.
“Wait!” one of them called out in English. “We mean you no harm.”
She hesitated, her hand still on the revolver. She had a natural distrust of Indians, and while she allowed them to approach her fire, she kept a wary eye on the two of them, still glancing behind her from time to time just to make sure. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any food to give you,” she blurted, figuring Indians always wanted to be fed.
They sat on their horses for a few moments, looking at her, their faces as devoid of expression as stone. Finally, they dismounted, and stood across the fire from her. She backed away a few steps, terrified but trying desperately not to show it. After what seemed an interminable pause, the tall one spoke.
“We don’t want any food. We have food.” He gestured toward their packhorse. His voice was deep and his words carefully measured as if he deliberately thought about each word before he spoke. A presence about him bespoke a quiet power that made her feel her pistol would be of no use to her, even had she drawn it. “Where is your man?”
“He’ll be right back,” she answered, quickly adding, “He ain’t my man. He’s a guide.”
The two Indians exchanged brief glances, and the shorter, stocky one said something to the tall one in an Indian dialect The tall one shook his head, then turned back to her. “Where did he go? Is he looking for food?”
“No,” she sputtered. “No, he went to town.”
“Town?”
“Yes. He rode ahead to get some help. My horse is lame, and his was too wore out to carry double. So he rode in to get a couple of fresh horses.” She was puzzled by their baffled expressions. “There’s a town just on the other side of that mountain.”
He didn’t answer her at once. Instead, he looked unblinking into her eyes, uncertain as to whether or not he should believe her story. After a long moment, during which the lady seemed to become more and more concerned for her welfare at the hands of this tall savage, he decided she was telling the truth. That is, she was telling the truth as she believed it to be.
“Lady,” he said, “there ain’t no town on the other side of that mountain.” He watched the reaction in her eyes. She was obviously confused and becoming alarmed. “Add to that, your guide didn’t go that way. He took the south pass down the river. Looks to me like he ain’t planning on coming back.”
She didn’t answer right away, just staring at them in disbelief. When she spoke, it was with a certain amount of resignation that surprised them both. “Well, that figures. He’s been trying to get me to turn back for the last two days. I shoulda known he was fixing to bolt when he talked me into letting him take the packhorse with him.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Some town called Medicine Creek. Sam—that’s the half-breed you just seen hightailing it down the valley—he said he knew where it was. I paid him to guide me there. Only he promised me we’d be there two days ago.”
Little Wolf thought the woman wasn’t any too careful about who she set out across the mountains with. But from the looks of the big pistol slung on her hip, he could pretty much guess why she wasn’t afraid. “Well,” he sighed, “I reckon we can see you to Medicine Creek. You can ride up behind me.”
They unsaddled her horse and threw the saddle up on their packhorse. She climbed up behind the tall warrior because she figured she had little choice in the matter. She chose to believe they would be as good as their word and deliver her to Medicine Creek. She didn’t doubt for a minute that they were correct in their assessment of her guide. When it was all sifted out, she guessed she was lucky to have made it this far without that sneaky half-breed killing her in her blankets. They rode for the better part of the afternoon, and when the shadows began to fill in the valleys, she asked, “How far is this town?”
“Two days. We’ll make camp pretty soon. Then we’ll make my place in the afternoon. That’s as far as I’ll take you. Somebody else will take you into town.”
It was somewhat unsettling to her to discover that they would be spending the night together. They had shown no interest in her beyond offering to help, but these Indians were so stoic, she could not be certain what was going on in their heads. What if they had whiskey? She had heard countless tales of how crazy Indians get with whiskey. This silent pair could have great plans for their entertainment that night, with her being the main event. Well, she promised herself, if that was their plan, it was going to cost them dearly. She was not at all shy about using her frontier revolver, and she would find Medicine Creek by herself if she had to. Her worries were wasted, she found, because the two Indians made no threatening advances. In fact, there was hardly a word spoken to her when they finally stopped to make camp.
“Can you cook?” Little Wolf asked.
“Yeah, I can cook,” was her reply.
He drew a long skinning knife from his belt and tossed it toward her. “Good. Slice off some strips from that elk rump on the horse. That’ll be the price of your passage.”
“Fair enough,” she answered, and did as she was told. After they had taken care of the horses, they ate the meat. Then the two men rolled up in fur robes and went to sleep, apparently unconcerned about the woman.
They were packed and on their way by sunup the next morning, the woman behind Little Wolf, Sleeps Standing following behind, leading the packhorse and the woman’s mount. The tall Indian spoke not a word to her during the entire morning. It was as if she were not there. Following his example, she deemed it advisable to likewise hold her tongue.
A short time after midday, they rode down into a wooded draw that dead-ended against a tree-covered ridge. Upon climbing the ridge and crossing over, they made their way down into a narrow valley that was bisected by a deep rushing stream. On the far side of the stream, she saw a corral and a couple of crude log buildings. This was their destination. As they crossed the stream, she saw a large white man and an Indian driving a small band of horses into the corral. Upon seeing them, the Indian called out, “Ki yi.” He was answered by Sleeps Standing, riding behind her.
