Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  ACTION-PACKED FRONTIER FICTION FROM CHARLES G. WEST . . .

  Medicine Creek

  Bitterroot

  Wind River

  The Jason Coles Series

  Cbeyenne JlkJtice

  Black Eagle

  Stone Hand

  The Trace McCall Series

  Cry of tbe Hawk

  Mountain Hawk

  Son of tbe Hawk

  RISKY REVENGE

  White Eagle’s heart was filled with grief and outrage over the death of his mother and grandfather. To steal away quietly unnoticed? Or to strike a blow for his people? He fingered the blade of his knife, his mind in a panic of confusion while he stared down at the snoring warrior. The man lay helpless before him, but what if he struck and he didn’t kill the Sioux? Suddenly the warrior’s eyes popped open, and White Eagle took a step backward, staring horrified at the Sioux.

  “What is it?” the warrior asked, still half drunk and groggy with sleep. He reached for the edge of his blanket to pull it over his shoulders.

  There was no time to think. Acting on instinct alone, White Eagle quickly knelt down and grabbed the blanket as if to help cover the sleepy man. Then he whispered, “Die, Sioux dog. . . .”

  Son of the Hawk

  Charles G. West

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, November 2001

  Copyright © Charles West, 2001

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66287-8

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  For Ronda

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Booth Dalton sat watching the string of twelve heavily loaded mules as they filed through the narrow part of a rocky canyon some three hundred feet below. He squinted against the afternoon sun in an effort to study the four riders, each leading three of the mules. He shifted his position in the saddle slightly, contemplating the possibilities that might develop for an enterprising man like himself. He didn’t concern himself when the lead rider disappeared from his view, blocked out by the trees on the ledge. Booth knew where the canyon led. He felt no sense of urgency—there was plenty of time to decide how best to approach this unforeseen stroke of luck.

  Just what in hell are four white men doing smack-dab in the middle of Injun country? And where the hell are they goin’? This wasn’t just Indian territory, this was the sacred hunting grounds of the Sioux nation. Booth knew he was taking a sizable risk himself just being in this part of the hills, but he had traded with the Sioux, and he figured that if they did catch him in the Black Hills, they might go easy on him. But this mule train moving through the pass below him might as well be carrying a big sign saying, Come and get us!

  “The last of ’em’s goin’ outta sight. What’re we gonna do?”

  Booth turned to look at Charlie White Bull as the chunky half-breed walked back from the rim of the ledge where he had been watching the progress of the mule train. Booth smiled to himself as he considered his witless associate. Charlie claimed he had been kicked in the head by a horse when he was a young’un, and that was the cause of his thoughts sometimes being a little behind schedule. Booth figured it more likely that Charlie had been kicked by that horse on a regular monthly basis, judging by the elementary level of the man’s reasoning. Most men would find it uncomfortable to have Charlie hanging around, but Booth found the simpleminded half-breed useful for any number of troublesome chores—such as slitting some miner’s throat.

  “Why, what do you think we oughta do?” Booth finally replied, knowing what Charlie’s answer would be.

  His face absent of all expression, Charlie answered just as Booth expected. “Go down there and kill ’em and take them goods.”

  Smiling patiently, Booth chided his partner. “There’s four of ’em, and they all got rifles cradled across their saddles. You wanna just ride down there blazin’ away?” Charlie shrugged. “That might not be too smart,” Booth finished.

  “Maybe you know what to do,” Charlie finally said, his phlegmatic facade never changing.

  “Maybe I do. Maybe I always know what to do—right, Charlie?” He didn’t expect an answer. “I always know how to git what we need without riskin’ our asses. Now mount up. We’ll just take a little ride across the ridge and wait for ’em on the other side. I’d druther they made camp so we don’t have to go chasin’ after them mules when the shootin’ starts.” He pulled his horse’s head around and pointed him toward the ridge. Talking more to himself than his stoic partner, he said, “I’m mighty curious to git a look-see in them packs. And I damn shore wanna git to ’em before the damn Injuns find ’em.”

  Booth continued to marvel at this unexpected good fortune that had wandered deep into Indian territory on this late summer afternoon. He was pretty sure the four were prospectors looking for gold, but they were a long way from the gold strikes west of the Absarokas. Booth had long held a suspicion that there might be gold in the Black Hills, so it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise that some bold miners might be brave enough—or dumb enough—to prospect in the Indians’ sacred grounds.

