Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Early the next morning, the village prepared itself for the long journey to Fort Laramie. Blue Water helped her aunts take down the tipi, folding the buffalo-hide covering and tying it to a packhorse. Fashioning a travois with two of the lodge poles, she loaded the entire contents of the tipi and strapped them down. After she had prepared food for her father and White Eagle, she packed her cooking utensils in a parfleche and strapped it to the loaded travois. The village was on the move before the sun had climbed to the tops of the pines on the eastern ridge. Blue Water rode on a bay pony, leading the packhorse with the travois. Her son rode beside his grandfather on a spotted gray pony that Eagle Claw had given to him. The sight of the boy’s confident posture as he rocked gracefully in rhythm with his pony’s gait, brought a warm smile to Blue Water’s face.

  * * *

  Buck Ransom walked his pony across the wide parade ground, past the post headquarters, heading toward the post trader’s store. Laramie had changed quite a bit since the old days when the inner courtyard of the old fort used to be busy with Indians and trappers. The old fort by the Laramie River had been abandoned since the army took it over a couple of years ago. Now it looked more like a town than a military fort. He’d heard that it was officially designated Fort William, but nobody called it that. The trappers were mostly gone now, but the Indians still came there to trade at the post trader’s store. He had passed a camp of Sioux about a mile from the fort, next to a Cheyenne camp. In the next few days, there would be many more bands arriving for the big medicine treaty the government had called for—Arapahos, Crows, Assiniboines, Rees, Hidatsu, Mandans. These were some of the tribes the government had invited. To add a little more spice to this already volatile stew, he had heard from Bridger that Washakie—though uninvited—intended to bring his Snakes to the party. Buck was curious to see what was going to happen when all those Indians were camped so close to each other. Some of the tribes invited to the conference were blood enemies, and he figured it was going to take a miracle to keep some of them from going after each other. Pretty soon, there were going to be thousands of Indians around the fort, and as far as Buck had seen, there were probably no more than three hundred or so soldiers to keep the peace. They had set up a camp near the fort and called it Camp Macklin. It was going to be interesting, and Buck decided it was a spectacle he didn’t want to miss.

  “Buck Ransom,” Lamar Thomas called out when he saw the grizzled old mountain man walk in the door. “I thought you was dead.”

  “I ain’t took no inventory lately,” Buck replied, “but last time I looked, I was still here.” Lamar always greeted Buck with the same statement, no matter how long it had been since Buck was last in Laramie. Sometimes Buck wondered if the sutler’s clerk was disappointed to find him still among the living. “I could use a little something to cut the dust in my throat,” Buck said.

  “Bottle or glass?” Lamar asked, reaching under the counter.

  Buck thought it over for a moment before replying. “You better just pour me a drink. I wanna do a few things before I dive into a whole quart of that poison.” He watched while Lamar filled a shotglass and then handed it to him. Then, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tossed it back, closing his eyes tightly as he endured the burning in his throat. “Damn! It’s been a while,” he rasped hoarsely when he opened his eyes again. “Better give me another one.” After chasing the first with a second dose of the fiery liquid, he waited for a moment until his voicebox was operative again. “You seen Trace McCall?”

  Lamar shook his head. “Not since spring. He come through not long after the last good snow.”

  Buck didn’t bother to ask if Trace had said where he was heading when he left Fort Laramie. Trace probably hadn’t known himself. At least Buck now knew that Trace had made it through another winter with his hair intact. Nowadays, that was quite an accomplishment for a man who spent his time living in the midst of so many warring Indian tribes.

  Ordinarily Buck didn’t spend much time worrying about the welfare of Trace McCall, the man the Blackfoot Indians called the Mountain Hawk. In all his years trapping in the Rocky Mountains, Buck had never seen a man become as natural a part of the mountains as Trace had—he was more Indian than most Indians—as good with a bow as he was with his Hawken rifle. He could damn sure take care of himself, but Buck had been a wee bit concerned for his old partner lately because it had been longer than usual since Trace had come to Promise Valley to visit.

