Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  For two weeks he remained alone, raiding at will, harassing the Crow, murdering, burning, striking out from the darkness like a demon, until the morning five Crow warriors happened upon his campsite. Blue Hawk lay asleep, exhausted after a night of raiding. The Crow men rode out of a stand of trees, then halted their horses when they saw a small campfire and a lone man just across the narrow river they had come upon. Their leader gave quiet hand signals, for even from a distance they recognized the Cheyenne clothing and the painted roan mare. They waited quietly for a moment, readying their weapons, then charged.

  The moment a horse’s hoof hit the water, Blue Hawk was awake. He bolted for his musket, already primed, whirling around and firing it toward the oncoming Crow, planting a large iron ball into the face of one of the men. He quickly whipped an arrow from its quiver that lay nearby, steadying it in his bow and letting the arrow sing, right into the chest of a second warrior.

  They were across the stream by then, blood in their eyes. Blue Hawk jerked out his hunting knife and threw it, catching a third warrior in the heart. The two remaining Crow brought their mounts to an abrupt halt, staring at Blue Hawk as he stood there, his tomahawk in hand. His arms were out, ready to fight. They looked at each other and grinned, then slid off their horses and began to circle Blue Hawk.

  One of the warriors lashed out at him with his tomahawk, but he grabbed it and swung back, wounding the man’s arm with his own weapon. The Crow jumped back, looking down at his bleeding arm in surprise. Blue Hawk sensed the other Crow was upon him, and he whirled. The man had an arm raised in midair, ready to bring a tomahawk down on Blue Hawk. But he froze in place when he realized who he was up against.

  “Are you a coward?” Blue Hawk sneered. “Like all Crow are cowards?”

  The Crow’s lips appeared redder than normal because of the heavy black paint on his face. His eyes were encircled in white, and he looked like the epitome of evil. His lips curled in a returning sneer. “Two Eagles is not a coward,” he growled.

  Blue Hawk grinned. “Then come and take my scalp,” he dared. “Think what an honored man you would be.”

  The Crow took the bait and lunged at Blue Hawk, swinging his tomahawk viciously. This time Blue Hawk did not dart away in time, and the sharp blade sliced into his side. But in the next instant his own tomahawk hit the Crow’s shoulder. The man cried out and had no time to retaliate before the tomahawk was yanked out of his shoulder and was buried in his neck.

  Blood poured down the front of the Crow and his body collapsed to the ground, his head nearly severed from the trunk. Blue Hawk yanked out his tomahawk again, grasping the man’s hair and taking a quick slice of the scalp. He grinned and kicked at the body, then shoved the scalp into his belt. He turned, glaring at the remaining wounded Crow, who stood trembling, looking at Blue Hawk as though he were an evil spirit. The man turned and started running. Blue Hawk laughed wildly, flinging his tomahawk and landing it in the man’s back.

  It was done. Blue Hawk quickly scalped the other four, ignoring the wound in his side, but moments later a terrible weakness enveloped him and he knew it was from loss of blood. He looked down for the first time at his wound and realized just how grave it was. He remembered Three Feathers warning him about going out alone without the blessings of the spirits. Perhaps the old man had been right and he would die.

  He stumbled to the roan mare, clinging to its neck for a moment, suddenly not wanting to die without the proper blessings, suddenly thinking of his little son. He could not die without seeing his son once again, leaving the boy his possessions.

  He managed to climb up on the horse, then leaned forward against the trusty animal’s neck, kicking its sides with what strength he could muster.

  “Take me … to the People,” he whispered.

  “I told him the spirits would be displeased,” Three Feathers mourned as he watched the shaman chant over Blue Hawk’s body.

  Since his arrival two days before, Blue Hawk had lain near death while the Cheyenne medicine man packed the wound with healing plants and forced concoctions of herbs and healing waters down Blue Hawk’s throat. Then he had chanted over him with special smoke and prayers.

  Blue Hawk’s only hope for life was his own strength, his will to live, and the blessings of the spirits, who must surely be angry with him. And so the shaman did not stop to rest, sure that Blue Hawk needed more offerings and prayers than the average man. In his beliefs and dedication, the shaman continued the important healing ritual night and day.

