Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  The days were still comfortably warm for the most part, but the nights brought a crisp chill that made the campfire feel real friendly. At dusk after the horses and mules had been brought in close to the fire and hobbled, Trace would ride out and take a wide circle around their camp to make sure there were no uninvited guests lurking about. It was a habit acquired during his time with Buck and Frank. When Rufus commented that Trace seemed overcautious, Trace expressed his astonishment that Rufus never took such precautions himself. “You’re wearing your scalp a little loose,” he told him.

  By the time Chimney Rock appeared in the distance, Rufus had—without realizing it—relinquished all responsibility for selecting campsites and line of travel to the boy. In addition, Trace provided meat when he deemed it safe to fire his rifle. Rufus had begun to wonder how he was going to make it back to the Missouri without the companionship of the alert young man.

  The journey almost over, Trace began to feel excitement welling up in him again. In two days’ time they should sight the wooden palisades of Fort Laramie. Most of the trappers would have scattered into the mountains for the fall season, but someone at the fort should be able to tell him where Buck and Frank were trapping. He had made up his mind during the ride from Council Bluffs that he would cast his lot with the two old buzzards. Pleasant thoughts of trapping filled his mind when he topped the rise and found himself facing three Sioux warriors.

  They were as startled as he was. When Trace reined back hard on the paint, sliding to a dead stop, they did likewise. In that same instant, Trace saw fifteen or twenty warriors at the bottom of the rise behind the three—all painted for war. He remembered then that Rufus had said the Cheyenne and the Sioux were making war on some of their old enemies during the past summer—as well as all white men. Time stood still as the boy stared wide-eyed at the savages, the Sioux staring back in wonder at this white boy so near the banks of the Platte. The fact that Trace did not immediately turn and run probably saved his life.

  Thinking there were perhaps many white men on the other side of the rise behind the boy, the Sioux hesitated—surely the white boy was not alone. The three braves in front began talking among themselves, and then one of them gave the sign of peace. Trace returned the sign, and the Sioux moved forward to meet him. He could feel their eyes examining his Hawken rifle and pistol. Backing the paint slowly while still keeping an eye on the approaching Sioux, Trace knew he was going to have to make a run for it. He had learned enough from Buck and Frank to know that the Indians were peaceful just as long as it took them to find out how many men were with you. When they topped the rise and saw that he was alone, the whole mad horde would be swiftly upon him.

  This was a war party, ready for mischief, probably on their way to steal horses from the Pawnees, their old enemies. It was just Trace’s misfortune to get caught in the middle. There was always the chance that they would simply pass him by, having more important business to take care of. Yet Trace knew the folly of that line of reasoning as soon as the thought passed through his mind. No lone white man was safe on the prairie. He could feel his scalp tingling already.

  Frank had said that Indians respect bravery in a man, so you must never show fear in confronting one. Trace thought about that as he continued backing toward the top of the rise. His better sense told him that they might respect him if he attempted to stand before them, but he would also be respectably dead. His fears were confirmed when he reached the summit. One of the Sioux could contain himself no longer. He suddenly notched an arrow and let it fly, the shaft narrowly missing Trace’s head. Like a signal, the brave’s action triggered loud whoops from the warriors behind him, and they whipped their ponies into a gallop. Trace calmly raised his rifle and knocked the foremost warrior off his pony. Outraged, the war party charged up the rise like a swarm of angry hornets.

  Trace wheeled his pony, and the paint sprang into flight without any encouragement. They bounded down the back side of the rise at full gallop, Trace bending low in the saddle, hoping to avoid the arrows and musket balls that chased after him. He was thankful for the roughness of the terrain that prevented his pursuers from taking dead aim. Trace still held his rifle in his hand but he did not attempt to reload it while galloping over the gullies and knolls, afraid he might drop the weapon in the process. With his free hand, he managed to slide the Hawken’s rawhide sling over his shoulder and draw his pistol from his belt.