  Trace had no family. The closest thing he had to kin were the friends he had in Promise Valley where Buck had a cabin in a small settlement of emigrants from back East. Until this spring, Trace had never failed to show up in the valley to visit with Buck and look in on Jamie Thrash and her father. But this year he didn’t come, and Buck had wondered if the Blackfeet had finally tracked down their Mountain Hawk. He was relieved to hear that Trace had shown up at Fort Laramie.

  Glancing up from his empty whiskey glass, Buck met Lamar’s steady gaze and realized his mind had wandered. “Looks like you got a few extra folks around,” he offered for the sake of conversation.

  “I reckon,” Lamar quickly agreed, “but not as many as we’ll likely have in a few more days.”

  “I don’t mean Injuns,” Buck said. “I seen more white folks than usual, too.”

  Lamar shrugged. “Well, we got the commissioner here for the big meetin’, Colonel Mitchell’s his name, and his folks. One of your old friends is here—Tom Fitzpatrick—he’s done got hisself named government agent for all the Injuns on the upper Platte.”

  “I heard,” Buck commented dryly.

  “Some of them fellers you see walking around in brand-new buckskins is newspaper reporters from back East, come to write about the big treaty. There’s two ladies staying with the missus and me. Their husbands got the gold fever and traipsed off into the Black Hills.”

  This stimulated Buck’s interest. “The Black Hills, you say? How big a party was they?”

  “Just four of ’em.”

  “Four? My God, why didn’t you just shoot ’em here and save ’em the trouble of riding all that way? Didn’t nobody tell ’em that they ain’t supposed to be in that country?”

  Lamar shrugged. “Sure they did—I did, myself. But you know you can’t tell a prospector anything. They left outta here the first of May—said they was planning on being back here in two months. It’s been four months and they ain’t back yet. I reckon they’ve gone under or they struck it so rich they can’t leave it.” He took Buck’s glass from the counter and swished it around a few times in a bucket of water behind the counter before replacing it on the shelf. “I hope they show up soon. Their womenfolk are just about beside theirselves worrying.”

  Foolishness, Buck thought, I’ll bet them Sioux have somethin’ to say about that at this here treaty meetin’. If he had to guess, he’d say that there were probably four corpses full of arrows laying beside some stream up in the Black Hills, and those women might as well get used to the idea of being widows.

  * * *

  Private Noah Bostic, company clerk, stuck his head inside the office door of Captain R. H. Chilton, his commanding officer. “Captain Chilton, sir, there’s two ladies out here that wanna talk to you.”

  “What about?” Chilton asked, obviously annoyed at having been interrupted during what was becoming a busy time for him. He wasn’t at all comfortable with the ever-increasing hordes of savages that were gathering for the peace talks, and he didn’t welcome any additional distractions.

  “I don’t rightly know, sir. But they made out like it was mighty important,” Noah replied.

  “Damn,” Chilton exhaled quietly and then sighed impatiently. “All right. I’ll be right out.” It seemed to the captain that every civilian thought the army was created just to listen to their trivial complaints.

  Captain Chilton was surprised to find two young and not at all unattractive women awaiting him when he walked out to greet them. He unconsciously buttoned the top two
buttons of his blue garrison jacket and pulled his shoulders back. “Ladies,” he acknowledged, “Captain Chilton at your service.”

  Annie Farrior stepped forward. Grace Turner, somewhat less outspoken than her friend, and extremely intimidated by this obvious symbol of military authority, preferred to let Annie act as spokesman. So she took a step backward and moved in behind Annie.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Captain,” Annie started. She went on to explain that the purpose of their visit was to seek the army’s help in finding their missing husbands and their two partners.

  Captain Chilton did a masterful job of disguising his annoyance at hearing that four civilians had wandered off into the Black Hills. He had many more serious problems on his mind than four gold-seeking idiots who were apparently anxious to lose their scalps. Nevertheless, he endeavored to demonstrate some concern for the benefit of the distressed young ladies. “How long have your husbands been missing?” he asked.

