The shocking reality of what he had just done suddenly struck Jim and he sank down on one knee, unable to take his eyes off of the dying man. What if he ain’t dead? What if he gets up again? Jim realized he was trembling. He wanted to run, but his stubborn rational mind forbade him to leave without his fortune and his knife.
Unable to approach Tyler, Jim sat down in the dirt several feet away and waited, hoping Tyler would die soon. Tyler was no longer moving, but he was still whimpering quietly, no longer clawing at the knife embedded in his gut. After almost an hour had passed, Jim began to worry that he might be found there by some of Tyler’s friends. Jim knew he could stay there no longer, but he couldn’t take the chance that Tyler might recover somehow. He had to make sure.
Reluctantly, he dragged himself to his feet and went to the pilaster where his gold had been buried. He worked at one of the heavy stones until it broke free. It weighed at least thirty or more pounds. It should do the job, he thought. The thought of what he was about to do made him queasy inside, but he was determined to do what had to be done.
Lugging the heavy stone in both hands, he stepped cautiously toward the dying man. Standing directly over Tyler’s head, he lifted the stone up as high as he could. He stood there, poised to deliver the lethal blow, when he realized Tyler was already dead. Relieved, he backed away and dropped the stone on the ground, his strength suddenly drained.
His thoughts turned toward flight. He had killed Tyler Blunt. Surely, the sheriff and the Blunts would be after him. He had to get as far away from St. Louis as fast as he could. Someone would surely be looking for Tyler come morning. It wouldn’t matter if Jim had killed him in self-defense. Hamilton Blunt wouldn’t care. He’d be out to hang him. His adrenaline pumping with thoughts of escape, Jim hesitated no longer. He rolled Tyler’s body over with his foot and, with both hands, yanked his knife free from Tyler’s gut. He picked up his pouch of gold dust and ran toward the road. In his haste, he almost ran into Tyler’s big gray horse, tied to a shrub by the side of the road. Without hesitating, he pulled the reins loose and jumped into the saddle. The gray accepted him willingly and responded instantly to the heels jabbing into its flanks.
Riding as fast as the gray could gallop, Jim headed up the dusty road, putting the grim scene at the burned-out cottage behind him. Off to his right, a big yellow moon floated just above the tops of the poplars, throwing long shadows across the darkened road. An avalanche of thoughts threatened to bury the young boy’s mind as he tried to figure out what he should do. To his mind, he had done no wrong. Why should he run? There was always the chance that no one would ever know who killed Tyler Blunt. He thought about that for a few minutes, then rejected the idea. Hamilton Blunt had to know Tyler had gone to see Jim, and he had probably sent him out there himself. The Blunts ran the whole county. What chance did Jim have of proclaiming his innocence? He had no choice but to run.
His decision made, he spurred the horse onward. He felt his pocket to make sure his pouch of dust was still there. It was going to be the start of a new life. He would need to outfit himself to return to the mountains, where a soul could lose himself for good. Maybe he could find Frank and Buck again.
He would have to convert his dust to hard cash, and at the moment he only knew one place to do that—Trotter’s. He trusted the storekeeper to treat him fairly. The problem was he couldn’t afford to wait for the store to open in the morning—he would just have to wake him up. The next thing to cause him concern was Tyler’s horse. Up to that point, he didn’t feel he had done anything wrong in defending his life. But if he kept the gray, he could be charged with horse stealing. He decided to leave the horse with Mr. Trotter.
Trotter lived upstairs over the store with his wife and two daughters. When the big gray slid to a stop, Jim leaped down from the saddle, taking the back steps two and three at a time. “Mr. Trotter!” he yelled repeatedly while banging on the door. He kept knocking until he saw the glow of a lamp in the window. A few moments later, he heard the creaking of the floorboards on the other side of the door. Finally, the door opened, and Mr. Trotter stood in the doorway, still in his nightshirt.
“Who is it?” Trotter asked. “Jim? Is that you?”