  Hoping to gain some ground, he suddenly jerked the paint around in a quick turn and charged off in a different direction. It had the desired effect of catching his pursuers by surprise, widening the distance between him and the warriors chasing him—all except for one. Out in front of his brothers, the Sioux anticipated the change in direction and angled across to intercept the speeding paint. He was well mounted and gradually gained on Trace. Trace glanced back to see the determined warrior, a war axe in his hand, lying low on his pony’s neck. There was no time to be frightened. Trace called on his pony for all the speed he could give him, but the paint could not match the speed of the Sioux brave bearing down on him. Trace wished he had ridden the bay that day.

  When he chanced another look behind him, he could see that the two of them were outdistancing the rest of the war party, but the lone Sioux brave was almost behind him. Not willing to risk a missed shot with his pistol, Trace waited until the Indian pony’s neck was abreast of the paint’s rump. He looked back into the warrior’s face, a mask of scornful fury, his eyes wide in anticipation of the kill, his cheeks adorned with jagged streaks of red and black war paint. His arm was raised to deliver a crushing blow with his stone war axe. Trace aimed his pistol at the Indian’s stomach and fired. He would never forget the look of shocked disbelief that replaced the brave’s angry expression as the Sioux rolled off his pony and landed in the grass.

  His situation was improved, but only by a little. Seeing the second of their number fall victim to the fleeing white man caused the war party to drop back in the chase. But the pursuit was quickly taken up again with renewed fury. Trace, realizing that he could not risk leading the savage mob back to Rufus and the mule train, veered once again and headed directly north, away from the river.

  It was a horse race now. The thing Trace was not sure of was the paint’s endurance. He had never fully tested it, and he longed again for the bay. Still, the little pony maintained a steady gallop, stretching out across the rolling plains. Glancing behind him, he could see his pursuers still coming on, maintaining the pace but not closing the distance. How much longer could his horse hold out? He could see flecks of foam flying from the animal’s mouth already. He glanced back again. He was not outrunning them. He had to go to ground.

  Veering from his course once more, he headed the pony toward a narrow defile at the base of a hill, the Sioux no more than a hundred yards behind him now. The tired horse almost stumbled as he scrambled over the side of the gulch. Trace leapt out of the saddle immediately. He scrambled back up to the brow of the defile, hastily measuring powder and selecting a lead ball. After seating the ball and patch with the hickory rod, he laid the rifle aside and loaded his pistol. Satisfied that he had done all he could do for himself, he took up his Hawken and prepared to die.

  The Sioux raced down to the flat before the hill, and charged toward the defile in which Trace had taken cover. Suddenly they pulled their ponies to a stop, still seventy-five yards away. Their ponies dancing and eager, the warriors appeared to be discussing something among themselves as they held their restless mounts back. Trace was puzzled by their hesitation. They’ve already lost two of their number. They must have a helluva lot of respect for my rifle, he thought.

  He could have easily picked off the leader at this close range, but he decided to wait and see what they were going to do. Why didn’t they advance? He looked to his right and left, thinking they might be waiting while some of their friends crept around to rush him from the sides. He couldn’t spot anyone. Still they waited. A few minutes more passed, and then, to Tra
ce’s astonishment, the Sioux started slowly backing away. Maybe they had seen Rufus coming along behind and decided to go after him first. Maybe they simply respected his firepower and had decided not to lose any more warriors. He began to feel confident again, thinking that maybe he had faced down the entire band. He looked back quickly to make sure his horse was all right. When he did, a shadow caught his eye, causing him to glance up. There, on the crest of the hill behind him, was a long line of fifty or more warriors, silently sitting their ponies, watching the retreating line of Sioux.

  Saved from the frying pan moments before, Trace was now in the fire for sure. In a panic, he scrambled across to the other side of the gully and prepared to meet an attack from the other direction.

  Staying as low as he could, he raised his rifle and aimed at the warrior in the center of the file. The others all seemed to be watching him for a signal, so Trace figured him to be the leader. He remembered stories told by the trappers that sometimes a whole war party could be totally demoralized by the death of their war chief. Reluctant, however, to trigger the chaos that his shot was bound to ignite, Trace hesitated, deciding to let them fire the first shot. It occurred to him then that they had given no sign that they had even spotted him below them in the narrow passage. Instead, they seemed intent upon the party of Sioux, who now looked slightly disorganized, as if deciding what to do.