  “Well, sir,” Annie replied, “Tom promised to be gone no longer than two months, and it’s been four months now.”

  Chilton stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Four months . . . well, if they were riding up into that territory looking for gold, four months isn’t a very long time to do much searching. Perhaps it’s just taking a little longer than they had anticipated.”

  “If my husband said he’d return in two months,” Annie insisted, “he would either be here now, or would have sent word to me somehow. I fear something terrible has happened.” She glanced at Grace Turner, a look of distress in her eyes. “Mr. Lamar Thomas suggested that we talk to Mr. Fitzpatrick. We went to see him and he sent us to you.” Annie searched Chilton’s face for some sign of compassion, then added, “Mr. Fitzpatrick said the army was being sent out here to protect us.”

  Chilton twitched uncomfortably. He wished he could accomodate the two women, but his mission at present was of far more importance. And he was already concerned for his effectiveness with less than three hundred men, dragoons, infantry, and mounted infantry combined. “Unfortunately, madam, I am unable to assist you at present. Perhaps you are aware of the purpose of this great gathering of Indians for peace talks. It is my assignment and responsibility to protect the commissioner and his people, and I’m critically outnumbered as it is. So you can understand why I can’t spare a man at this time.” Seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he hastened to add, “I am genuinely sorry for your predicament, and I truly wish I could help.”

  The despair apparent in the faces of both women, as Annie turned to console her friend, was enough to cause a feeling of guilt in Captain Chilton. When the women continued to gaze into his face, helpless and not knowing who to turn to at this point, he offered the only bit of hope he could. “As I said, I am unable to spare a search party at the present, but after the treaty talks—if your husbands are still missing—I will see if a patrol can be formed to look for them. Mind you, I cannot promise to do it, because I have been instructed that the area around the Black Hills is to be avoided by the military due to the importance the Indians assign to it. I’ll try, that’s all I can promise. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies . . .” He turned and went back inside.

  An interested witness to the conversation between the captain and the two women was one Robert Dimeron of The Chicago Herald. A reporter for over nine years, it was his natural inclination to keep his ears open for the unusual story that might please his editor. For that reason, he had been hanging around outside Captain Chilton’s office all morning, talking to as many of the officers as he could corner. Captain Chilton had granted him a few minutes earlier but provided him with no more information about the treaty talks than Dimeron already knew. Curious about the arrival of the two women, he had parked himself on a stool outside the office door where he could hear the conversation that ensued.

  Two women whose husbands were missing deep in Indian country—Now that might be a story there, he thought. He remained seated until the captain ended the interview and returned to his office. Then he quickly got to his feet and approached the women. Offering his card, he introduced himself. “Pardon me ladies, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Captain Chilton.” He doffed his hat. “I’m Robert Dimeron, reporter for The Chicago Herald, and I’m grieved to hear about your husbands.”

  Annie Farrior looked at his calling card, puzzled by his interest in Grace and herself. Looking up at him, she smiled politely and handed the card back to him. “Thank you,” she said, and taking Grace by the elbow, started to leave.

  Dimeron turned with her and fell in beside them as they walked. “I know it must be terribly hard for you and your friend, Mrs. . . .” He paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  “Farrior,” Annie said and nodded toward Grace. “This is Mrs. Turner.”

  “Farrior,” he repeated, tipping his hat. “I would like to offer my help, and the services of The Chicago Herald, in soliciting a search party to find your husbands.”

  Annie and Grace continued walking. “How can you help us?” Annie asked.

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I can, but I’m thinking that if I tell Captain Leach that I’m doing a story for The Herald about you ladies trying to get help in finding your missing husbands, it just might influence him to become involved—maybe send a patrol out to the Black Hills after the treaty talks.”

  “Captain Chilton said he would try to do that if he could,” Annie replied.

