Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  In a few minutes Black Wing returned, followed by a short, solidly built warrior. “So the white boy is not dead after all,” Big Turtle said. He walked up close to Trace and stared down at him. “He looks like he is still a little crazy from that musket ball that bounced off his skull.”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Buffalo Shield replied. “He doesn’t talk, or even groan—and I don’t think he understands our tongue. Maybe his head was cracked.”

  Big Turtle looked back at Trace and smiled. To Buffalo Shield he said, “We’ll find out.” Speaking now in broken English, he knelt down close to Trace and asked, “Can you understand my talk?” Trace’s eyes lit up at once, and he nodded his head. Big Turtle continued. “Can you talk?”

  Again Trace shook his head yes, then said softly, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Big Turtle said, nodding vigorously. He turned to Buffalo Shield. “Good,” he repeated in the Crow tongue. Buffalo Shield nodded in response.

  Big Turtle explained to Trace that he had been grazed by a Sioux rifle ball and had been asleep for a long time. Trace’s memory of the fight near the Platte slowly returned to him, and he remembered shooting his rifle repeatedly, but nothing after that. Big Turtle explained that Trace was struck down from behind by a Sioux warrior, who was just about to reload and finish the boy off when Buffalo Shield sank an arrow into the Sioux’s heart.

  Trace shifted his gaze to the tall, lean warrior standing over him and smiled. To Big Turtle, he said, “Tell him thank you.” After waiting while Big Turtle relayed his thanks, Trace asked, “Am I a prisoner?”

  Big Turtle quickly flashed a wide smile. “No, you are welcome guest—big medicine—shoot gun that kill far off.” He nodded toward Buffalo Shield. “His name Buffalo Shield. He take care of you for two days. Not sure you alive or dead.”

  “Two days?” Trace gasped. “Have I been laying here for two days?”

  Big Turtle nodded. “Three, counting today.”

  “Damn,” Trace exhaled, then remembering, “Rufus!” His eyes wide in alarm, he asked, “There was another white man, driving a mule train—is he . . . ?”

  “Dead,” Big Turtle affirmed. “Sioux find him.”

  Trace sank back. This news was distressing. He felt a deep sadness for the loss of Rufus Dees, who had been so kind to the young boy setting out on his own. Then another thought struck him. “You say the Sioux killed him?” Big Turtle nodded. “Did they take everything?”

  Big Turtle shrugged. “Reckon so. When we find him, there was nothing else.”

  The Sioux had obviously made off with all of Rufus’s supplies, as well as his own bay horse, his traps and supplies, and the extra ammunition for his rifle. The thought of being unarmed caused him to glance sideways—at least the Crows had let him keep his Hawken and the lead and powder.

  While Trace was silently contemplating his present situation, Big Turtle related their conversation to Buffalo Shield. When Buffalo Shield asked a question, Big Turtle turned to Trace and asked, “What is your name?”

  “Jim. . .” he said without thinking, then quickly added, “Trace.”

  “Jim Trace?” Big Turtle asked.

  “No,” Trace replied, “just Trace—my name’s Trace.” It might not be important that this wild band of Crows knew his real name, but there was no use taking the chance that they might pass it along to some white man. As feeble as he felt, Trace decided he was lucky to have been picked up by the Crows. When he thought about it, there could be few places better to hide from the Blunts than with a band of Crow Indians.

  After having been unconscious for two days, Trace was badly in need of nourishment. Buffalo Shield and Black Wing soon brought him food and water. Rebounding with the healing capacity of youth, Trace spent only one more day on the travois before he was able to discard it and ride his horse again. Though his head still felt a little fragile, it was better on the paint than on the jolting travois. Most of the time, Black Wing rode by his side. Trace took an instant liking to the son of Buffalo Shield. He had a constantly pleasant disposition, and the two boys, while unable to talk to each other, still managed to communicate to some extent through nods, smiles, and gestures.

  In the evening, Big Turtle would talk to Trace. He explained away the confusion Trace had felt when caught between the two warring tribes. The smaller group of Sioux that Trace had accidentally encountered were waiting to entice the Crows to chase them into an ambush, laid for them by the larger force of Sioux warriors. The Sioux were returning from a horse-stealing raid in Crow country, and the Crow war party, led by Yellow Bear, had been riding to overtake them.