They rode up to the cabin. Three Indian women came out to greet her traveling companions. They eyed her openly, making no attempt to mask their curiosity. She stood waiting while the two men exchanged greetings with the women. Hearing a voice behind her, she turned to see the white man, a mountain of a man, striding toward them, his face lit up by a wide grin.
“Well, boys, I see you had a good huntin’ trip. I ain’t shore the women know how to cook this one though.” When he saw the uncertain look in her eyes, he quickly sought to put her at ease. “Howdy, ma’am. How’d you come to get tangled up with the likes of these two bucks?”
“She wants to go to Medicine Creek,” Little Wolf answered for her.
“Medicine Creek?” Squint exclaimed. “What in the world is a little gal like you traveling all by yourself for? You got folks in Medicine Creek?”
“No, but I got to get there as fast as I can. Can you take me?” The urgency in her eyes told him she meant it.
“Why, yessum, I reckon I can, if it’s that important.” He turned to one of the Indian women and said, “Rain Song, reckon we could make the lady some coffee and somethin’ to eat?” Turning back to their guest, he said, “My name’s Squint Peterson, ma’am. Come on in by the fire.”
She didn’t move to follow his outstretched hand. Instead, she appeared stunned by his words, unable at first to believe what she had just heard. When she spoke, she could not hide the excitement in her voice. “Squint Peterson? Did you say Squint Peterson?”
Squint was taken aback by her reaction. “Why, yes, ma’am, Squint Peterson.”
She could barely believe her luck. “Squint Peterson! You’re the man I come looking for!”
“I am?” Squint was at a loss for words. “Well, you found me. Are we kin or somethin’?”
“No,” she fairly screamed, “but they told me to find you and you would know where to find Little Wolf!”
“They did? Who did?” The woman’s startling announcement had the effect of rendering the others into shocked silence. They listened in amazement.
“Sam Running Fox, the guide that brought me here, his people are Flatheads. They said you were living in this part of the territory. And they said, if anybody knew where Little Wolf is, it would be you.” Her eyes were wide with excitement, her face transformed into a mask of apprehension that she might have been misled. “Do you know?” she pressed, “do you know where I can find Little Wolf?”
Squint glanced briefly at the tall Indian behind her. “Yeah, I reckon I might be able to track him down if I had a little time. It depends. What do you wanna find him for?”
“My name’s Ruby Clay. I need his help. I don’t know who else to turn to. It’s his brother. He’s in jail in Bozeman, and they’re gonna hang him.”
Squint rocked back a step. “Tom?” he exclaimed. “They’re gonna hang Tom? What in hell fer?”
Ruby went on to explain how Tom came to be in trouble with the law as well as the army. The sheriff in Bozeman had attempted to collect the reward on him and was told that, as a lawman, he was obligated to apprehend criminals as a part of his job. The army wanted him sent back to Fort Lincoln, but the sheriff responded that he didn’t have the time or manpower to do that and, if the army didn’t want him bad enough to come get him, he would hang him himself. Ruby feared that it would be impossible for Tom to get a fair trial even if the sheriff was of a mind to try him before the hanging. Even now she was praying they didn’t hang him before she found someone to help him. Not knowing where else she could go, she figured a man’s own brother ought to try to help him, even if he was an Indian.
“And maybe there ain’t nothing he can do. But I had to do something,” she pleaded. “Do you know where he is?”
Squint glanced at Little Wolf and received a nod of approval before answering. “Yessum, I know where Little Wolf is. You rode in behind him.”
* * *
Rain Song worked feverishly at the cornmeal she would fashion into cakes. She had never made bread in this fashion before she met Squint, who had taught her to make it. It was his favorite. She would bake it in the stone oven Squint had built behind the cabin for the sole purpose of baking the corn bread. She and Little Wolf liked it, too, so she was always happy to make it when Squint requested. She worked silently, but her mind was racing with thoughts, discomforting notions spawned by the sudden appearance of the white woman who came pleading for help. Rain Song was worried. Their life had been so perfect during the two years past, and now this. She wished the woman had gotten lost in the mountains and never found Little Wolf. He was safe here in the mountains. She feared the soldiers would find him if he went with this woman now. Burdened with these heavy thoughts, she worked away at the meal until Squint went outside and she and Little Wolf were alone.
“Why must you go?”
He continued to inspect his weapons while he answered her. “Because he is my brother, I suppose.”
She stopped her work and sat back on her heels. “He is not your brother. He is a white man. You are Little Wolf of the Cheyenne! He is the enemy of your people. You have fought him and his soldiers all your life, and now he comes whimpering to you because his kind have turned against him, like wild dogs turn on their own.”
He listened patiently to her lecturing. Then he laid his rifle down carefully and talked to her in soft but firm tones. “I owe this man my life. If it were not for him, Squint, you, me, none of us would be here in this valley. I would be dead or rotting away in the army’s stockade.” He paused a moment. “There is another reason. This man is Squint’s friend. If I don’t go, Squint will go alone.”
She knew there would be no more discussion on the matter. Little Wolf’s word was final. Still, she worried. “Then take Sleeps Standing and Sore Hand with you.”
“No,” he answered. “Squint and I will go. Sleeps Standing and Sore Hand must stay here to look after you and the other women.”
