Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Even though it was not really autumn yet, still there was a slight chill to the constant breeze, causing Annie to shiver. She couldn’t help but wonder if the shiver might be caused in part by the thought of being surrounded by thousands of savages. The newspaper reporter, Robert Dimeron, had assured her that there was no real threat of danger—it was a peace conference. However, Lamar Thomas had said that anything could happen when this many Indians were gathered together—especially with the long history of bad blood between some of the tribes. To make matters even more volatile, old Chief Washakie had promised to bring in a couple of hundred of his Snake warriors, all armed with rifles and prepared to back down to no one. They were sworn enemies of the Sioux and Cheyenne, and Lamar hoped that Tom Fitzpatrick would be able to keep the peace between them.

  Annie’s thoughts were brought back to the cabin when she heard her name called from the doorway. “I’ll be there in a minute, Grace,” Annie replied. She slowly folded the skirt and put her needle and thread away. A few more moments, she thought, gazing out toward the shallow river. She didn’t care if the skirt was mended tonight or next week. She had only used it as an excuse to be alone for a little while, saying the light would be better outside. She truly was fond of Grace, but she needed some time to herself lately. It seemed that with every week that passed, with no word from their husbands, Grace became more and more dependent upon her, fretting constantly over the cramped conditions and the uncertainty of their future. Rose and Lamar Thomas had been extremely generous in taking them in. Tom and Ned had paid Lamar a small sum to help with the food, but Annie knew that that amount had long ago been depleted. Now, with winter not far away, Annie found it difficult to keep dire thoughts from her mind—even contemplating the possibility that her husband might not return to her.

  This directed her thoughts to the newspaper reporter. Mr. Dimeron had been somewhat effective in garnering some response from the military regarding her situation—although negative in reality, for Captain Leach was infuriated that her husband and his three partners were not stopped from venturing into the Black Hills in the first place. Still, the net result was a planned patrol, headed by a young lieutenant named Austen. Rather than wait for the completion of the treaty talks, Leach was adamant that the patrol should be sent out at once, and when Colonel Mitchell was informed of the mission, he insisted that the Sioux and Cheyenne chiefs be informed as well. He thought it crucial at this stage that the Indians know these gold-seeking forays were not encouraged by the government.

  Mr. Dimeron had hoped to persuade Jim Bridger himself to guide the search party, but Mr. Bridger was needed as an interpreter for the peace talks. Bridger had, however, recommended a man who happened to be in Fort Laramie at this time. The man’s name was Buck Ransom, an old mountain man and former comrade of Bridger’s, who according to Bridger knew the territory as well as he did.

  Unlike Grace Turner, Annie did not spend much of her time brooding over their situation. She missed Tom, and she prayed for his safety every night before going to sleep. However, if something happened to her husband, and he didn’t come back, she knew she would deal with it. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Tom—she did—but it was a love that was still being cultivated on her part. In truth, she had accepted Tom’s marriage proposal in large part because of her desire to escape the dominance of her parents and a chaotic home life with four younger brothers in one tiny house. Tom was a good man, but she admitted to herself that she was hardly swept off her feet. Instead, she had resolved to learn to love him, and given more time than the few months they had spent together, perhaps she would have by now. Even so, Annie did not take her marriage vows lightly, so Tom never knew that his wife was not as passionate for him as he was for her.

  Maybe a more sensible mind should have prevailed when the four friends had first contemplated the notion of coming west to search for the gold that was rumored to be lining all the streams in the mountains. California was the initial destination, but Anson Miller had persuaded the others that too many prospectors were descending upon the new claims there—it would be wiser to search in an area where they would not be competing with hundreds of other prospectors. And Anson had been told by an old trapper for whom he had bought a drink that the reason the Indians were so adamant about keeping the whites out of the Black Hills was because there was gold laying around everywhere in the streams there. It seemed flimsy information to plan an entire life upon, but Annie was as anxious to leave Illinois as Tom was, so she did not try to dissuade him. She had supposed that, if there was no gold, then they could continue on to the Oregon territory.

