Wolf Medicine

Front matter

Hugh Pendexter

Wolf Medicine

Fort Benton was too busy to bestow much attention on any individual. Prior to 1864, with only six steamboats arriving during the season, an eccentric character would have been noticed and discussed. But in 1867, with the number of steamboat arrivals jumping to seventy, when thirty or forty boats could be counted at one time between the post and the mouth of the Yellowstone, a man needed to stand out like a sore thumb to attract comment.

II

Lame Bull's band of a hundred lodges, housing a thousand men, women, and children, presented a barbaric yet invigorating picture to the horsemen approaching the village at a lope. Back of the village, and sprawling over fifteen miles of the elevated plateau, stood the Three Buttes. These mountains were half clothed with pitch pine and spruce and rich grass. The vivid green of the timber contrasted sharply with the white capped peaks.

The wolfer had tutored Gilkil as to manners. The lessons consisted largely of:

“Keep your mouth shet. Keep close to me. Don't pay any attention to the squaws. Eat what's set before you. There's lots of dogs, but don't shoot any. Use your cudgel.”

Already he had told of the immense herds of elk, black tailed deer, of antelopes and bighorn sheep, that fattened on the grass lands to the very peaks. He had named the cherries and different kinds of berries in describing this as an Indian heaven. Nor did he forget that the heights served as watch towers for discovering buffaloes or enemies.

“I'll take you to the top of this nearest butte. You'll see old Cypress ninety miles to the north. No end of rolling prairie in the northeast and east. A mighty fine view of the Bear's Paw range southeast, and the ranges beyond the Missouri, and the Rockies in the west. But you won't see the rivers, as they're hid in the deep valleys. You'll like it.”

“I'll climb up there for just one thing,” mumbled Gilkil.

“Gold, or women?” The wolfer grinned broadly.

“Gold! I'd go to hell for that, and for nothing else.”

“Not for a friend?”

“Oh, of course. That goes without saying. Say, Wolf, sure these fellers are all right?”

He referred to the band of horsemen suddenly sweeping from the lodges and riding toward them. The wolfer flung up his open hand, palm outward, and resumed conversation. Gilkil heard nothing. He was watching the racing band, now almost upon them. He winced, thinking the two horses and smaller mounts of the Indians were to crash together. But the band split and passed furiously on each side of the white men, and instantly wheeled and encircled them. The leader rode close to the Wolfer's stirrup and shook hands warmly. None of these men, perfect physical specimens, seemed to see Gilkil until the wolfer told the leader:

“Your brother brings a man to help him hunt wolves.”

“There is a robe and meat for him. It is good he did not come alone.”

Then he caused Gilkil's scalp to prickle by sounding an unearthly yell. His followers did likewise. The Americans' horses broke into a mad gallop, and the furious cavalcade did not halt until close to the lodge of the chief. In a low voice Gilkil muttered—

“Such damned smells!”

“Don't let anyone see you wrinkling up your fussy nose,” warned the wolfer as he swung to the ground. “This is the chief.”

Lame Bull, followed by several squaws, emerged from the lodge. He seized the wolfer's hand and threw his left arm around the broad shoulders and rubbed his wrinkled, painted cheek against the bearded one, first on one side and then on the other. He took no notice of Gilkil until the wolfer explained:

“A man to help your son hunt wolves. Your son brings gifts.”

“Let the white man keep close to my son, so my young men will not take him for a Crow.

He led the way inside the big lodge, his small eyes glittering in expectation. Outside the curious gathered.

Although eager to learn what the white man had brought him, Lame Bull produced his pipe and smoked with his two guests. This important ceremony out of the way, the squaws spread a new Hudson's Bay blanket and placed in the middle of it a big kettle of elk meat and dried berries cooked together. The chief talked of the season's hunting and fighting, and expressed alarm because of the vast horde of white men overrunning the gold country a hundred miles or more from Benton.

While he talked his gaze wandered to where the wolfer's packs were piled just inside the entrance. He was as eager as a child to have the packs opened, but by no word did he betray his curiosity. Gilkil ate suspiciously. Once he grossly violated red etiquette by breaking in while the chief was speaking, to hoarsely whisper—

“This ain't dog we're eating, is it?”

“No! Shut your trap.”

