Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  The hopelessness of their situation rendered Annie oblivious to the night chill that, under less dire circumstances, would have made her shiver. Lying close beside Luke, every nerve in her body alert to the danger that lay waiting for them in the forboding darkness, she still longed to simply close her eyes and make it all go away. Knowing that propriety was no longer relevant, she pressed her body closer to Luke’s. Luke, understanding, reached back and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  Hearing a rustle of pine boughs several yards off to their left, Buck rolled away from the protection of the tree he had taken cover behind and crawled a few yards to a new position closer to the origin of the sound. He listened, his Hawken rifle raised, waiting for any movement from the dark shadows. There was another sound of rustling and what he thought was a low grunt. He tensed, ready to fire, but there was no assault. After another lengthy period when no further sounds were heard, Buck slowly withdrew to his original position beside Luke.

  “They’re up to something,” Luke whispered as soon as Buck crawled back. “I heard something, like they’re moving around.”

  “They’re up to somethin’ all right, and it don’t take a genius to figure it out. They’re moving in closer, and from the sound of it, boxing us in on both sides.” He gestured with his head toward his right shoulder. “The moon’s coming up. In another hour, it’s gonna be bright as day on the edge of these trees. I reckon that’s what they’re waitin’ for. I don’t think they know for sure there ain’t but three of us. When they find out, church’ll be out for sure.”

  No more talk was wasted upon plans to escape. There was no place for them to go. Even had they decided to try to go back down the cliff, they would have to descend the steep open area of loose gravel—an area that was now bathed in bright moonlight. All three knew they could do nothing but wait for the end.

  A strange shroud of calmness settled about Annie Farrior as she lay close to Luke. Almost like a dream, it seemed beyond belief that she was quietly awaiting her death—a death now certain. She reached down and rested her hand on the handle of her pistol. When the time came, could she do it? Her thoughts fluttered back and forth between her husband and Luke, and her fatal determination to find Tom when all advised against it. Well, she thought, this is where it got you. She could only marvel at the serenity with which she now viewed her destiny—no longer terrified, although still missing a heartbeat each time she heard the sound of a twig snapping or a rustle of boughs.

  Thinking he had seen some movement in the shadows above them, Luke strained to make out a possible human form. Maybe it was his imagination. The wait was excruciating. He was impatient for the combat that would decide their fate. During the long minutes they had lain there waiting, he had examined his feelings toward the probable end of his young life. There was apprehension, he decided, but no fear. He would take as many of the warriors with him as any fighting man could. Who could say? Maybe he and Buck could drive them off. Then his thoughts turned to the girl pressing close against his leg, and he suddenly wished he had met her earlier—before she had married. He wanted to pull her in close in his arms to comfort her, but he restrained himself to an occasional reassuring pat.

  Buck Ransom had never really known what it was like to be afraid. His old friend and departed partner, Frank Brown, had always maintained that Buck wasn’t intelligent enough to know fear. Buck had never given it much thought. He wasn’t afraid now—but he was perturbed. It galled him to think he was to go under after stupidly following a renegade Sioux up a box canyon. What would Frank or Trace McCall think about that? They’d probably laugh at his foolishness. Well, the son-of-a-bitching Injuns might git this old gray scalp, but, by God, it’s gonna cost ’em a heap. Further thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of a loud grunt no more than fifteen yards directly in front of them.

  Buck immediately tensed, preparing for action. Seconds after the first sound, another sound—almost like a cough—followed. “Git ready, son,” Buck warned, “I think they’re gittin’ set to jump us.”

  Luke shifted his body to get a better angle to shoot from behind the tree. Annie, without being told, pulled the spare rifles up, ready to hand them off to the two men now waiting silently for the coming attack. The total darkness that had enclosed the pines before now began to give way to random splotches of moonlight so that individual trees began to take shape. Fingers on the triggers, Buck and Luke strained to make out a target.

  “Is that you down there, Buck?”

  The clear, familiar voice had come from the pine forest before them. Buck, stunned at first, was not sure he wasn’t hearing things. “Trace?” he called out.

  “I reckon,” the answer came back.