  “Annie.”

  “Coming, Grace,” Annie called back. Getting to her feet, she looked toward the glow of campfire that now lit the darkening sky. The chanting and dancing would soon begin.

  CHAPTER 3

  Young White Eagle kicked his heels hard, urging his spotted gray pony to gallop as the boy sought to chase after the large group of Snake braves now riding out before the column of women and children. Fort Laramie was on the other side of the rise, and Chief Washakie was even now assembling a force of close to two hundred warriors upon the brow. The wily old chief wanted to show the other tribes gathered there the strength of his warriors, all armed with rifles that Jim Bridger had supplied. Though grossly outnumbered by their traditional enemies, the Sioux and the Cheyenne, Washakie feared no one. His Snake warriors were among the fiercest fighters of all the western tribes. He had come in peace, to smoke with his old enemies at the council fire. But he would demonstrate his potential for war just in case someone might think of settling old scores.

  White Eagle urged his pony on. Up ahead, he could see the Snake warriors filing out across the rise to present a solid line where they would sit while their chief rode out alone to meet the white men who stood ready to greet him. When no more than twenty yards from the line of warriors, White Eagle was intercepted by a stern-faced brave who scolded him and sent him back to the women and other children. White Eagle knew better than to protest. Disappointed to be treated as a child, he nevertheless turned his pony around and reluctantly started back at a slow walk. He had so wanted to stand with the warriors as they gazed silently in solemn dignity upon the assembly below them. His mother had warned him that he would be ordered back, but he had to find out for himself.

  As the spotted gray walked leisurely back to the women and children, White Eagle continued to gaze back at the warriors, wishing he were old enough to take his place beside them. Then something east of the rise—maybe half a mile distant—caught his eye and he pulled his pony up to take a longer look. It looked to be a column of soldiers, riding two abreast. White Eagle’s sharp eyes counted thirty-five blue uniforms and three others, one an Indian, the other probably a white scout. Only slightly curious, the boy watched the column until it rode out of sight behind a hill in the distance. Then he nudged his pony and continued on.

  * * *

  Buck Ransom wondered whatever possessed him to give in to Robert Dimeron’s pleas to guide a patrol into the Black Hills. He had tried to explain to the newspaper reporter that he was getting too long in the tooth to do this line of work anymore. Dimeron was insistent that Buck was the only one who could guide them, only because Jim Bridger recommended him. In the end, it was Dimeron’s promise of a handsome sum from his newspaper in addition to the pay he would receive from the army that made up his mind. It was just too much for Buck to pass up.

  Look at him, Buck thought, thinks he’s out on some kind of Sunday picnic. Dimeron was quite cheerful as he bobbed unevenly along, fighting the natural rhythm of his horse. As out of place as a pig in the parlor. The thought made Buck snort with contempt. In spite of the money, he might not have agreed to go if he had been told there was going to be a woman riding with them. He didn’t find that out until the patrol was assembled and ready to ride.

  Buck had openly questioned the advisability of a woman accompanying a detachment of soldiers in the field. The officer in charge
told him that he agreed with Buck on the matter, but he wasn’t given any choice. One of the party they were setting out to find was the lady’s husband, and she had convinced Captain Leach that she would not hinder the patrol. The newspaper reporter had assured the captain that he would look after her, taking full responsibility. It amounted to little less than insanity to Buck, and he told the young lady that, but nothing could dissuade her. Buck tried to convince anyone who would listen that the mistake they were making was in thinking that all the Indians were gathered there at Fort Laramie for the council talks. “It might seem that way,” Buck had told them, “but there’s a whole lot more Injuns that ain’t ever signed a treaty, and ain’t ever plannin’ to.” He soon saw that he was wasting his breath and nobody believed him, so he gave up arguing. If she wanted to traipse her sweet young fanny into those hills, then why should he give a damn?

