-Nate
| Fort
Arneson and Smith's Crossing
To
find more information about the locations mentioned in this story,
refer to the following PDFs.
Smith's
Crossing:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/enbzxo2kxvfl77q/Bad%20Medicine.pdf?dl=0
|
“The
Dead Man's Hand”
Standing back from
the main activity happening at Fort Arneson—a long ceremony in
which chiefs and warriors, officers and soldiers discussed the terms
by which the native people would relinquish their ancestral lands to
the US government and renounce their traditional way of life—all
Little Raven could do was watch with pity the line of men who touched
pen and paper to make the treaty official and binding.
“Oh,” the
fort's commander announced. “There's one other stipulation.” As
he spoke, Little Raven could hear the sound of an approaching wagon.
“As a sign of your good intentions to reform yourselves, everyone
who signs must give up all trappings of your forsaken, heathen ways.”
There was much
grumbling, and one man asked, “What will happen to these things?”
It was the wagon's
driver—a fellow with dark hair and gray eyes, wearing the color and
collar of a preacher—who answered. “They will, of course, be
destroyed; we need proof of your commitment to this new way of
living.”
And so, in spite of
the grumbling, those who'd become resigned to the ways of the Whites
began divesting themselves of prized possessions: a headdress with
numerous eagle feathers, a painted war shield, a coup stick, a
medicine pouch, and other such items. Each one the preacher placed
into a large, iron-bound wooden chest, and when they'd finished, he
sealed it with a stout padlock.
* * *
In the middle of
the night, when most of the people staying in the camp of tents and
tepees around the fort were sleeping, Little Raven made his decision.
Finding a lashed travois, he hitched it to a pony. Then he headed for
the preacher's tent. Pausing, he listened, and heard only snoring.
It was then or
never.
With careful and
quiet steps, Little Raven moved into the tent. On one side the
preacher slept in his bedroll; against the opposite wall rested the
trunk. He lifted it as gingerly as he could, considering the weight
of its contents, and then left the tent. Once outside he moved
without hesitation, setting it down on the travois and then mounting
the pony and urging it forward.
Only did others
from the camp begin to react. A guard from the watchtower cried
“Halt! Who goes there?” Little Raven ignored him.
Then another
voice—he recognized it as the preacher—called out, “Stop him!
He's a thief and an apostate!”
Little Raven
spurred the horse on faster, hoping that the darkness would cover his
escape, but then a shot rang out, and he felt a bullet tear through
his right side. Grunting in pain, he pulled off his short, wadded it
into a ball and pressed it over the wound.
“Take us away, my
friend,” he told the pony through gritted teeth. “Take us away.”
Then he remembered no more.
* * *
Dr. Mordechai Smith
was just sitting down to breakfast when he heard the sound of a wagon
approaching his home; it was followed by tromping feet and then a
knocking at the door.
“Doctor?” It
was Samuel Clayton, who farmed the land west of town.
“Good morning,
Sam. What can I do for you?”
“I have a boy
with me. An Indian boy. He came riding by my land this morning, and
he's hurt pretty bad.”
“Show me.” Dr.
Smith followed the farmer out the door to his wagon. In the back of
it, next to an iron-bound chest, lied the boy, unconscious and soaked
in sweat, with a bloodied shirt tied against his side. Carefully he
untied the bandage and examined the wound beneath it. “There is
still time; let's bring him inside and I'll see what I can do.”
* * *
It took a good deal
of time and considerable effort, but Dr. Smith was able to remove the
bullet and a scrap of cloth trapped with it. Then he cleaned the
wound and applied a fresh bandage, before giving the boy a dose of
morphine and leaving the boy to rest.
He was just
returning to the table for his lunch when he heard another wagon.
This time he went outside to welcome the new arrival; it was Rev.
Malachi Smith, his brother.
“Mordechai.”
Dismounting, the other approached and clasped his hand. “I hear
tell that you received a patient this morning.”
“Yes. Samuel
Clayton brought him to me.”
“An Indian boy,
perhaps with a bullet wound?”
“Yes.”
“I believe he's
one who stole from being before fleeing from the fort.”
Dr. Smith raised an
eyebrow. “A thief, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“And you pursued
him here all the way from there?”
“Well, there is
little that we can do until he recovers. You should rest, too, and I
will let you know when he is awake.”
* * *
Rev. Smith did as
his brother instructed, happy to sleep after riding through much of
the night. It was past time for supper when he was jolted awake by a
scream that came from the house's main floor. Racing downstairs in
his nightclothes, he found the doctor and his wife, Angelica,
standing over the boy, who was sprawled facedown on the floor. She
clutched a bleeding cut on her upper arm, while he held a heavy
candlestick.
Malachi looked from
one to the other, and then to the boy. “What happened?”
“He attacked me,”
Angelica replied. “Moredechai came to my aid.”
Only then did
Mordechai see one of the doctor's surgical knives lying on the floor
next to the body.
“I—“
Mordechai stammered, “I'm afraid I had to kill him.”
“Do not blame
yourself, brother,” Malachi said. “He brought it on himself.”
* * *
They held a funeral
for the boy the next morning at the little cemetery beside
Mordechai's church in Smith's Crossing. Along with the reverend, the
doctor and his wife, and their housekeeper, only a few curious locals
attended. Rev. Smith read a few Bible passages that dealt with
temptation, sin, repentance and grace. For his part, Dr. Smith
dressed the body in a nice suit and hat that he purchased just for
that occasion.
During the burial,
nobody noticed that, while black gloves had been put on the boy's
hands, the left one was stitched to the sleeve of his coat.
| The
Restless Spirit
Given
the injustice of his death, the spirit of Little Raven is unable
to rest peacefully. For that reason, he has become a haint,
dedicated to recovering his hand so that it can interred with the
rest of his body and thus he can attain eternal rest.
It should come as no surprise that Dr. and Mrs. Smith used Little Calf's severed limb to create a Hand of Glory, an item that aids in searching for items of value. Refer to pages 40-1 in the Sixth Gun RPG for details. |
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