“Yessir. I’m real sorry to bother you, but I can’t wait till morning. I have to leave tonight and I need some money.” He held his pouch up so Trotter could see it. “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t real important.”
Trotter hesitated momentarily. He was a patient man, and he had always liked the young Tracey lad, but it was the middle of the night. He was reluctant to leave his soft bed to accommodate a young boy in what might or might not turn out to be a real emergency. “What happened to you? That’s a right nasty-looking cut on the side of your face.”
“I just got my head bumped. It ain’t much,” Jim offered in explanation.
After studying Jim’s face in the glow of lamplight, Trotter finally gave in. “All right,” he said. “Let me get my pants on.” He disappeared back into the house, reappearing a few minutes later with his nightshirt stuffed into his trousers. Jim could hear the muffled voice of Mrs. Trotter complaining to her husband. “Just go on back to sleep,” he heard Trotter say. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Trotter paused. Holding the lamp up so he could take a closer look, he said, “That looks like Tyler Blunt’s big gray.”
“Yessir,” Jim replied. His mouth suddenly went dry and he tried to swallow the knot in his throat. “Yessir,” he repeated. “I’m gonna have to leave him here with you if you don’t mind. I didn’t steal him. I just borrowed him for a little while.”
Trotter looked at Jim, his curiosity fully primed. Knowing Tyler Blunt’s disposition, he figured it highly unlikely that the boy had Tyler’s permission to ride his horse. “Are you in some kind of trouble, son?”
“Yessir,” Jim stammered. “I’ve got to get away from here right now. I ain’t taking the horse because I ain’t no thief.”
Trotter decided not to push the boy for any more information. Jim had obviously gotten himself in some kind of trouble with Tyler Blunt. Everyone in the county knew Tyler to be an arrogant, sadistic son of a bitch, and if something had caused him to come to grief, then he probably had it coming. Trotter deemed it prudent to have no knowledge of why Jim Tracey was in such a hurry to leave town. “Come on, then,” he said. “You’re going to need more than a few things if you’re hightailing it for good.”
CHAPTER 6
Logan stood on the rough planks of the wharf, his feet widespread, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed intently on the boy standing before him. Aside from the moccasins and deerskin trousers, everything else the boy had looked new—his Hawken percussion rifle, the powder horns, pistol, and possibles bag. Jim had sought Logan out, seeking passage on his keelboat for the trip up to Council Bluffs. If he had ever seen a greenhorn, Logan was sure he was looking at one now.
“So you’re looking for passage to Council Bluffs, are you?” He glanced around behind the boy, expecting to see some adults. “You by yourself?”
“Yessir.”
Logan grinned. “Run off from home, did you?”
“Nossir. Ain’t got no home.”
“That so?” Logan stroked his chin thoughtfully while he continued to eyeball the boy. “Look’s like you got yourself outfitted up pretty good. You sure you ain’t in some kind of trouble back home?”
Jim was losing patience with the interrogation. “Mister, the only trouble I got is trying to find out if I can ride upriver on your boat. I can pay for my passage.”
Logan laughed in spite of himself, recalling a day many years before when he left home himself to set out on his own. He wasn’t much older than this lad. “Well, I bet you can. But let me give you a little advice—don’t be telling folks around the river that you got money.”
“I didn’t say I had a lot of money. I just said I had enough to pay for a ride on this boat.” That wasn’t entirely true, for
his little poke of gold dust had converted into a sizable fortune. He had enough for his passage plus enough to purchase a couple of good horses when he got to Council Bluffs. Most of it was sewn inside the deerskin shirt he carried in his pack.
“You got folks meeting you at Council Bluffs?” Logan asked. When Jim explained that he didn’t—that he planned to go overland from there up the Platte—Logan thought it over for a few seconds. “All right, what the hell. You can go along. And if you make yourself useful, you can go for half the usual rate.”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”
Logan continued to study the young man standing in front of him for a moment more as if still deciding. “What’s your name, son?”