  Buck’s reverie was interrupted when Lieutenant Luke Austen suddenly joined him. “Well, Mr. Ransom,” Luke said, “looks like we’re gonna miss all the excitement back there.”

  “I reckon,” Buck replied, “but we’ll be mighty lucky if we don’t run into more excitement than we can handle.”

  “You’re doing the guiding. How do you want to handle it?”

  Buck had not yet had time to evaluate the young lieutenant, but his first impression was that Luke Austen might have the potential to survive the frontier. At least he was smart enough to know that Buck knew the country and had a hell of a lot more experience in Indian territory than he did. “I reckon it’s best if I stay out ahead about a half a mile or so, so’s I can git a chance to see what’s what before you boys ride into an ambush or somethin’.”

  Luke nodded. “You think there’s much possibility we might run into trouble with the peace talks going on?”

  “Lieutenant, there’s a heap of Injuns out there that don’t care spit for them peace talks, and I don’t know if I blame ’em. The Oregon and California trails have cut a wide road right through their huntin’ grounds.” He gestured to the side. “All this used to be good grazing land. Now look at it, beat out by all them wagons and oxen till there ain’t enough grass to feed an antelope. And now prospectors,” he went on after taking a quick look back to make sure Annie Farrior was not in earshot, “like them four fools we’re lookin’ for.” He pulled his shoulders back and puffed a little. “Oh, there’s a chance we’ll run into trouble, all right.”

  Luke Austen watched the old scout ride out ahead of the column, his horse kicking up miniature clouds of dust from the dry prairie. Luke wondered if the old man still had the stamina to lead a mounted patrol into the mountains. I guess I’ll find out, he thought and turned back to check on the two civilians.

  Luke had protested only slightly less than Buck had when told that a woman was to accompany the troop. A reporter was bad enough, but a woman put an extra hardship upon the men. Typically, a troop of soldiers in the field were a pretty rough bunch to be around, and Luke didn’t appreciate the added responsibility of insuring a lady’s privacy, not to mention the men’s manners. He had halfway expected her to show up in a frilly dress and a bonnet, but was relieved when she arrived wearing army-issue trousers and had her hair rolled up under a wide campaign hat. It was obvious that she had endeavored to make herself as unfeminine as possible, and Luke appreciated that. He had made quite a speech to his men before she arrived, letting them know he expected nothing short of sterling behavior on their part. His speech was followed by one by Sergeant Grady Post which, though not as lengthy as that of the lieutenant’s, served to deliver the message in a language the soldiers understood. Grady was a sizable man with fifteen years of soldiering, and he promised to bury his size-twelve boot in the ass of any man who demonstrated the slightest disrespect toward the lady.

  “You folks doing all right?” Luke asked as he wheeled his horse and fell in step with Annie Farrior’s horse.

  “We’re doing fine,” Robert Dimeron answered immediately, still cheerful after half a day of bouncing up and down in the saddle.

  Luke couldn’t help but notice the contrast in riding styles between the woman and Dimeron. “You look like you’ve done some riding before, Mrs. Farrior.”

  “Well, no, not really,” Annie replied. “I rode my father’s mules once or twice when I was a girl.”

  “Oh?” Luke responded. “Well, you could have fooled me.” He studied the young woman’s face for a moment until she lowered her gaze and he realized that he must have been staring. Looking quickly away, he said, “I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable for you,” although he could see that it wasn’t. A right handsome woman, even in a man’s getup, he thought, and she’s got enough sense to go with the horse’s natural motion.

  “Are we in hostile territory yet?” Dimeron asked.

  “We’ve been in it ever since we got outta sight of the fort,” Luke replied, causing Dimeron to quickly glance all around him as if expecting to find an Indian behind every scrub or bush.