The decision was made. She knew she could not change his mind. Resigned to this, she came to him and put her arms around his neck. “Then promise me you will come back safely,” she whispered, her voice a soft murmur in his ear, “and make love to me tonight so you will remember to return soon.” She giggled as he reached down and playfully spanked her bottom.
* * *
The morning was clouded over with a high blanket of misty gray. A chilly wind swept through the valley, promising a change in the weather soon. Squint Peterson stood facing west and squinted at the clouds as if he was straining to see the weather coming. It was not too late in the season for snow, not by a long shot, and he was not anxious to get caught in the mountain passes by a late spring storm. Sore Hand watched him for a few minutes, guessed his concern, and spoke.
“Not snow, rain maybe, not snow.”
Squint cocked an eye at the old Nez Perce. “You seem awful damn shore about that,” he said. He felt better about it though, for if the old Indian said it wasn’t going to snow, chances are it wasn’t. Hearing a noise behind him, he turned to see Sleeps Standing come from the corral, leading Little Wolf’s horse. When he turned back, he was startled to find Little Wolf standing beside him. He had not heard his friend approach. “Dammit!” he scolded, “I wish to hell you wouldn’t do that!” It embarrassed him to be surprised like that, even by Little Wolf.
“Your ears grow old, old man,” Little Wolf teased.
“Huh!” Squint snorted, “this old man can still kick your rump for you.”
Little Wolf laughed. “Well, old man, see if you can get your rump up on your horse. We are wasting time.” He dodged a playful swing of Squint’s arm. “Maybe Rain Song and Lark can help you up in the saddle.”
Although the mood was light, they both knew the danger they were about to ride into. When they were mounted and ready to leave, Rain Song ran up to Little Wolf’s stirrup to say good-bye. He leaned down and squeezed her hand affectionately.
“Do not worry, little one. I will be back before the new moon. Sleeps Standing and Sore Hand will watch over you.” He smiled and nodded toward Squint. “I have to bring this old man back to sit on the front porch and eat your corn cakes.”
“Huh!” Squint snorted. “Your tongue will be dragging, trying to keep up with this old man.”
* * *
Sore Hand had been correct in his forecast. Before they had made their way out of the pass and into the valley beyond, a light rain started to fall. But there was no snow. Squint was thankful for that. Since Little Wolf’s eyes were a good bit sharper than Squint’s, he led. Both men kept their senses keen, a practice that had preserved their scalps thus far, even though they expected no real danger as long as they were deep in the mountains. As they threaded their way through the mountain passes and along the ridges, Squint considered the girl, Ruby Clay, whose arrival had instigated the mission they were now undertaking. She had some spunk. He had to give her that. She must think a helluva lot of Tom to risk her neck riding through the mountains with a no-account Injun guide. If she was to ask him, he’d have to say it was a damn fool thing to do. It was pure greenhorn luck that she stumbled onto Little Wolf and Sleeps Standing. She was a little put out when she found out she was not going back with them. She argued long and strong for her cause, trying to convince Little Wolf that she needed to go with them to show them where they had Tom locked up. Little Wolf had simply grunted no, but Squint had advised her that if they couldn’t find the jailhouse in a place no bigger than Bozeman, they probably couldn’t find their way out of their own valley. Little Wolf wanted to travel fast, and he didn’t want a woman along to slow them up.
“I reckon I can travel as good as any man,” she advised them in no uncertain terms.
Squint told her she might think so, but she had never tried to keep up with a Cheyenne Dog Soldier when he was in a hurry to get someplace. He smiled to himself. “She’s got spunk, though. I give her that.”
“What are you mumbling, old man?”
Squint laughed. “I said it looks like you got yourself a spunky little sister-in-law.”
Little Wolf did not smile. He looked at his friend for a moment before turning his attention back to the trail “Maybe so,” he said. His mind was turning over more serious thoughts, and some of his conversation with Rain Song troubled him. Although he had squashed all discussion about riding to help Tom Allred and insisted there was no decision to be made, in his private thoughts there were still doubts. After all, he did not know this man, this brother of his, Tom Allred. But, he argued, the man did go against the army and affect Little Wolf’s escape. But, he reasoned, did not the man owe him his life? After all, Little Wolf could have killed him when he caught the young lieutenant by surprise on the banks of the Little Missouri. Waugh, he thought, this thinking is hurting my head. He knew he was going to help his blood brother, even though he was a white man and an ex-soldier. He would do it for Squint. Squint held a fondness for the man.
Squint did indeed hold a fondness for Tom Allred. Tom had been as fine a young officer as he had ever met during his years scouting for the army. More than that, Tom was a decent man and a close friend. He was glad to try to help him. And, while he felt a strong urgency to get to Bozeman without delay, he had no earthly idea exactly how he was going to affect Tom’s rescue. He didn’t cotton to the idea of the two of them just riding in, guns blazing, to free Tom. They’d have the army and every lawman west of the Missouri looking for them. He knew Little Wolf didn’t have a notion of a plan either. “Well,” he sighed to himself, “we got four days of hard riding ahead of us. We’ll think of somethin’.”