The wolfer ate heartily and leisurely. Gilkil stole glances at the scalps decorating the chiefs apparel of skins. He would have eaten but little had not the wolfer urged him with a quick frown. At last the white men would eat no more, and Lame Bull said they would walk about the village. The wolfer said he would open his packs before leaving the lodge.

Anticipation fairly burned in the small eyes as the chief watched his white son drag the packs to the center of the lodge. The entrance was filled with the heads of the curious. Playing for a climax the wolfer began with twenty pounds of hard candy for the children of the village. Then followed some gay cloth for the women in the lodges of Lame Bull and two subordinate chiefs. There were two dozen hunting knives to be distributed by the chief. Slowly the wolfer placed the last package on the blanket. Lame Bull held his breath and attempted to stare indifferently away as the white man's fingers fumbled with the fastenings. He could not suppress a grunt of delight as the brace of .44's, Army model, were placed in his lap and quickly supplemented by a large box of ammunition.

The onlookers patted soft tattoos against their lips with their fingers to express their amazement and delight. Lame Bull expressed his love for his son, but gave no words of thanks for the gifts. Thrusting the revolvers into his belt, he spoke to a squaw, who quickly brought a box of rawhide to the blanket. The chief explained:

“This is medicine. A strong wolf medicine. You must see it before the white man does to keep the medicine strong.”

“Gilkil, just a bit of red manners. Step outside until I have opened the box. Come back when I call.”

Gilkil, wary of the crowd before the lodge, did as directed. The wolfer slowly unfastened the rawhide thongs and opened the box, sank back, and patted his fingers against his open mouth. Pleased as a child, the chief smiled.

“It is medicine,” he repeated, “for my son.”

The wolfer examined the gift more thoroughly, then replaced it in the box and securely knotted the thongs. He told the chief:

“It will be a long time before my white friend sees this. The medicine must know it belongs to me.”

The next few days were days of feasting, of racing ponies, with the chief promising to become proficient with the revolvers if the ammunition held out. All the while Gilkil was yearning to be gone. When it was time for the wolfers to depart a final feast of the whole village was given by the leading men, and twenty young bucks rode with the white men for half of the thirty odd miles.

Early next morning the partners were back at their cabin and the wolfer was resuming his instructions to Gilkil. These consisted largely of taking Gilkil over a twenty mile semicircle. Over and over again it was impressed on the beginner that he must learn this route, the start and finish being equidistant from the river, so he could cover it when a blinding storm obscured all landmarks. For himself the wolfer planned a much longer line of bait.

Gilkil hated it, and was scarcely able to conceal his state of mind. He wished the actual work would come. One night the wolfer returned indoors from studying the weather and announced:

“Strong freeze by morning. We'll soon be at work.”

Gilkil's accumulated resentment boiled over. For days he had fought to retain control of his tightly strung nerves. It was the wolfer's tone of satisfaction that rushed him into an open complaint. He savagely told his partner:

“I don't understand it at all, Wolf. No sabe to it. Here's you, knowing where you can scratch out prime nuggets with your bare hands, and you'd rather stick here in this Godforsaken place, through a rotten winter, poisoning wolves!”

The wolfer laughed aloud; something he seldom did. Gilkil flicked his eyelids rapidly and for a moment forgot his irritation as he said:

“I'd say, if I didn't know better, that some time, somewhere, I've known some one that makes me think of you. You never was out on the Coast?”

“No. If I'd ever seen you I'd remember. You were in Californy sometime, and in rich diggings, from what you tell. If you're so crazy about gold, why didn't you stay there?”

Gilkil frowned, as he said:

“A woman. She spoiled my chances out there.”

“Did she act up any better after you fetched her East?”

“She stayed out there. Died.”

The rising wind sucked down the valley and howled woefully. The wolfer stepped to the doorway, where the big buffalo robe serving as a door bellied in as if some monster were crowding against it. He lifted the robe, and a cold gust blew ashes and sparks from the fireplace.

“You're freezing us out,” complained Gilkil.

“The wind fooled me,” mumbled the wolfer. “Thought some critter was pressing against the robe. Let's see. You was saying about the woman—”

“I said she died out there; but let's talk about something else.”

The wolfer dropped on his blankets.