  Seeing nothing but the big open prairie, the reporter relaxed and concluded, “They must all be at Fort Laramie for the treaty talks.”

  Luke’s lips parted slightly in a thin smile. “Just because you don’t see ’em, doesn’t mean they’re not there.” Then he touched the brim of his hat respectfully to Annie and rode off to the head of the column.

  Dimeron looked from right to left once more before saying, “I think the lieutenant is being a bit overdramatic, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Annie answered. “He doesn’t strike me as the dramatic kind.” She decided at that moment that she liked the young officer. He had an easy way about him that spoke of a quiet confidence. She was glad that he had been assigned to this search party, although she guessed that he didn’t necessarily appreciate being stuck with a woman on his patrol.

  * * *

  They made camp the first night in a little grove of dusty cottonwoods that jealously competed for the attention of a shallow stream. Buck promised better water the following night when they would strike the south fork of the Cheyenne River. Although the day had been hot and dry, when the sun slipped beneath the line of low ridges to the west, the evening air took on a definite chill. Annie was thankful Captain Leach had suggested that she should include a garrison jacket along with the other garments borrowed from the quartermaster.

  As was the summertime custom, the men packed no half-tents, preferring to sleep in the open, even though the nights were already chilly. Sergeant Post detailed two men to set up a tent for Annie, however, as well as one for Robert Dimeron. Dimeron, seeing that he was the only man sleeping in a tent, insisted upon sleeping in the open like the troopers, so after that first camp, Post only concerned himself with the lady’s comfort. Several small fires were started and the soldiers gathered around them to cook their evening meal of salt pork and hardtack, to be washed down with bitter coffee. Annie shared the same fare as the men, and while it was not particularly appetizing, she did not complain, soaking the hard crackers in her coffee to make them easier to chew. She understood that there was no time to hunt for fresh meat, since the lieutenant’s orders were to make haste whenever possible.

  Luke did not confide in the lady that his specific orders were to mount a patrol for fifteen days. Regardless of the success or failure of his mission, he was to return to Fort Laramie within that span of time. Luke speculated that Captain Leach, while irritated that the four prospectors might have jeopardized the peace talks, was not really concerned with their safety. The captain was concerned, however, about sending out a troop of cavalry from an already skeleton force. In deference to the young woman’s anxiety for her missing husband, Luke determined to push the troop on the trip outbound in order to have as much time as possible to search for the prospectors.

  Luke Austen harbored no illusions as to why he was chosen to lead this seemingly foolish patrol into a country so wild that four men might hide there for a year without being found. It was no secret that Luke was Henry Leach’s least favo
rite officer. Luke didn’t waste a great deal of time speculating upon the reason. Basically, he supposed that it was because he was a graduate of the military academy, and his father was a general who had served in the war of 1812. Leach, not having the benefit of an academy background, had earned his captain’s bars through the ranks. Aside from that, Luke knew his popularity with the men was another sore point with Leach.

  For those reasons, Luke wasn’t surprised that he had caught this assignment. Seated with his back against a tree trunk, sipping his coffee, he glanced around him at his command. The irony of it brought a smile to his face. Of the men selected to ride with him, over half were deadbeat soldiers, troublemakers, drunks, and slackers. Most of the rest were foreigners who barely understood English. He looked across the stream to where his scouts were lounging. Buck Ransom obviously knew his business, and had probably been as good a scout as Bridger had testified. But Buck was old, maybe too old for this line of work now. The other scout, a sullen Sioux named Bull Hump, was rumored to have participated in a raid against a party of emigrants during the early summer. Bull Hump denied it, and there was no witness to prove it, but Luke wouldn’t put it past him. Captain Leach assured him that he could trust the Sioux scout.

  What a crew, he mused, a troop of misfits, a broken-down mountain man, a turncoat Sioux—he turned his gaze to the two sitting before the tent—and a woman and a damn reporter. He had to hand it to Leach, the captain had fixed him up with a real command.