  “I know,” Dimeron quickly answered, “I heard him. But I think there’s a good chance Chilton might not be staying here, and my guess is he’ll be escorting the peace commission back to Washington as soon as the talks are finished. I’m sure the captain would like to help you, but he most likely will have no choice in the matter.” Seeing the distress in their faces that this piece of news caused, Dimeron hastened to reassure them. “Captain Leach, on the other hand, just arrived here and he’ll be on permanent assignment at Fort Laramie for the sole purpose of protecting the folks traveling the Oregon Trail. He’ll still be here when the peace commission moves on, and he’s the one I’ll have to persuade.”

  Annie’s hopes were rekindled. “Do you think he might?”

  “I think he might feel that he has no choice, especially when he sees how your story will appear to all our readers. Why even right here at Fort Laramie, he’ll feel some pressure to respond to your distress call, what with so many prominent folks here for the talks—Colonel Mitchell, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Jim Bridger, why even Father Jean DeSmet is coming all the way from Flathead country. A lot of people will be watching Leach to see how he responds to the needs of the people.”

  Dimeron was satisfied to see that his proposal was eagerly embraced by both women, and he was soon filling his notepad with information about the four men who had embarked on the likely ill-fated trek. It wasn’t a bad idea at that, he admitted to himself, even if his motive was not altogether to come to the aid of two damsels in distress. He would jump at the chance to actually see some of this wild frontier where the savage redman roamed. What a story it would make to venture into the heart of Sioux hunting grounds. And he would make sure Annie Farrior and Grace Turner insisted that he, and only he, must accompany the patrol. This would be his price for bringing their cause before the public eye.

  * * *

  Colonel D. D. Mitchell was more than slightly annoyed. His task as commissioner was to bring these tribes to the council table to smoke and speak of peace. And now, before the actual peace talks had even begun, Captain Henry Leach brought this distressing news. “This is not a good time for this, Captain. Why weren’t these four civilians stopped?”

  “Sir,” Leach was quick to point out, “this was not my doing. I only arrived in Laramie this week, and I only learned of the prospectors today. Captain Chilton informed me that two wives of the men came to him for help in finding their husbands.” Noticing the colonel’s deep frown, he added, “I’m afraid I reacted to the news much as you have, sir, although Captain Chilton appeare
d not to be overly concerned.”

  Mitchell thought for a moment. “It may amount to nothing,” he mused, rubbing his chin as he turned the matter over in his mind. “But, dammit, I’ve got to convince these Indians that we mean to keep settlers and gold miners out of the territories we set aside for them. Four men you say?” Leach nodded. Mitchell continued. “I think it might be wise to tell the Sioux chiefs about the four men—if they don’t already know—and tell them we’ll send soldiers to find them and punish them. Maybe that’ll placate them.” He got to his feet, indicating the meeting was ended. “And captain, get a troop out right away and find those idiots.”

  “Yes sir,” Leach replied. “What about the reporter that started this mess? He insists that the two wives want him to accompany the patrol.”

  The colonel had other things on his mind already. He was ready to dispense with this problem. “Hell, I don’t care. Let him go if he wants to. It’ll be one less reporter around here.”

  “Yes sir. He also recommended that we ask Jim Bridger to act as guide for the detail.”

  “The hell you say? By God, he’s got a helluva lot of nerve, doesn’t he? Well, you can tell Mr. Reporter that Bridger has more important things to do than chase into the wilds looking for lunatic husbands.”

  * * *

  Annie Farrior sat alone by the tiny stream that trickled down to the river where Lamar Thomas had built his cabin. The skirt she was supposed to be mending lay untouched across her lap, the threaded needle still held idle between her thumb and forefinger. Some thirty yards away, she could hear the sounds of supper being prepared, so she told herself that she mustn’t tarry. The light was rapidly fading from the evening sky, anyway. Off in the distance, she could hear the almost-constant sounds generated by the Indian camps gathered for the treaty talks as voices, some shouting, some singing, were carried on the wind. Occasionally the tinny peal of a bugle split the late-afternoon air with a series of staccato notes that held some message for the soldiers. It would be dark soon, and the nightly dancing and drum beating of the various Indian camps would begin—sometimes continuing on through the night.