  The young man had arrived on the roan mare, falling from his horse at the edge of camp. Five fresh Crow scalps were in his belt, and everyone knew he had warred alone. He was indeed a brave and feared warrior, but all thought him a fool to go without the blessings of Maheo.

  Three Feathers watched him with quiet tears, for Blue Hawk had become like a son to him, and he had had a heavy heart the last time the young man had ridden away. The old man was glad Blue Hawk had returned still alive. Perhaps it was a sign that the spirits were not totally displeased with him. But Blue Hawk’s loss of blood and the infection in his side could prove otherwise, and the young man’s soul had been so full of hatred that Three Feathers feared it had weakened his will to live.

  After three more days Blue Hawk began to stir, but there was a terrible restlessness to his movements, and his groans were deep, sorrowful shudders. Three Feathers understood the war that raged inside the man, and he prayed for him. By the next day Blue Hawk began to sleep more calmly, and by that night the fever finally left his body. He opened his eyes to the dim light of a small fire. The first thing he saw was the wrinkled face of old Three Feathers.

  “The spirits are no longer angry with me,” Blue Hawk said in a weak voice. “I feel … a peace.” The few words were difficult, and he was already tired from speaking them.

  Three Feathers smiled at him. “Then the spirits have answered my prayers, Blue Hawk. They have let you live, for they know that deep in your heart your faith is still strong and good, that one day you will find love again. They have helped heal your sorrow for Walking Grass.”

  Blue Hawk closed his eyes. “I hurt all over.”

  “The pain will leave you soon enough. It is the pain inside that has taken long to heal.”

  “Go back,” Blue Hawk whispered.

  Three Feathers frowned, leaning closer. “What is it, Blue Hawk?”

  “I must go back. Faces. I saw … faces. All those I have loved and lost. But one face was Tom Sax … calling me. I fear he is … dead. I must go back, must know.”

  The old man touched his shoulder. “And what of your son?”

  “I will return for him.”

  Three Feathers sat back and sighed. “So, you will leave us after all, Blue Hawk. The white blood in you calls again.” His eyes teared. “You will return, but only for your son. Then you will go again. You will never live among the Cheyenne again. My old eyes see it, my old heart knows. You have answered your Indian calling. Now you must go back to the white man’s world. May Maheo be with you.”

  The old man rose and left so that the shaman would not see the tears in his eyes.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  BLUE Hawk spent his months of healing getting to know his little son, a beautiful, solidly built boy with snappy brown eyes, black hair, and a bright smile that always beamed when his father was near. In June of 1814 the boy was already two years old and was the center of Blue Hawk’s soul, his purpose for living, finally the answer to his sorrow over Walking Grass. But Blue Hawk felt a calling, and because of the vision of Tom Sax he had had when lying near death, he knew he must go back to Fort Dearborn and find out what had happened to the man.

  And there was Sarah, too. What had happened to her? He had promised he would go and see her. Nearly four years had gone by since that promise. Too many questions were unanswered, and life with the Cheyenne brought back too many familiar and painful memories. He would never truly get over Walking Grass if he did not get aw
ay from this place. But he didn’t know what to expect. There could be a full-scale war going on between the Americans and the British for all he knew. Out in the wilds a man had little knowledge of what was happening in the white man’s world.

  Things had calmed between the Cheyenne and the Crow. He could not take little Tom with him at such a young age, and so the boy was left with Sweet Seed Woman, who Blue Hawk knew would take fine care of him while he went East. To leave the boy would not be easy, but it seemed life had become a series of terrible decisions for Blue Hawk. He had to decide again, and he knew he would never be calm in his soul until he knew what had happened to Tom Sax. He left in the next month.

  It was early November when Caleb reached Fort Dearborn. He stared in disbelief at the black, burned out fort. Slowly dismounting, he walked closer, leading the gray gelding by the reins. Behind it was a spotted Appaloosa he used for a packhorse, a splendid animal he had stolen from the Crow and had intended to give to Tom.