  Big Turtle said it was lucky for them that Trace had surprised the Sioux, getting them to chase after him, for it had brought them out in the open. Buffalo Shield, upon seeing the band of Sioux that chased Trace into the defile, counseled Yellow Bear to reconsider attacking the smaller party. He argued that this was not the same party of Sioux that had stolen their horses—they had no extra horses with them. But Yellow Bear had blood in his nostrils and would not wait. He led the charge down the hill and after the Sioux, only to be met by the larger band, waiting in ambush along the riverbank. They were lucky to escape with only a few dead. Buffalo Shield maintained that the main reason the Sioux decided to break off the attack on the disorganized Crows taking shelter in the stream was the rifle of the white boy.

  Trace realized then why he was a welcome guest and being treated cordially by all the braves. All except one, that is—Yellow Bear. During the ride back to the village on the Powder, Yellow Bear presented nothing but a scowling face to Trace. Big Turtle said it was because he had a strong resentment toward all white men. He considered them inferior. Big Turtle himself was barely tolerated by Yellow Bear because of his own family history. Big Turtle told him that his father had been a white trapper who hunted for the Hudson’s Bay Company. His father lived with the Crows until his death at the hands of a Gros Ventres warrior. But the fact that most warriors believed Trace and his medicine rifle were the reasons they had defeated the Sioux at the stream, only added to Yellow Bear’s resentment of the young man.

  The party of Crow warriors, along with the lone white boy, were on the trail for two more days before descending a line of low-lying bluffs that bordered the Powder River. On the opposite side of the river, in a grove of cottonwoods, Trace saw the lodges of Red Blanket’s village. The camp stretched along the riverbank for what Trace estimated to be at least a quarter of a mile. At that moment in his young life, it seemed to be as far from St. Louis as the moon was from the earth. No one would find him here.

  Through Big Turtle, Buffalo Shield invited Trace to come to live in his lodge with him and Black Wing. Black Wing smiled broadly, nodding vigorously, as Big Turtle translated. Trace accepted graciously, but voiced some concern as to what Buffalo Shield’s wife might think of the arrangement. Buffalo Shield was quite puzzled that the boy would think Dull Moon would object. In fact, when told of Trace’s part in the fight with the Sioux, Dull Moon was honored that he would come to her tipi.

  Over the next few days, Trace was introduced to a way of living that was much to his liking. The simple, honest openness of the Indians’ way of dealing with life’s daily decisions appealed to Trace. They ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired. When the grass was grazed out and the game became scarce, they packed up and moved to a new place. It seemed a natural way of life, one that he immediately embraced.

  Trace’s reputation as a marksman was established soon after he joined Red Blanket’s village when he participated in a hunt for buffalo. The nights were becoming chilly by then, and the women of the village were busy working hides and drying meat for the fast-approaching winter. Buffalo had been sighted only two days’ ride from their camp on the Powder, so the entire village packed up and moved north. Having fully recovered from the nearly fatal blow to the head, Trace was eager to join in the excitement of the hunt. He had never hunted buffalo, though he had heard Buck’s tales of killing the great
beasts of the prairie.

  Black Wing was as eager to introduce Trace to the excitement of the tribal hunt as Trace was to go. He was helping Trace adorn his pony with bright jagged slashes of lightning in red and black paint when Yellow Bear rode by.

  “So you go on your first buffalo hunt,” he observed in a dry tone bordering on sarcasm. “How do you think to kill the buffalo? You have no weapon.”

  Although Trace was learning the language rapidly, he was unable to catch all of Yellow Bear’s words. So Black Wing answered for him when he saw that his friend did not understand. “He will use his gun, the one that killed the Sioux warriors.”

  “Huh!” Yellow Bear snorted. “The gun is no good. It won’t shoot anymore. He has broken it.”