  Trace lowered his rifle. He looked hard at the silent line of warriors above him and decided they were Crow. Even if they did sight him, he would be of little interest to them at this point, when a small band of their traditional enemies was before them. Badly outnumbered, the Sioux made their decision. Suddenly they turned and bolted toward the river. Trace heard a chorus of war whoops above him, and the Crows immediately swept over the crest of the hill in hot pursuit of the fleeing Sioux.

  Trace was totally confused, uncertain what his course of action should be, caught as he was between two warring tribes. It appeared that he was out of danger for the moment. He watched wide-eyed while the band of Crows charged down the hill to the left of his position, ignoring him while yelling and whooping after the Sioux. When the last of the line had descended and were racing across the flat, Trace led his pony out of the defile and jumped into the saddle. He pointed the paint toward the side of the hill and angled across the path of the retreating Indians. His one thought now was to cut back toward the river to try to intercept Rufus, who must have heard all the commotion and was no doubt seeking a place to hide.

  Racing along a wide ravine, he emerged upon the open flat, only to discover the battle had reversed its momentum. The large band of Crows was now on the run back toward him. Beyond them, toward the river, he could see what looked like an army of Sioux chasing them. “Sweet Jesus!” Trace exclaimed, looking around him in a frantic effort to find cover somewhere. Off to his left, there was a line of trees that indicated a stream. He headed straight for it.

  The beating of his heart seemed to be in rhythm with the pounding of the paint’s hooves in the sandy bank of the stream as he searched for a place where the bank was steep enough to protect him and his horse. Hearing the cries of the retreating Crows only yards behind him, he guided the paint down in the shallow water where a cottonwood leaned out across the stream.

  Hastily tying his pony’s reins to a willow whip, he crawled back to the base of the cottonwood to a position from which he could fire. To his immediate dismay, the retreating Crows had the same notion he had. Within seconds, the now disorganized band of fleeing warriors descended upon the bank of the stream. Warriors yelled to each other, horses screamed protests, lead balls snapped overhead. The desperate Crow ponies jumped and slid down the banks, seeking cover from the fierce pursuit. As quickly as possible, the riders were off their ponies and scrambling to defensive positions behind the banks. Painted warriors fell in on either side of Trace, only a few yards away, their bows ready to repel their enemy. They apparently took no notice of the white boy in their midst.

  Like his unlikely allies, Trace was more concerned with the charging mob of Sioux, and he leveled his Hawken and took aim. The foremost of the attacking Sioux were now within two hundred yards of the stream. Trace set his sights on the lead man and squeezed the trigger. The Hawken spoke and the Sioux warrior rolled backward off his horse. Trace quickly reloaded. As he did, he glanced briefly to his right to meet the astonished eyes of the Crow warrior beside him. Clearly, the Crows had never seen a rifle with the long-range accuracy of his Hawken. There was no time for introductions. Trace aimed again and knocked another Sioux off his pony.

  The second kill caught the attention of many of the other Crows in the stream, and out of the corner of his eye, Trace could see first one and then another of the embattled warriors as they craned to see from where the deadly fire was originating. Ignoring them, he reloaded as quickly as he could and fired again. Three enemies dead, and the Sioux were not yet in range of the Crows’ bows and muskets.

  Equally as confused as the Crows, the Sioux slowed their charge somewhat when three of their number were killed before they were within fifty yards of the stream. Clearly, their attack was disrupted, for one of the dead was their war chief. The assault continued, but without its initial resolve. The Crows, on the other hand, saw their wavering as a sign of defeat. One among them, an older warrior with three eagle feathers in his long graying hair, leapt up and yelled a challenge to his brothers, admonishing them to rise up and kill the hated Sioux. Almost as one, the Crows rose from the banks, their war cries splitting the air as they sent a deadly rain of arrows toward the approaching Sioux.