  But there was no Tom Sax, no fort, no sign of human life. Fort Dearborn lay in ruins. Caleb’s eyes brimmed with tears. Why did he continue to lose everyone and everything he loved? What had happened here? He stumbled through the debris, heading through the fort and toward the cabin he had shared with Tom and Cora and Sarah.

  Sarah. What would she think of this? What had happened to her? And what had happened to Tom Sax? Had he escaped this? Caleb neared the cabin, and then turned away, crying against his horse’s neck. How much more was he supposed to bear? The cabin had been burned to the ground.

  For several minutes Caleb just wept. Did seeing Tom Sax in his vision mean the man was dead? But he had not seen Sarah. He suddenly missed her desperately and felt frantic to see her. He must go to Saint Louis and try to find her, he decided, in spite of his aversion to going where so many white people lived.

  He threw his head back and breathed deeply, leading the horses to Cora Sax’s gravesite. The crude stone they had made for it was still there. He knelt down bedside it. “You are lucky, Cora Sax, that you left this life when you did. But I miss you.” He closed his eyes and raised his arms, praying to Maheo to protect the woman’s spirit. It was then someone called out.

  “Yo! Who be you?”

  Caleb jumped up, drawing his pistol and aiming it in the direction of the voice.

  “I’m a friend. Don’t shoot!”

  Caleb watched warily as a man in buckskins came out from the thick trees, leading a horse and two mules. He was a large, aging man, and Caleb vaguely remembered him from the fort when he lived there. The man came closer, holding up his rifle.

  “You from this place, young fella?”

  Caleb stayed ready to defend himself. “I am Caleb Sax.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he looked Caleb over carefully. “I’ll be damned! It’s the half-breed son of Tom Sax.” The man shoved his rifle into its boot and put out his hand, his eyes actually seeming to tear. “I’ll be damned! Where have you been, boy?”

  Caleb slowly put the pistol back in his belt, then shook the man’s hand firmly. “John Brady?”

  “Sure am.”

  “I have been with the Cheyenne. Tom Sax was supposed to meet me last spring, but he never did, nor this spring. I came to see what was wrong.”

  They broke the handshake, and Brady looked around at the ruins of the fort. “You don’t know then.”

  “Know what? What happened here?” Caleb asked.

  The man sighed deeply, meeting Caleb’s eyes again. “Son, things got real bad. The British cut off the supply route and the fort had to be abandoned. People were starving. The soldiers ordered everybody to head south to Fort Wayne. Tom, he went along, wanting to get word to Sarah, I think. Me, I headed out on my own, and it’s a good thing I did.” He frowned with concern. “Most of them never made it, Caleb. That was, oh, maybe a year ago. I’ve been down to Fort Wayne since then, and that’s where I learned what happened. The whole bunch of them was attacked by Potawatomi, son. There was close to four hundred of the redskins, I heard. They murdered nearly every last settler, took a few captives, mostly women, then come back here and burned the fort. Some that were later released went on to Fort Wayne. I seen Hugh there, the storekeeper. You remember him?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Hugh, he was thin—pretty near a broken man. He was one of the prisoners let go. He told me he seen both Tom Sax and his friend Bo Sanders go down fightin’ under Potawatomi tomahawks and lances. Them redskins chopped some of them men up in a hundred pieces.”

  Caleb turned away, hanging his head. He breathed deeply to stay in control. How strange it all was. He had murdered many Crow and it had seemed so right. Now Indians had murdered his beloved Tom Sax. How could he bear the guilt of not being by his father’s side? What a horrible death he had suffered. But Caleb was sure in his heart Tom Sax had fought bravely and fiercely.

  “The Potawatomi,” he asked, “they did it for the British?”

  “No doubt in my mind the British was behind it.”

  Caleb threw back his head. “So now the British are my enemy. I once thought they were friends because they seemed to be on the side of the Indian. Perhaps they are, but they murdered Tom Sax and many people I once knew.”

  Brady rubbed his chin. “I heard tell some army fella by the name of Andrew Jackson is aimin’ to take Florida from Spain and head on to New Orleans to fight the British. If you’ve got an itch to fight the Redcoats, you might want to head south and see what’s goin’ on.”