“I never knew much about women,” he confessed slowly, “so we'll talk about them. Then about something else, say, my hidden gold mine.”

“The last will make good hearing,” eagerly endorsed Gilkil. “I'd stay awake all night to talk about gold—fat nuggets.”

“You was in rich diggings. Why didn't you stick after the woman died? She couldn't bother you any after she was dead.”

“Well, she did. She set people against me by dying.”

“You've been gitting at the whisky,” accused the wolfer harshly.

“Good land, no! It does sound funny, but it's easy to explain. You see, Wolf, the woman was a whiner. Homesick for the East. Blamed me for taking her West.”

“Homesick. Took on about it. Er-huh?”

“Well, her whining, of course, made some folks think I'd abused her. Then when I happened to be with the boys and she was alone, she pegged out. How'd I know she was mortal sick?”

“Died alone, of course. But you ain't no doctor. And folks blamed you?”

“I said so. She's buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery: Done everything I could. But some folks got to talking rough. My friends told me I'd better cross the Sierra. I did. Kept on going till I struck Indianny.”

“Of all I ever heard tell! Blamed you 'cause you was unlucky enough to have your wife get sick and die.”

“Not exactly that,” Gilkil corrected. “She wa'n't my wife, but I was taking care of her.”

“Well, that beats all creation! No claim on you, yet you took care of her. Still she complained and you was blamed.”

“I'm sick of the whole business. That's why I was quick to sell that cameo. It fetched me bad luck,” said Gilkil.

“But if it wa'n't for that cameo I'd never took you on, prob'ly,” said the wolfer. “And if I hadn't taken you on, you'd never git a crack at my hidden diggings. Now, Gil, I'd say that cameo fetched you luck. Fetched you a woman and will lead you to gold.”

“Let it bring me gold and I'll forgive her for driving me from Californy with her whining and homesickness.”

The wolfer threw back his head and laughed aloud. Usually his approach to risibles was limited to a cavernous opening of the mouth. The cabin was so small and the laughter was so loud Gilkil cried:

“Quit it. Wolf! Stop it! You're splitting my head open. Just as soon hear a wolf pack howling as to hear you letting out such hoots.”

“Not knowing much about women it struck me as funny that you, who knows so much about them, could rim into hard luck because of one. Now as to my hidden diggings...”

For half an hour he sketched pictures, and Gilkil's mouth watered as he listened. When Wolf had finished Gilkil drew a deep breath and said:

“Now I can sleep and have pleasant dreams. You've promised. Plenty of gold there, or I wouldn't touch it. Don't go to rob any man. But you say there's more'n you'll ever use. If I can work into bonanza just once—”

“Plenty of gold, partner. Some danger, of course.”

“Danger? Injuns are friendly and denned up in their village. I know my line of bait so well I can follow it blindfolded. And we can't freeze, or starve.”

“I had wolves in mind.”

“But they can't trouble one. A good hoss and guns. Bah!”

“No, no, not from a pack. I was thinking of the danger from a mad wolf getting at you.”

Gilkil's brows drew down.

“That's silly,” he decided. “Mad wolf hasn't more sense than a mad dog. He'd stand no show of catching me. If he tried it, a hunk of lead would mighty soon cure his madness.”

“You don't get what I mean. You don't know wolves, mad ones, like I do,” patiently said the wolfer. “It's their slyness that makes them dangerous. When a wolf goes mad he quits the pack. He'll steal into a tent, or hut, soft as a ghost, and bite your foot, or your face. The bite wouldn't amount to shucks if it wasn't for the poison. You wake up in the night and tell yourself, ‘Rat, or something, been nipping my toe.' In the morning you find, sure enough, something has nipped a toe. But it don't amount to nothing, and you go about your work. And then—”

He stopped and commenced fussing with his pipe.

“And then? Then what?” prompted Gilkil impatiently.

“Why, then you go mad. Mad like a wolf. I never see but one man who went mad. Never want to see another. He'd twist and howl and bite his own flesh—”

“Shut up, Wolf! See here. We're going to have a different sort of a door. Just a buffalo robe fastened with pegs! I won't stand for that.”