  In the confusion that followed, Trace was not sure what had actually taken place, or when he decided to join in the countercharge. He only remembered that he fired his rifle as fast as he could reload it amid the swarm of arrows and musket balls until everything went black.

  * * *

  “How long will you drag this white boy with us?” Yellow Bear asked. He stood gazing down at the injured young man on the travois. “It has been two days and still he babbles like a crazy man. I think he is already in the land of the spirits. It is only his mouth that won’t die. I think we should leave him here.”

  Buffalo Shield listened patiently to Yellow Bear’s words, well aware of the young warrior’s distrust of all white men. He, too, looked at the young boy lying on the travois. He looked to be no older than his own son, Black Wing. “He fought beside us against the Sioux. It would not be right to leave him. It was his rifle that turned the Sioux attack when it looked like they might overrun us at the stream.”

  Yellow Bear scowled. “It was not the white boy who made the difference—it was that rifle. Anyone could have done it with the medicine gun.”

  Buffalo Shield gently reminded, “You tried to shoot the gun and could not get it to fire.”

  “The gun is useless,” Yellow Bear retorted, a look of disgust on his face. “There is no flint to make the powder burn. The boy must have broken it.”

  “We’ll keep it with him anyway. Maybe he knows how to fix it,” Buffalo Shield decided.

  Yellow Bear stood a few moments longer, staring down at the injured white boy. “His head is broken,” he concluded, and turned to mount his pony. “We have rested long enough. It’s time to get started again. If you want to continue to take care of this dead white boy, it is for you to decide. If it were up to me, I would leave him here and take his horse. It is a fine-looking animal.”

  Buffalo Shield made no reply, but prepared to get on his horse. After he was mounted, he picked up the reins on Trace’s pony and joined his fellow warriors on the trail north, leading the injured boy on the travois. He had been very impressed with the unusual young man who had joined in their fight with the hated Sioux. The strange new gun the boy carried reached out and killed two Sioux warriors before they were even in range of the few rifles the Crows had. His people had not had guns for very long, but they knew how to use them. This boy’s weapon used powder and ball, like theirs, but the piece that
held the flint was not there. Buffalo Shield was confident that the boy could explain it, if he ever came back from the land of the spirits. He believed the boy’s unusual skill with the rifle was caused not by any strong medicine he possessed but merely by this new gun that they had not seen before. Buffalo Shield was interested in any new gun that would kill an enemy from two hundred yards away. He had decided to look after the sick boy until he either recovered or died. The boy deserved that—he had fought well. He had no one to look after him, anyway, for Buffalo Shield was sure that the white man’s body they had found scalped near the river must have been the boy’s friend—maybe his father.

  For two days, as the Crow war party journeyed northwest, on their way back to their village on the Powder River, Trace bounced along on the travois—sometimes sleeping, sometimes murmuring incoherently on the edge of consciousness. Buffalo Shield was about to admit that Yellow Bear had been right, that it had been useless to drag the boy this far. But on the morning of the third day of their journey, when Buffalo Shield bent low to observe his patient, he was met by two wide blue eyes staring up at him.

  Trace was at once alarmed. Upon awakening after what seemed a deep sleep and finding himself staring eyeball to eyeball with a Crow warrior, he was certain he was about to be scalped. He started to bolt upright, only to be stopped by a stabbing pain in the back of his skull that sent flashes of lightning before his eyes. He realized then that he had been injured. He sank slowly back down on the travois, aided by the gentle hand of the Crow warrior.

  “Ah, you are back,” Buffalo Shield said, smiling at the boy. “We thought you might be dead.” The puzzled expression on Trace’s face told him that the boy did not know his language. “Do you understand my words?” he asked. Again there was no response. Buffalo Shield continued to gaze upon the injured white boy for a few seconds longer before smiling reassuringly at him and rising to his feet. He turned to his son, Black Wing. “The boy does not speak our tongue. Go and ask Big Turtle to come make talk with him.”