  Caleb stared at Cora’s grave. “Perhaps I will. I must go to Saint Louis anyway. I must find Sarah Sax. Even after a year she might not know if Tom were killed with the others or taken captive.” He turned and faced Brady. “I guess it does not matter anymore why I left Fort Dearborn.”

  Brady looked him over. “After a time we learned you wasn’t the only one, Caleb. But it don’t matter much anymore. That Emily Stoner was took by the Indians, I heard. Her pa was killed. Hugh told me that when he was released, the Stoner girl was still a captive. She’d been took off to some other village. He don’t know what happened to her. Only reason he was set free was because he took sick and the Potawatomi didn’t figure he was worth nothin’.”

  Caleb sighed bitterly. “So, it was all for nothing. I was forced to leave because of that girl, and now I will never see Tom Sax again.”

  “Life takes strange turns, son,” Brady said.

  Caleb thought about Bo Sanders telling him how many things would happen to him before he was old. He nodded. “I have a son,” he told the man. “He is with the Cheyenne and I must go back for him. But first I will try to find Sarah in Saint Louis. Then maybe I will go on down to New Orleans and see if this Jackson is there. If there are British to fight, I would like to be part of it.”

  Brady put out his hand again. “Then you’d better be leavin’ mighty quick. It’s a ways.” They shook hands again. “You’d make your best time by ridin’ hard for Fort Clark and then catchin’ a steamboat south on the Illinois River to the Mississippi and Saint Louis. Don’t stay long in Saint Louis, or you might miss your chance at some Redcoats. That Jackson will be needin’ volunteers. I hear tell the British could be sendin’ a real big army to attack at New Orleans, so keep to the steamboats on down the Mississippi. They’ll get you there a lot faster than a horse.”

  “Thank you,” Caleb replied, releasing his hand. “I have never seen one of these steamboats.”

  The man grinned. “Quite an invention. Real nice way to travel the river. You got money?”

  Caleb nodded. “I have money that Tom Sax gave me before I left. I did not need it when I lived among the Cheyenne.”

  “Well, you’ll need it in the white man’s world, that’s for sure. If you’ve got enough to get you to New Orleans, I expect Jackson volunteers will get paid for helpin’, so you can pick up a little gold there.”

  Caleb turned and mounted his horse, wincing with the pain of his wound, which still gave him trouble at times. “I will leave right away.
” He looked down at Brady. “I thank you for your trouble.” He looked around. “Is it not dangerous for you here?”

  “Not so much. The Americans have took back most of this territory, and neither side is much interested in one ole man who’s lookin’ to just be left alone. Good luck to you, boy. I’m damn sorry about Tom.”

  Caleb struggled to keep his composure, not wanting to show weakness in front of John Brady. He simply nodded, then turned his horse and headed south.

  Twenty-year-old Caleb halted his horse in front of the white fence that surrounded the two-story frame house with blue trim. It was a lovely home, one that could only belong to a wealthy man. Everything was neat and perfect, and Caleb was suddenly hesitant. What would she be like? She was seventeen now, surely sophisticated and educated. Maybe she didn’t care if she ever saw him again. But it was only fitting she should know about Tom Sax.

  He dismounted and tied the gray gelding and the Appaloosa. He was wearing his best buckskins, bleached nearly white and softened by Walking Grass’ expert hands and sewn perfectly. He felt he owed it to Sarah to be as presentable as possible, but he would not wear the white man’s clothing that he hated. The buckskins were brightly decorated with red, yellow and blue beads and quills, with a hand-painted eagle on the back. He wore no weapons other than his large hunting knife attached to a beaded leather belt. The handsome blue quill necklace adorned his neck, peeking out from the open ties of his shirt. His hair was clean and tied into two queues with beaded rawhide, and a round beaded hair ornament adorned one side of his hair.

  He started toward the house, going through the little white gate and up onto the veranda, mounting the steps and knocking at the front door. There was no answer and he knocked again. Finally the door opened a crack, and his heart leaped without control when familiar green eyes peered out at him. The door opened wider. Her beauty was startling, stirring.