  Trace, listening carefully, and watching their gestures as they talked, guessed what Yellow Bear’s remarks concerned. Big Turtle had told him of Yellow Bear’s earlier comments about the gun that no longer had flint to ignite the gunpowder. He held his Hawken up and pointed to it with his other hand, gesturing that it was big medicine. Yellow Bear snorted contemptuously and wheeled his pony, riding rapidly away.

  A short distance away, readying his own horse for the hunt, Buffalo Shield had paused to watch the brief meeting. He was confident in the belief that the white boy would make the gun shoot. He would keep Trace close to him during the hunt, for he was curious to see how the boy would make the rifle fire again. Watching the two young boys preparing for the hunt brought a smile to the old warrior’s face.

  Scouts had been sent out ahead to find the buffalo and to determine the best plan of attack. They returned to the camp, which was now packed up and on the move, to report their findings. The most efficient way to kill as many animals as possible—stampeding the herd over a cliff—was not an option because of the absence of such terrain. Since the country near them offered no natural places to box in the buffalo so they could be slaughtered easily, it would have to be done on the run. Each hunter would fly into the herd and kill as many as he could from a galloping pony. This was the method that pleased Black Wing most. It was by far the most exhilarating.

  Trace and Black Wing fell in with the other hunters and rode out to where the animals had last been seen. The scouts, leading the way, signaled for quiet as they made their way around a low line of hills that prevented the beasts from sighting them. Downwind of the grazing herd, the Crow hunters circled around until they were abreast of the largest concentration of the animals. They waited while six other braves came up from behind the herd to drive the buffalo toward the waiting hunters.

  They waited for what seemed like an eternity to Trace. Finally the sound of musket fire broke the stillness, accompanied by the whoops of the riders coming up from the upper end of the valley. The hunters moved into position, straining to hold their skittish ponies back. Trace checked his load and seated the lead ball properly. Then he reached into his bullet pouch and retrieved a percussion cap. Buffalo Shield, watching the young man closely, muttered, “Ahh. . .” when he saw the small copper cap placed in position. Yellow Bear will not be pleased with this, he thought, smiling.

  Red Blanket warned the anxious hunters to be patient and instructed them to hold their nervous mounts until the foremost buffalo had passed their position. Trace could see the herd now, so many that they filled the broad valley from side to side. As Trace watched in awe, the beasts in the rear started to run, causing those directly in front of them to bolt into those ahead of them. And so it progressed, like a great wave that begins slowly, picking up momentum until it crashes on the shore.

  Red Blanket held his hand up, holding his hunters until the buffalo were within range of their bows and muskets. In the excitement of the moment, a young hunter behind Trace, struggling to keep his horse from backing into the hunter behind him, accidentally discharged his musket. A couple of hunters in the rear, thinking the signal had been given, charged over the crest of the hill, straight down toward the valley. Red Blanket tried to stop them, but it was too late. The leading buffalo turned and stampeded away from the waiting hunting party.

  There was no choice but to follow and join in the chase. Hunters raced to get within range of their bows and the poorly made fusees, the muskets many of the Crows had traded from the Hudson’s Bay Company. Trace gave the paint his heels, and the little pony tore off across the valley after the thundering herd. When he had closed the distance to within an effective range for his Hawken, he looped the reins around his saddle horn and brought the rifle up. They were such huge targets, how could he miss? He squeezed the trigger and dropped a large cow from a couple of hundred yards away. He reloaded as quickly as he could while hanging on to the racing pony with his knees. Another shot, and another buffalo tumbled, and again he reloaded. Still, they were not close enough for the Crow hunters to shoot.

  By the time the main body of hunters had closed within range of their weapons, Trace had accounted for four of the huge shaggy animals. He was caught up now in a wild torrent of grunting dark bodies, veering right and left in a crazed panic, while daring Crow riders—their naked torsos painted with their own individual designs—darted in and out, loosing their deadly missiles. And then suddenly, on an unseen signal, the hunt was over. Trace pulled up and watched as the stampeding beasts turned down a narrow draw and thundered out of sight in a cloud of dust.