  Booth might have searched for the precious metal himself, but he and Charlie weren’t suited to the work involved in washing it out of the streams. Confiscating it, along with anything else he could get his hands on, from those who had labored for it was more Booth’s style. The two of them had done quite well by themselves by bushwhacking greenhorn miners. There was some gain from the dust their victims occasionally found, but the real profit was in selling the equipment and supplies to the other, more established miners. Booth considered himself an entrepreneur in the hunting and retailing field. He and Charlie would hunt for some tenderfoot with his back turned, kill
him, and sell his goods at an inflated price. It had worked to perfection in the Montana territory until the miners around Turkey Creek became wise to the source of Booth’s inventory. He and Charlie had just managed to strike for Indian territory a step ahead of a vigilante committee.

  Booth smiled again when he thought about how soon he was back in business—this time selling guns and ammunition to the warring Sioux. Old Iron Pony was anxious to get his hands on as many rifles as Booth could bring him, along with the powder, flints, and balls. But Booth was well aware of the fact that the Lakota chief wouldn’t tolerate the two in his country for one minute after the rifles they supplied stopped coming. Of course even the plunder Booth and Charlie provided might not be enough to save their hair if Iron Pony found out that Charlie was half Flathead. Booth had told the chief that his stoic partner was the product of the union between a white man and a Santee Dakota woman. He almost convinced Iron Pony that Charlie White Bull was his cousin, a thought that always amused Booth.

  * * *

  The four men led their mules through the narrow mouth of the canyon only to find a flat stretch of shale and gravel leading up to another line of pine-covered hills. The leader, Tom Farrior, raised his hand to halt those behind him. “I swear, Ned, I sure thought there’d be water on this side.”

  Ned Turner pulled up beside Tom, concern etched in his face as he stood up in the stirrups and gazed all around him. “I did, too. We need to find a stream soon. It’s been a good while since these animals had a drink.” He paused to look around again before adding, “I could damn shore use one myself.”

  While they considered the formidable line of hills dead ahead, the other two members of their party caught up to them. “What’s the trouble?” Anson Miller wanted to know. The afternoon sun was already beginning to settle over the mountains, and if they didn’t find a place to camp soon, he feared they’d be stumbling around in the dark.

  Tom turned in his saddle to face both Anson and Jack Stratton. “There ain’t no water here. I thought there would be. It just seemed like a likely place, looking from those hills on the other side of the canyon.”

  “Damn,” Jack Stratton murmured. The other three felt the same about prospects for making a dry camp.

  Ned Turner, not being one to give up easily, pointed toward a long line of trees that led down from a mountain about five miles distant. “That looks like a stream coming down that mountain. I say we get a move on and—”

  Before he could finish, Anson growled a warning. “We got company.”

  The heads of the other three turned as one to follow the direction he pointed out. From a narrow ravine that led down from the eastern ridge that formed one side of the canyon they had just passed through, riders came into view. All four men instinctively grabbed their rifles.

  “Keep your eye on ’em,” Tom Farrior warned as he quickly scanned the treeless slope to the west, looking for a likely defensive position.

  “There ain’t but two of ’em,” Jack said. “They look like white men—leastways one of ’em does. The other one looks more like an Injun.” All four frantically searched the slopes on either side of them, fearful of having been surrounded by a swarm of hostiles.

  When no more riders appeared anywhere around them, Tom cautioned his partners to be ready, anyway. “We’ll just see who they are and what they want. Keep your rifles ready.” It was mighty surprising to meet a white man in this part of the territory, and Tom was especially leery of one riding with an Indian.

  Booth Dalton affixed his most engaging smile in place and waved his arm back and forth as he and Charlie made for the four men now sitting motionless, watching their approach. He was well aware of his best asset in his chosen line of work, an amiable facade that betrayed no hint of ill intent. It had been said by one of the miners in Turkey Creek that Booth had the face of a Methodist minister and the guile of Satan himself. The same miner originated the rumor—false though it may have been—that Booth was a man who might backshoot you, but he would give you the Lord’s blessing to send you along. In simple fact, Booth had no religion—no notion of God, Man Above, the Great Spirit, or any other symbol of a world beyond this one. It seemed simple logic to him that, if there was a God, He wouldn’t have made men like himself and Charlie. The only truth he accepted from the Bible was, “From dust thou art, to dust returneth,” and he reckoned that he had returnethed more than a few to their origin.

  “Hallo, friends,” Booth called out once he was within earshot.

  Tom and his partners made no response to the greeting but continued to watch the two closely as they approached. He glanced briefly to each side again, watchful for any sign of treachery, but the barren little valley appeared to be deserted save for the six of them. The two strangers were an odd pair. The white man did not wear the trappings of a mountain man, dressed as he was in black trousers, broadcloth shirt, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. His companion, a solid-looking block of a man, riding a gray pony with an Indian saddle, was definitely an Indian, or a half-breed. The beaming, openly friendly face of the white man contrasted with the sullen countenance of his companion—a face devoid of expression, discouraging even the seed of a smile.