The wolfer nodded his shaggy head, then reminded:

“But we haven't any tools. I've always blocked out the wind with a robe. Mighty careless, I s'pose. Mebbe we can fix a contraption of logs. What part of Californy was you in?”

“Oh, on the Feather'n' the Yuba. In dry diggings. Floated round quite a bit. In Frisco last.”

“Can't dig gold in Frisco.”

“Fine place to blow your dust after you've made a strike.” Gilkil's eyes gleamed reminiscently.

“That's where your wife died.”

“Woman, not wife,” Gilkil corrected. “No, she wa'n't there. She was at the camp. Picked her time when I was having a toot in the El Dorado. How'd I know she was going to peg out and start the talking? Listen, Wolf, git this straight. I don't like to talk about Californy. Always feel I was driven away along of a woman's whining, and lost my big chance.”

“Well, well, if you're that sensitive. But you've got a better chance with me to handle gold than you ever had out there, Gil. But she prob'ly wouldn't complained if you'd been lucky. Some women are like that.”

“Dead wrong. In bonanza, or in borrasca, she fussed and whined. Tried to send her back East. Tried everything. No good.”

“She didn't want to go home?” prompted the wolfer.

Gilkil shook his head, and explained:

“Way things was it wa'n't very pleasant for her. Now, Wolf, I just don't want to talk about that.”

“All right. All right.” The wolfer's tone was peevish. “But when two men are cooped up in a place like this, they talk about almost anything to keep from going crazy. I'm just as curious about women as you be about gold. A whiner. Never understood women. Always taking on. I couldn't stand for that.”

“I didn't,” said Gilkil grimly.

Again the peal of laughter, too loud for the small walls. Again Gilkil came up on an elbow. Before he could speak, his partner was apologetically explaining:

“Always strikes me funny when a man thinks he's finding heaven and wakes up in hell. Well, let's turn in. Dream of the gold you're going to paw over, and forget the woman who fetched you bad luck.”

The morning broke cold and clear. The freeze was severe, and the wolfer grunted Lame Bull's hunting song as he prepared for the day's work. Gilkil, out of sorts because the wind had disturbed his sleep, “howling like wolves,” worked up a transient enthusiasm by telling himself the sooner the drudgery was over the quicker he would be combing gold with his ten fingers. After they had eaten the wolfer directed:

“You be saddling up. I'm going to bury that stinking robe Lame Bull gave me.”

“Sort of wondered why you left that rawhide contraption on top the cabin.”

The wolfer laughed silently.

“If I'd kept it in here and the heat got to stirring it up, well, you'd slept outdoors, partner.”

Gilkil winced and promptly confessed:

“Not after hearing about mad wolves. And my nose's rather fussy at that.”

The wolfer carried the long rawhide box, unopened since leaving Lame Bull's lodge, back under the cliffs and buried it. The horses were saddled when he returned, and Gilkil was eager to be off. The wind was strong and cold when the two gained the plateau. Cuddling his head in his collar, Gilkil cried—

“It'll be rougher before it's softer.”

The wolfer nodded and galloped over the frozen scum of snow. Inside of half a mile the wolfer killed a buffalo bull with his Henry rifle. Gilkil was amazed at the man's dexterity in preparing the carcass for the poison. When the wolfer had finished and swung into the saddle his partner grimaced in disgust and said—

“You look like a murderer.”

“A butcher,” the wolfer corrected. “Your man killer does a neater job. You saw how I doctored that carcass. You'll do the next one.” They rode on a few miles and Gilkil took his turn. The wolfer laughed silently. Gilkil frowned at his gruesome arms and said—

“Wolves will smell me instead of the bait.”

“Right. But they'll never give chase when their dinner's waiting on the floor of the prairie.”

They were following Gilkil's line, and at dusk were back at the cliffs. Descending the crooked path, and washing in the icy water, they hastened to the cabin and kindled a blaze in the crude rock fireplace. The wolfer told his companion—

“What you've been through today is just August weather to what's coming.”

Gilkil, trying to clean his nails, wrinkled his nose in disgust. His partner was amused, and he asked—

“Finicky about a little blood?”

“You can't expect me to like it,” grumbled Gilkil.

“But it's clean blood. You can't make bread without getting dough on your hands. You'll get used to it.”