  In spite of the premature warning that had set the herd off too soon, it was a successful hunt. A carnival atmosphere now descended upon the valley as the women and children began skinning and butchering the fallen beasts. Hurrying to the great dark mounds, the women were quick with their knives. The children waited eagerly for choice hunks of the still-warm livers, laughing delightedly at the blood-smeared faces of their playmates. It was all a fascinating spectacle to Trace.

  To his surprise, Trace found himself the object of considerable attention. Many of the men came up to him to pat him on the shoulder and express admiration for his shooting. They were curious to examine the Hawken rifle, nodding to each other with smug expressions of approval. Of these hunters, Buffalo Shield was the most interested. He called Big Turtle to come and talk to Trace.

  Trace explained that the rifle was an improvement over the older flintlocks, and he showed Buffalo Shield the small percussion caps that replaced the flints of the weapons that some of the braves were using. The rifle’s much greater range was not due to the percussion cap, though, he explained. The Hawken was a rifle of enviable accuracy and power, far beyond that of their muskets.

  “We have not seen a gun like this before,” Big Turtle said, as he ran a finger along the octagon-shaped barrel. “You’re the first white man we’ve seen in a long, long time. Are all the white trappers carrying these new guns?”

  “Well, no,” Trace replied, “not all of ’em—but all that can get their hands on one.”

  Trace came to realize a general acceptance by Red Blanket’s village after the hunt. Red Blanket, unlike Yellow Bear, held no deep hostile feelings toward the white man. He merely felt it prudent to avoid him whenever possible. In Trace, he recognized the potential to become a Crow brave, and he welcomed the boy and his rifle. Yellow Bear, on the other hand, was still unbending in his distrust for anyone of pale skin, and continued to show his contempt for the boy by ignoring him.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the fall of 1835, Fort Laramie was the major trading post between the Missouri and the Rockies. Jim Bridger had seen that potential when Bill Sublette and Robert Campbell built it only a year before, and this was the reason he and his partner, Tom Fitzpatrick, bought it from them. The fort saw a wide variety of clientele passing through its front gate—trappers, hunters, traders, and Indians of several tribes. They traded animal skins for the luxuries the white traders offered; blankets, guns, powder, steel axes—and whiskey. All manner of men rode into Bridger’s fort, some good, some bad. It was a man of the latter character that Morgan Blunt sought on this chilly afternoon in late September.

  He sent his two men to ask aroun
d for Joe LaPorte among the small groups of trappers still lingering near the whiskey barrels, while he searched the camps outside the wooden palisades. There were not many trappers left around the fort. Most were free trappers who, being their own bosses, were getting a late start, for whatever reason. Bridger’s company of men had long since left for the headwaters of the Yellowstone. Morgan walked up to two old mountain men who were arguing over the proper method of tying a pack on a mule.

  “Dammit, Frank, I reckon I know how to tie on a side pack. I reckon I’ve done it enough.”

  “Is that a fact?” Frank shot back. “Well, whose mule raked a sack of flour off on a pine tree near Henry’s Fork?”

  “I swear, Frank, that was three year ago. Ain’t you ever gonna let that rest? I ain’t so shore that weren’t you that tied off that mule, anyway.”

  “The hell it was. I recollect that little loose knot of your’n, crossing it over the top to try to keep the slack out of it.” He was about to go on when he realized that the rather large man with dark, scowling eyes had stopped behind Buck and was waiting to speak. “Howdy,” he said, looking past Buck.

  “I’m looking for Joe LaPorte. Have you seen him?” Morgan Blunt asked.

  Frank eyed the stern-faced stranger for a moment before answering. An Easterner by the look of him—a trader, maybe. Frank wondered if the frown on the man’s face was a permanent feature. It appeared that his countenance had never been graced by a smile. “Joe LaPorte?” Frank echoed. “No, I’m happy to say I ain’t seen him.”

  Buck, never one to hesitate to pry into another’s business, turned to scrutinize the stranger. It had been his experience that few white men confessed to having dealings with the notorious mountain man the Indians called Big Bear. “I heared a feller say he seen LaPorte hanging around that Injun camp over yonder.” He gestured toward a group of Sioux lodges downriver a few hundred yards. “What are you lookin’ fer that skunk fer? Somebody musta been murdered.”