Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Trace studied the two unlikely travelers. Jordan Thrash was a slight man, narrow in the shoulders, with a bony face that bore the lines of many years following a plow. His weather-beaten face was tanned and leathery to a line above his ears. From that point upward, his pate was bald and white, indicating that he normally wore a cap, and not a broad-brimmed one. His boy, Jamie, on the other hand, was fair, with cheeks as smooth as a baby’s, not yet of an age to shave. Like his father, Jamie was thin, yet unlike his father, he had managed to hang on to his hat during their flight from the Sioux war party.

  “My partner’s up on the hill with our horses,” Trace said, then he turned and whistled for Buck to come on in. He detected a decided look of concern in the eyes of both Jordan and Jamie Thrash, possibly wondering if they had fallen into the hands of ruffians after a narrow escape from savage Indians. “Looks to me like you folks have lost about everything you own. Buck and I can give you a hand. I don’t think you have to worry about those Injuns, they headed due north after they burned your wagon.”

  “We’d be much obliged,” Jordan said, wincing at the fate of his wagon. “Did they burn everything?”

  “Nossir. There are some things still scattered around. They just made a mess of most of it. It’s hard to say how much they carried off, since I didn’t know how much you had to start with.” He glanced at the spent mules standing in the middle of the stream. “We can round up your other two mules back there on the flats.”

  When Buck brought the horses and pack mules down, Trace introduced him to the Thrashes. Still wide-eyed at the sudden appearance of the two mountain men, Jordan Thrash was obviously still not sure he and his son were not in danger. They relaxed a bit, however, when Buck went about the business of building a fire and offered them some salt pork and coffee from his pack. Jordan confessed that they had not eaten that day. A cup of Buck’s steaming black coffee limbered up Jordan’s tongue, and he began to recount the events that had brought him and his son to this little stream in the foothills.

  He had been a sharecropper on a farm in southern Ohio for seventeen years, ever since he and his wife were married. The ground was poor, and he fought it for all that time, trying to scratch out a meager living for the two of them and Jamie, who came along less than a year after the wedding. He considered himself a capable farmer, but some land just won’t yield a crop, and the sixty acres he struggled with almost beat him under. He was barely making ends meet when bad luck came to roost on his doorstep a year ago. “My wife, God rest her soul, took sick last fall, and we lost her before winter. Mr. Carver, that’s the man who owned the land, sold our farm out from under us not two months after my wife died.” He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Me and Jamie decided we could find us a farm of our own out here before everybody else got the same idea. Ain’t that right, Jamie?”

  “I reckon so, Pa,” Jamie replied softly, offering a brave smile in return.

  Trace looked at the boy, now making short work of a tough piece of fried pork. Well, you sure got off to a good start, he thought. Lost your wagon and most everything else—don’t even know where the hell you are. Jordan looked as if he was used to hard work, but Jamie was going to have some filling out to do. He was a mite frail for such rough country, in Trace’s opinion.

  “I ain’t figured out yet where you two was headin’—way up here this far north of the trail,” Buck said. He had been listening silently to Jordan’s accounting of their journey up to this point.

  Embarrassed, as any man is when caught doing something foolhardy, Jordan reluctantly replied. “Well, we were told we had just missed a wagon train of folks who had left Fort Laramie a week ago, heading for Oregon. So we set out to catch up with them.”

  “Just the two of ya?” Buck blurted.

  “Yessir . . . well, we know it’s best to travel in a train. That’s why we were trying to catch those other folks.” Jordan was wishing the conversation could be changed—he obviously was uncomfortable at having his poor decisions aired in front of his son. But Buck never was known for being long on tact.

  “Forevermore. . .” Buck sighed, shaking his head from side to side. “Mister, you ought to have been a riverboat gambler ’cause you’re the luckiest son of a bitch I believe I’ve ever run into. It’s a wonder you and the boy here ain’t sproutin’ arrows like a porkypine. What were you doin’ so far north of the Platte, anyway?”