  “Boy, am I glad to see some white faces,” Booth exclaimed as he and Charlie pulled up before them. When there were no more greetings from the four miners other than a couple of nods, Booth pretended to take no notice of their suspicious stares. “I’m Booth Dalton,” Booth went on, “special aide on Indian affairs to the Secretary of the Interior.” Making a sweeping gesture toward Charlie, he said, “This here is my guide. We’re on our way to Fort Laramie.”

  Booth paused, beaming brightly, as he evaluated the effect of his story upon the four cautious miners. It evidently had the effect he wanted, for Tom glanced at Ned Turner briefly, and both men relaxed a bit. “Tom Farrior,” Tom responded courteously, still a bit leery of any white man in this wild country. His three companions nodded politely but said nothing. “What brings you alone in these parts? Don’t you know this is Injun country?”

  Booth laughed good-naturedly. “Indeed I do, sir, and might I add that you do well to question anyone you meet in these hills. This is dangerous country, and my guide and me wouldn’t be west of the Cheyenne River if my packhorse hadn’t broke his hobbles and run off the other night. Most of our supplies and a packet of important dispatches for the post commander at Fort Laramie was on that horse, so we’ve been trackin’ him ever since.” He paused again to judge the effectiveness of his story. Pleased to see more of the stiffness dissolve from the faces of the four, he silently congratulated himself—he kinda liked the idea of being an aide to the secretary.

  “Well, Mr. Dalton,” Anson Miller offered, “we ain’t seen sign of no packhorse. Leastways, it sure didn’t come through that canyon behind us.” Jack Stratton nodded his head, agreeing.

  Booth grimaced and shook his head as if perplexed. “I guess we’re just gonna have to give it up for lost, and hard luck at that. We’ll just have to make do with the supplies we’ve got in our saddlepacks, won’t we, Charlie?” The half-breed did not respond. Booth turned back to Tom. “You fellers look like you’re fixin’ to do some prospectin’. I’ve heard there’s some color in some of the streams in these hills, but I feel it my duty to warn you that you’re in some country that the Injuns are mighty particular about. So you boys best be real careful. Keep a sharp eye all the time, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep a guard over your animals at night.”

  “I reckon that’s good advice, all right,” Tom said. “We know we’re in dangerous country. We aim to be mighty careful.” Booth certainly seemed to have an honest face, and Tom had no doubts that the man was who he said he was. “What we’re looking to do right now is find a place to camp. You run across any water back the way you came?”

  Booth smiled warmly. “Matter of fact, we did. There’s a suitable spot to make camp about two miles on the other side of that ridge. It’s gittin’ late—me and Charlie was fix
ing to find us a place to camp, too. We could camp together, if it’s all right with you gentlemen.” When there was no immediate response to his proposal, he continued. “I’d be happy to offer my protection in case we have any Sioux visitors. Charlie here is the younger brother of old Iron Pony himself, so the Sioux won’t hardly bother nobody ridin’ with him.”

  This seemed to encourage a favorable reception from the four miners, and the atmosphere suddenly became free of tension, jovial in fact, as Booth cordially shook hands with each man. As far as Tom was concerned, it was a stroke of luck to run into Mr. Booth. It might not be a bad idea to ask for some token from his guide, something that would identify the four of them as friends to the Sioux in case they were unsuccessful in avoiding a war party after they parted company with Booth.

  True to his word, Booth led the small mule train to an ideal camping spot in a grove of trees beside a clear stream that fairly sparkled with the last faint rays of the setting sun. Tom marveled that Booth had been able to stumble upon it because it had been necessary to cross a ridge and ride down an almost hidden ravine to reach the stream. He supposed that Booth’s somber guide had found it. There was a little more excitement among the four prospectors when they looked back up the mountain toward the source of the rushing stream. Without discussion, the four of them decided it to be a likely spot to start their search for gold.

  When advised that his camping companions had decided to set up a permanent camp on the spot, Booth seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, now, I’m mighty happy that I could show it to you. Maybe, when you strike it big here, you’ll remember ol’ Charlie and me.”

  It was a lighthearted camp that night. Tom and his friends found Booth Dalton to be a most entertaining guest, full of stories about the frontier—some of them possibly true—tales of the California territory, and mining towns in between there and here. Iron Pony’s younger brother remained apart, whether from cold detachment from white men or some other reason—Tom couldn’t say. But Mr. Dalton was a close friend to them all before it was time to unroll their blankets. Still, Tom did not feel it wise to discard all caution. When it was finally time to bank the coals for the night, Tom took Ned aside. “I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about from Mr. Dalton, but it might be a good idea for one of us to have one eye open all night.” Ned agreed, and they quietly worked out a guard schedule with Jack and Anson, so that only three of them would be asleep at any time during the night.