The wind was making a weird sound in the valley. The robe filling the doorway bellied in and sucked out. Gilkil's brows contracted as he watched the robe work back and forth. Finally he cried:

“Damn that robe! Keeps acting as if some one, or something, was trying to git in.”

“When you eat, throw the first bit of meat over your shoulder to feed the ghosts; then they won't bother you,” said the wolfer.

“Ghosts? What do you mean? Or just some of your funning?”

The wolfer shrugged his broad shoulders and replied:

“I don't know if I'm joking, or funning. Injuns do that— Feed the ghosts. Sometimes I can't tell where I leave off being white and begin to think red.”

“But I don't take no stock in ghosts,” said Gilkil sharply. “I was thinking about mad wolves. That doorway's got to be plugged up.”

“No boards, nor box stuff to use,” mused the wolfer. “Mebbe we can fix it someway.”

“We'll freeze to death when it gits colder.”

“Cold air don't hurt a body,” assured the wolfer. “You'll git used to it. One thing you never had to fret about in Californy—cold weather.”

“Nor mad wolves,” Gilkil added.

The wolfer kneeled before the fire, feeding fuel to make a bed of coals for cooking, and as he built up the blaze he said:

“Never could understand how a mad thing, beast or human, can use his cunning after he's lost his reason. Now what makes a mad wolf want to sneak into a cabin, or tent, and bite a man? He ain't hungry. Yet he'll slip in, sly's a weasel. He don't rush in and chaw whatever he comes to, but comes like a shadder, or a ghost. The harm he does wouldn't amount to shucks if it wa'n't for the poison he leaves behind. But even a teeny scratch is more deadly then to have your back half ripped off by a grizzly. And the suffering that can enter through the teeniest scratch! Good land! I could tell you more stories—”

“For God's sake, don't!” broke in Gilkil. “Talk about gold.”

“Gold to me is just another kind of a rock.”

“It'll buy all a man can want,” shrilly insisted Gilkil.

“Didn't for me. I can hoe out a barrel of it.” He paused at Gilkil's half smothered cry. “Yes, a barrel. You think you'd be happy with a barrel of gold. But don't call it gold. Call it all the food and terbaccer and finnified clothes and travel and whisky you could ever want.”

“And women!” added Gilkil, his eyes blazing. “High and mighty, highty-tighty women, who'd never look at you poor, but who will clean your boots if you throw gold in their laps!”

“All right. Women. But what if you owned all the women in the world? And why do you want highty-tighty women to clean your boots?”

“Ain't it some fun to see a proud, grand'n' mighty one bow her head? Ain't it fun to see the high'n' mighty become meek'n' meeching?”

The wolfer turned it over in his mind while preparing the coffee. Then he reminded Gilkil:

“But I don't know much about women. Them you speak of, would be bowing their heads to the gold, not to you.”

“I don't give a damn what they bow to, so long as they knuckle under.”

The sudden peal of wild laughter gave Gilkil a start. The wolfer quickly subsided, and said:

“You're a funny cuss. You'll earn your gold just by keeping me company.”

Mollified, yet a bit resentful, Gilkil complained:

“You make me jump with that wild hoot of yours. Must sound like the howling of a mad wolf.”

“Now, Gilly, a mad wolf don't go round, howling his crazy head off. That's why he's dangerous. Soft footed as a ghost. And sly! Show me the slyest thing you can think of, and it'll be clumsy alongside a mad wolf.”

“Don't talk about wolves. Mad ones.”

“All right,” patiently said the wolfer. “We was talking about women. How much happiness have women fetched you? I'm plumb ignorant, you understand, Gilly. Sometime I may want to go back to the States and cut a shine. I'd like to learn things. Do women who bow before gold make you the happiest?”

“I don't know.” The tone was sullen. “The kind that don't help you any is the kind that fall in love. They are a great nuisance.”

“Well, good land!” muttered the wolfer, staring, wide eyed, at his partner. “I can't tell what you mean. You don't believe in love?”

“Not the soft, mushy kind. Your red friends don't either. That old buck we visited has a lodge full of squaws. He barks, and they hyper. He has the right notion.”