  “Dammit! He told you,” Jamie finally interrupted. “We saw the Injuns and we cut off to the north to keep them from seeing us. It don’t matter now. We done what we done and now we’re here.”

  Taken aback a bit by the youngster’s outburst, Buck grinned. “Right you are, son. I didn’t go to ruffle your feathers.” The boy was slight, he thought, but he showed some sand.

  While there was still some daylight left, Trace and Buck, along with Jordan on Frank’s horse, went back and rounded up the two loose mules. Jamie was left to keep an eye on their camp, armed with Frank’s old rifle. The mules were still grazing aimlessly over the flat stretch of prairie where Trace had picked up Jordan’s trail earlier in the day. It was no chore to round them up, as they seemed genuinely glad to see Jordan and willingly stood still while halters fashioned from rawhide rope were slipped over their heads.

  Since it was getting late in the day by the time the two stray mules were secured, they decided it best to wait until morning before going back to salvage what they could of Jordan’s belongings. That decided, they returned to their camp by the stream. Jamie seemed relieved to see them back safe and sound, although there had been nothing to cause him concern while they were gone. Kind of a scary young’un, Trace thought. Some folks would just be better off if they stayed back east. He wondered if he was that green when he journeyed out here with his father and Henry Brown Bear.

  “I’m getting tired of eating salt pork,” Trace announced after the animals were taken care of. “I saw plenty of sign on top of the hill. I think I’ll follow this stream down a’ways and see if I can run up on a deer.” His announcement was met with universal approval from the other three, who also felt a need for a hardy supper. “I’ll take Jamie here with me.” He motioned to the boy. “Come on, Jamie—maybe we’ll get a shot at something.” Trace figured the boy could use some training, something that had apparently been lacking from his father.

  Jamie looked uncertain, glancing at his father for guidance. Buck didn’t wait for Jordan to give permission. “Hell, yeah, Jamie. Go on and show ol’ Trace how to bring home the supper. That there rifle belonged to as good a man as ever set a bait stick. And it’s a good’un, but it shoots a hair to the left.” He laughed and added, “Ol’ Trace might not’ve told you that.”

  Buck got Frank’s bullet pouch and powder horn and hung them around Jamie’s neck. “Now, if we could get you outfitted in some buckskins, you’d look like a genuine Mountain Man. ’Course, you might wanna let your beard grow out.” He laughed heartily at his own joke while Jamie blushed, his smooth cheeks glowing.

  Off they went on foot, Trace leading as he made his way effortlessly through the brush without disturbing a leaf. Jamie followed, trying to emulate the mountain man. When they had covered about half a mile, Trace stopped and waited for Jamie to catch up to him. “There,” he pointed to a place beside the game trail they had been following. “An old buck marked his territory there.” Jamie nodded. There were fresh droppings to the right and left of the trail. Trace sensed they were close. “We’ve got to be real quiet now.” He continued walking, his sharp eyes searching the trees before them.

  A hundred yards farther down the slope, the stream took a sharp turn, doubling back on itself. Trace stopped and dropped to one knee. He motioned for Jamie, signaling him to be quiet. When Jamie moved up beside him, he tapped the boy on the shoulder and pointed to a stand of willows where the stream turned. Jamie didn’t see anything at first, but soon he made out the features of a fair-sized black-tailed buck standing like a statue among the willows, li
stening.

  It was an easy shot, fifty yards, no more. Trace remembered the thrill of killing a deer when he was a young boy so he decided to let Jamie take the shot. He motioned for the boy to ready his rifle. Jamie seemed reluctant, unsure of himself, but Trace urged him to take the shot before the deer bolted. Jamie nodded and brought Frank Brown’s Hawken up to aim. Trace stopped him and held a percussion cap up for him to see. Jamie looked puzzled so Trace reached over and placed the cap for him, then nodded for Jamie to shoot. I reckon he’s never fired anything but a flintlock, Trace thought.

  “Aim for a point right behind his front leg,” Trace whispered. Jamie nodded and pulled the trigger. Tchow. The Hawken belched, hammering Jamie’s shoulder. The rifle ball missed the deer by ten feet, rattling through the willows above him. The deer was off at once, bounding over the wide stream in a single leap, only to fall dead on the other side, a lead ball fired from Trace’s Hawken deep in his lungs.

