The Talking Medicine

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As the first arrow whispered past his scalp to thunk into the side of his wagon, Sam Tucker decided the major’s warning had been sensible. Action and mental cogitation went hand in hand for a man who had lived for some time by his wits. Sam kicked his coffee pot over the campfire and rolled to one side as a second arrow hissed at him.

The fire died with a quick sizzle. Lying in the shadows with six-shooter in hand and heart pounding so hard they must have heard it in China, Sam scanned the night before him. How many Indians there were or where they had come from were questions to be answered later. Doubtless it was a small party, perhaps a single scout, who had seen his fire.

The major in command of the fort had warned him. “Somebody has been getting rifles into Crow hands. Not healthy for a lone white man to wander up those back-trails alone. We’re doing everything we can to avoid incidents, while trying to get at the bottom of this rifle running. We’ve got to stop it soon or it’ll mean the massacre of outlying settlers, a small war with the Crow Indians. I don’t want any fool medicine pedlars touching off the powder keg.”

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