“Trace. . .” Jim blurted, then checked himself.
“Trace?” Logan replied. “Trace what? Is that your last name?”
Jim had to think fast. It wouldn’t be smart to give his real name in case word had spread about Tyler’s death. He hesitated a moment before adding, “McCall—Trace McCall.” It seemed fitting that he use his father’s last name and his mother’s maiden name.
“All right, then, Trace, you can stow your possibles over there back of those barrels. But you’re gonna have to keep an eye on ’em yourself. If something turns up missing, don’t come blubbering to me.”
Jim thanked him and went to stow his possessions. It was unnecessary for Logan to warn him to watch over his pack. He was a different young man returning to the mountains than the one who had journeyed down to St. Louis with the sorrowful message for his mother. There was something about killing a man that leached the boyhood right out of a body. Jim knew his weapons and the beaver traps he had purchased from Mr. Trotter would make the difference in his living or dying in the harsh mountains. He positioned himself behind the long mound of cargo in the middle of the boat while Logan barked out orders to the twenty keelboatmen.
The bowline was cast off, and the square sail was run up the mast. There was only a slight breeze, but it was enough to push the boat away from the wharf. The polemen hustled to pick up their poles from where they had been neatly stacked along the sides of the boat. Once everyone was in place, the sternline was cast off and Jim’s journey up the Missouri was under way.
The gentle breeze served to ease the strain on the polemen as they set their poles in the muddy current, probing for the bottom. They were a sordid collection of river rats, these boatmen, and Trace vowed anew to make sure his belongings never left his sight. Logan kept after his crew, cajoling, then cursing, showing no sympathy for their labor. He was not totally without feeling, however, for he put in to shore early that first afternoon after making barely four miles. It was enough to sweat most of the whiskey out of the men from the previous days in town. Logan didn’t tolerate any liquor on his boat, except that which might be on board as cargo. But he fully expected the men to drink all they could find at each end of the trip.
As soon as the boat was secured, the crew split up into several smaller groups, each around its own fire. Jim was invited to sit down at the fire of the only other paying passenger on board. The man introduced himself as Rufus Dees. A good portion of the cargo was his responsibility, he said. He had a string of six mules waiting in Council Bluffs to transport his goods to Fort Laramie. This sparked Trace’s interest, since Fort Laramie was his planned destination after leaving the boat.
“Settin’ out on yer own, are ye?” Rufus Dees asked as he ground up a handful of green coffee beans.
“Yep,” was all Trace replied, eyeing the round little man carefully. He could see nothing sinister in the man’s eyes, but one could never be sure. He decided Rufus was making polite conversation and nothing more.
“Where be ye a’headin’?” He hardly took his eyes off the beans he had rolled in a cloth as he pounded them on a rock. When Trace didn’t answer, Rufus looked up and smiled. “I don’t aim to be nosy, boy. Where you’re headin’ is your own business.”
Trace flushed slightly. He had hesitated, wondering if this seemingly harmless little man was already scheming to relieve him of his new rifle. “No, sir,” he quickly replied. “I was just wondering myself where I was going. I figured I might go to Fort Laramie—see if I can hear something about some friends of mine.”
“Laramie, eh? Well, like I said, I’m takin’ supplies up there.” Rufus put his coffee on the fire to boil, and took a slab of salt pork from his pack. He liked what he saw in the quiet lad, and he was of a mind to ask him if he wanted to go overland to Laramie with him. Six mules were a handful on the trail. Though Rufus could handle them alone—he’d done it many a time—it sure made life easier if you had a little help. Besides, if the boy could hit anything with that new Hawken that never seemed to leave his hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have another rifle along. He decided he’d watch him for a few days before making up his mind—see how the boy handled himself. “You got anything to eat?”
Trace nodded. “I got some jerked meat.”