  “Damn,” Jamie uttered.

  “You just ain’t used to that rifle yet,” Trace said. To himself, he was thinking, I ain’t sure you’ve shot any rifle before. He couldn’t imagine that any boy, even a boy younger than Jamie, didn’t know how to handle a rifle—especially if he wanted to make it out here.

  The meat from the buck was tough, but it was good, and especially welcome to Jordan and Jamie. They ate their fill that night and again the next morning for breakfast before breaking camp and starting back to look for their belongings. Trace led the procession, with Jordan and Jamie following behind, leading their extra mules. Buck brought up the rear, trailing the pack animals.

  They reached the ravine where the wagon had been burned a little before midday, and Buck and Trace scouted around the area while Jordan and Jamie sorted through the scattered clothes and blackened furniture. When they had salvaged everything that could prove useful, Buck helped Jordan fashion some makeshift packs for his mules, using rawhide and rags for straps.

  “We can take you to Laramie—that’s where we were heading anyway,” Trace said. “I don’t know what you plan to do now, since you lost everything. Maybe you can find somebody heading back East from there.”

  Jordan shook his head, his chin determined. “We’ll be heading west, I reckon, just like we planned to do. But we’ll go to Fort Laramie first and wait for a wagon train heading for Oregon.”

  Buck studied the pair of them for a long moment, father and son. Determination would carry freight just so far before a man needed a wagon and supplies. “I ain’t trying to tell you what you ought to do, Jordan. But a man needs more than four mules and a few packs of clothes and such to make it to Oregon.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Jordan replied. He was reluctant to say more, but convinced that he was in the company of honest men, he confessed that while he had lost a great deal to the war party, he still had some money. “It was going to see us through the first year in Oregon. Now I guess it’ll have to go to buy us another wagon and supplies just to get us there.”

  That added a sensible amount of weight to Jordan Thrash’s determination to continue on over the mountains, as far as Trace was concerned. They made camp about twenty miles from the spot where they had left the burnt-out wagon. The next day would see them arrive at the twin towers of Fort Laramie.

  * * *

  On the day that Trace and Buck started for Fort Laramie with Jordan and Jamie Thrash, Hamilton Blunt received a visit from his wife in his office in St. Louis.

  “Forgive me for bothering you when you’re working,” Julia said when she opened the office door and peeked in. “I know you don’t like for me to come down here, but Frances was baking today and thought you might like some fresh muffins.” Lately, he had not been coming to the house for his noonday meal, and she worried that he was not eating properly. She pushed the door wide and entered the room. She saw at once that he was displeased and that her gesture had merely irritated him.

  “Julia, what are you doing here? You know damn well I’ve said I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m at the office.”

  “I know. But you’ve seemed so distracted lately I thought you might like something nice to eat.” Why, she wondered, did it irritate the man anytime she happened by his workplace unannounced? It used to be a pleasant surprise for him. Lately, everything she did seemed to infuriate him, even at home. It had been eight years since their wedding, and there was no denying the changes she’d seen in her mirror since then. But she expected Hamilton to appreciate the fact that she was not a young girl when they married. The years had rounded her slender body a little, the body that he had been so feverish to know, and there were now streaks of gray in her dark hair. But there was gray at his temples and in his beard as well.

  “Well, I don’t have time to stop for a tea party in the middle of the afternoon,” he said gruffly. “You can save the muffins for supper tonight.” He got up from his chair to escort her out the door, when the door of the storage room behind his desk suddenly opened.

  “Oh!” was all the young woman said when she saw Julia in the room. She started to retreat back into the storeroom, but decided that it might make matters worse. So she stood there, her hand on the doorknob, and tried to affect a pleasant look.

  Hamilton looked startled, but for only an instant. “Come in, Miss Pauley,” he said and turned quickly to Julia. “I don’t know if you know Miss Pauley. She’s helping with the books.” Without missing a beat, he turned back to the young woman. “Did you find the ledgers you were looking for, Miss Pauley?”