“It's their custom. Lame Bull's happy. His squaws are happy. But it's the red way. There was old Solomon. Had a thousand wives. Learned it when a younker. If I remember my book reading he wa'n't over happy. Look at it this way. What would you do if you got soft headed 'n' soft-hearted about a woman who'd knuckled to your gold, and you lost your pile, and she made fun of you?”

“I'd kill her!” hoarsely declaim Gilkil; then meeting his partner's staring eyes he hastily added, “Of course, I didn't mean that, Wolf. It would be my hard luck. Let's talk about something else.”

“All right. Tell me about the Californy diggings. Did you strike it rich?”

Gilkil made a face at disagreeable memories, and mournfully confessed:

“I could have made a million if I hadn't left a case knife at the foot of a ledge; or if I'd had a scrap of paper and a pencil with me one Sunday morning. It was above Dog Town, and only half a mile from our cabin.”

“How many in your party?”

“Alone—that is, the woman was with me— Well, I'd passed that spot a hundred times. This Sunday I was making for Dog Town for a bit of fun. Happened to notice what looked like signs in the gulch wall. Stopped and scratched with my case knife that I used on crevices. Inside of two minutes I had ten dollars' worth of coarse gold. But I didn't have any paper or pencil, and couldn't put up a notice, showing size and direction of my claim. Being Sunday, and every one flocking to town, I left the case knife by the ledge and went on. I run my ten dollars in coarse gold up to two hundred at monte. Then lost it and what loose money I had, besides. When I went back to the cabin late that afternoon two fellers was in that gulch and had it posted. Wolf, that gulch paid a million, folks told me afterwards. I never got a smell. Talk about rotten luck!”

The wolfer started to laugh, but stopped to say:

“And talk about costly monte games! Why, Gil, you gambled away a million one Sunday afternoon! Or, put it this way. You once owned a million dollar case knife! Good land! Why didn't you turn back to your cabin and write out your notice?”

“Just what I'd done. I'd done that very thing. But there was my woman. She'd got on my nerves. We'd had a row. I don't mind when a woman rips and tears. But when they just sit still 'n' cry—oh, I can't stand that.”

The wild laughter could no longer be suppressed. It roared and howled above the wind, When he could speak, the wolfer's voice was low and unsteady.

“You've given me a new thought, Gil. Besides the million dollar game and the million dollar knife you had a million dollar row with a million dollar woman, who had million dollar nerves and busted into a million dollar crying spell.” Then the wild laughter again. He concluded by saying, “How she must 'a' combed you when she found you'd kicked away a fortune!”

“Well, she didn't,” growled Gilkil, “and I don't like that hyena laugh of yours. She didn't. She'd learned better than to try any of them games. She wouldn't done any combing, anyway. She didn't seem to care about gold. Queer that way.”

The wolfer nodded and placed two big frying pans on the coals, and said:

“You'll be the second white man to see my gold. I'm the first. We can eat in a few minutes.”

“Why not have a drink of our whisky. Just to cel'brate the first line of bait?”

“No, Gil. You'd have a head in the morning; for you'd want more'n one drink. Time enough for a spree after the season's ended, or—but that wouldn't be a spree.”

“Or what?”

“I was going to say after one of us happens to git bit by a mad wolf.”

“Will whisky cure a man?”

“No, no. Don't believe he could feel it, but I never see it tried. But if it did work a man might miss lots of suffering.”

III

There came the first thaw. The two men worked early and late, skinning a hundred wolves along Gilkil's line of bait. Gilkil soon proved himself to be an adept, and the thaw held on long enough to permit the cleaning up of the second and longer line. They enjoyed a great advantage over other wolfers; there was no red peril to guard against. The thaw ended just as the skinning was completed, and the scattered wolf carcasses served as new bait, supplemented by an aged bull.

By this time Gilkil was as hairy and disheveled as his partner. He was less loquacious and given to moody meditations after the day's work was finished. He could run his line alone. He bore himself as one sullenly waiting to be released. The wolfer had not announced how the profits would be split. One evening Gilkil inquired as to what would be his share.

“Your share will be a fair one, Gilly. You'll git all you deserve,” the wolfer assured.

“I don't care what it is, Wolf. Asked just for the sake of talking. Oh, hell, these stinking hides! All I can think of, Wolf, is that gold. Don't seem as if I could rest natural till I've had my hooks in it.”