“Jerked meat?” Rufus snorted. “You’d best eat with me. Jerky is what a man eats when they ain’t nuthin’ else. I hope you got more in that pack than jerky. We’re liable to be on this boat for a month and a half or more.”
“I aim to hunt,” Trace replied. “I brought some coffee and a few staples. This ain’t the first time I’ve been to the mountains.”
Rufus went to his pack again. “I got some potatoes I’m fixing to fry up. The missus give ’em to me. Figured I could eat ’em for a few days, but it looks like they’re already goin’ rotten. We might as well cook ’em up tonight and have us a feast.”
Trace was grateful for Rufus Dees’s hospitality and happily helped him dispose of his little sack of potatoes. Their bellies full, they made their beds by the fire. Trace went to sleep propped up on his pack, his rifle clutched securely in his arms, listening to the low murmur of the boatmen as they talked around their fires.
The next day saw them twelve miles farther up the river. At day’s end, Logan picked a spot to camp near a heavily wooded slope. After Trace helped secure the boat, he took to the woods to see if he could find something for supper. Rufus had the fire blazing and the coffee ready when Trace returned to camp with three fat rabbits to repay Rufus for the potatoes. Rufus was to find in the following days that the young man with his Hawken never failed to bring back something to cook. Before the trip was over, they had formed an unspoken partnership. Trace provided the meat, Rufus did the cooking.
Riverboat travel was not an easy means of transportation for Logan and his crew. The river was not as wild in late summer as it was in the spring, but still there were snags and sandbars to negotiate, as well as periodic Indian attacks, which usually proved to be more of a harassment than a full-scale assault. Of greater aggravation were the insects and the river itself. It seemed that too often, the river was too deep for the poles and the current too swift for the oars, leaving no means to propel the craft except by hauling it along by ropes from the shore. On these days, they sometimes made little more than three or four miles.
Trace was beginning to wonder if they were going to make it to Council Bluffs before winter. Not content to sit idly by as his new friend Rufus did, Trace pitched in and helped the crew pull the boat along. Sweating in the late-summer sun, he would sometimes wonder about the purpose of the huge square sail, lufting on the mast in the continuous absence of any wind. As fall approached, however, he saw more days when a breeze would attempt to fill the sail. Still, it never seemed to help a great deal in propelling the heavily laden craft.
From the first day after leaving St. Louis, Trace had noticed that the boat rode bow-high in the water. It appeared to him that the boat would ride more level if most of the cargo hadn’t been loaded toward the stern. One day, while the men were working hard to pull the boat around some snags, Trace questioned Logan about it, saying that if some of the cargo was shifted toward the bow, it might make their job a little easier. Logan replied that the boat was loaded that way for a reason. “If you load her bow-h
eavy, and run up on a sandbar, you’d never get her off until you unloaded the damn cargo.”
* * *
Morgan Blunt rode in silence, his solid frame rocking in the saddle in rhythm with the gait of his late brother’s horse. He had always admired the big gray, and had once tried to trade it away from Tyler. Tyler wouldn’t part with the horse for anything. He had often joked about it, saying, “I’ll leave him to you in my will. You can have him when I die.” Well, brother, it looks like I didn’t have to wait as long as you thought.
He felt no remorse for having callous thoughts about his brother’s demise. There had never been any feelings of closeness between the brothers, and Morgan had felt no real sense of sorrow when Tyler was killed. Anger, yes, and a sense of humiliation that one of the powerful Blunt brothers had been murdered by a sniveling brat. Hamilton had been furious when some men brought Tyler’s body to the house. He ordered Morgan to find the boy, no matter how long it took. Being the eldest, Hamilton was always the one who called the shots. More than that, he controlled the money. Blunt Brothers Freight was, in reality, Hamilton Blunt. The brothers’ names were on the company signboard merely because of Hamilton’s largesse. Morgan knew that and accepted it. He and Tyler were there to do Hamilton’s dirty work, just as he was doing on this day.
Wings of the Hawk Page 9