  The young woman was too flustered to reply properly, not being nearly as coolheaded as Hamilton Blunt. She fussed with the top burtons of her blouse, which Julia noticed were undone, before she managed a reply. “Yes, I found them.”

  Julia was disappointed, but far from shocked, to have stumbled upon the first evidence of a suspicion she had harbored for some time now. She knew there was some reason for the distance between her husband and herself during the last eighteen months. It was unlikely that a man of his vigor and lusty appetites could have aged to the point where his ardor had cooled completely. All signs had pointed to the possibility that he had simply tired of her. Now she turned from the girl to face her husband. “I thought Mr. Finch took care of the ledgers.”

  “He does,” Hamilton replied, “Miss Pauley is helping him.” There was a hint of strain in his voice even though he managed to fix a smile on his face. “Now, why don’t you run along home and let us all get back to work.” He glanced at the basket of fresh-baked muffins Julia had placed on his desk. “Maybe Miss Pauley would enjoy some of your muffins,” he offered, trying to seem politely innocent.

  “Miss Pauley can bake her own damn muffins,” Julia promptly shot back. She snatched her basket from the desk, turned on her heel and went out the door. I’ll be damned if I’m going to feed your little plaything while she’s servicing you!

  “Well, I think your dumb little wife just got an education,” Madge Pauley opined when the door had been slammed shut. She paused a second, then added, “I thought you said you and her were separated.”

  “We soon will be,” Hamilton Blunt said evenly, between clenched teeth. “I am sick to death of that woman.”

  She moved over to his desk and put her arms around his neck. “A man like you needs a young woman,” she said and began tickling his ear with her tongue.

  He grabbed her roughly, almost tearing her blouse as he fumbled with her burtons. “Come on,” he said, lifting her off the floor, “let’s go look for those ledgers.” They both laughed lustily as he carried her into the little room behind his office.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was close to dusk when they arrived at Fort Laramie, and the gates were just about to be closed for the night. Being in no particular hurry to see the inside of the fort again, Trace suggested that they camp outside so the horses could graze. There would be plenty of time in the morning to take care of the business of trading their plews. This suited Buck in spite of his craving for a drink
of whiskey. Jordan, on the other hand, was anxious to learn of any possibility to get outfitted for the Oregon trek as soon as he could. So he and Jamie bid Buck and Trace good-bye and thanked them for coming to their rescue.

  “I reckon we owe you our lives,” Jordan said as he shook hands with Buck.

  “No such a’thing,” Buck replied. “You’d a’done the same. That’s the way of it out here.”

  As he and Trace climbed into the saddle again, Buck said, “They ain’t no grass left around here. We might as well ride out a’ways till we find better grazing.”

  The suggestion suited Trace, so he turned the paint’s head upriver and led them out. About one hundred yards above the fort they passed a circle of wagons—two big freight wagons and an odd assortment of farm wagons and prairie schooners—a good-sized train. They were formed in a defensive circle, their animals already brought into the center for the night. It was not unusual to see the freighters out here, but Trace and Buck thought it odd to see so many other wagons. On their way through South Pass, they had come across a frail of wagon tracks, which they had found puzzling. It had never occurred to them at that time that the tracks might have been made by ordinary settlers heading west. It was unthinkable to imagine people dumb enough to think they could reach the Oregon territory in a wagon. “Folks ain’t got no idea what’s between Laramie and Oregon territory,” Buck had said. Now, of course, they realized that the tracks they had seen were no doubt made by the very wagon train Jordan had been talking about. And now here was another group of settlers evidently planning to try it. Jordan Thrash wasn’t the only crazy person around, it appeared.

  About three miles upriver they found a place that suited them, and they made camp for the night. As soon as the horses and mules were taken care of, they had a supper of jerked buffalo. Neither man was in the mood to cook anything, even had there been any fresh meat. Buck boiled some coffee, and the strong black liquid and the jerky served as their feast. The blanket felt good that night.