  Luke and Annie watched in astonishment as Buck lowered his rifle, and with a groan for his aching joints, slowly got to his feet. Had it been a little less dark, they could have seen the wide grin upon his grizzled face. As it was, they watched in amazement as Buck left the cover of the tree and started making his way up the hill. Almost as an afterthought, he paused and called back to them. “You folks can come on out now. It’s all over.”

  Still reluctant to abandon all caution, Luke stood up, still holding his rifle ready to fire at the first provocation. He found it hard to believe there was no gunfire as soon as he exposed himself. He reached down, extending his hand to Annie. She took it and helped herself up, and they followed Buck up the slope through the trees.

  He was standing between two small trees, his feet widespread, the moonlight silhouetting his powerful frame that appeared to be taller than the pines themselves. Even in the half-light provided by a three-quarter moon, there was a detectable sense about this mountain man that conveyed a presence of strength and confidence. Waiting for them to make their way up through the trees, he stood as casually as if they had chanced to meet on a crowded street in St. Louis, instead of this dark and forboding forest amid the bodies of half a dozen Sioux warriors.

  “This here’s Trace McCall,” Buck announced when the three of them reached the point where he stood waiting. There was a hint of paternal pride in his voice when he added, “The Blackfeet call him the Mountain Hawk—me and Trace has been partners for more’n a few years.” Then he introduced his companions.

  Trace shook hands with Luke and nodded politely to Annie. “Looks like you folks have had some hard luck. How’d you happen to get caught in that canyon down there?” This last he directed at Buck.

  Buck was quick to stress that he had possessed some very negative feelings about riding into that canyon, but it was not his decision to make. Then he hastened to explain that it wasn’t really the lieutenant’s fault either—they had no notion to suspect the Sioux scout of treachery. “When you shake this blanket, I reckon more’n a few bugs’ll fall out, though. Ain’t no gittin’ ’round the fact that we was plumb bamboozled.”

  “A full troop of thirty-four men was massacred,” Luke volunteered, “and it was my responsibility to take care of them. So I also have to take the blame for putting the troop in that position in the first place.” His voice trailed off as he continued, “I guess I’ll have to live with that on my conscience.”

  Buck cocked his head in surprise. This was the first expression of guilt and remorse that Luke had voiced. He had been so occupied with saving their asses that he hadn’t stopped to think that the young lieutenant might also be carrying a heavy burden of guilt for the loss of his command. He felt the need to enlighten the young man on the subject of Indian warfare. “Son, don’t go gittin’ down in the mouth about bein’ out-smarted by a band of Injuns. We got double-crossed. That’s all there is to it. As far as gittin’ tricked into that box canyon—why, hell—Injuns’ stock and trade is pullin’ tricks like that. Them Sioux warriors is some of the finest fightin’ men alive. You ain’t the first officer that got caught with his britches down—and you ain’t gonna be the last.”

  “Buck’s right, Lieutenant. I’d say the fault’s more likely on the doorstep of the
damn fool that sent you out here with less than a full regiment. This is smack-dab in the middle of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho hunting grounds, and no white man is welcome, especially soldiers. That said, I expect we’d best not linger here. When these warriors don’t come back, there’s bound to be somebody come looking for them.”

  “How many of them devils was up in these woods, anyway?” Buck wanted to know.

  “Well, you and the lieutenant got four of ’em. That didn’t leave but six for me.”

  This simple answer baffled Luke. “You killed six of them? But we heard no rifle shots, except the ones fired at us.”

  “Bow,” Buck answered for Trace, “bow and a knife—much quieter that way.” He didn’t bother to explain to Luke that Trace was as good with a bow as any Indian who ever took to the warpath. He knew without asking how Trace had silently moved through the dark forest, taking the six warriors out one by one until they had all been eliminated. Then another thought struck him, and he turned back to Trace. “How’d you know it was me down there?”

  Trace smiled. “I saw that mangy coyote you call a horse with a bunch of army mounts they had corraled at the mouth of that canyon. I knew there couldn’t be two like that—and I figured anybody else would be too proud to ride him.”

  “Huh,” Buck grunted indignantly. “He’ll run that paint of your’n into the ground.” It wasn’t necessary to express his joy upon hearing the news that his horse might not be lost to him. The two of them had been together for a long time, and Buck had always planned for them to go into retirement together. “We need to go after them horses before the rest of that band of Sioux come back here lookin’ for their brothers. You say they’re corraled near the mouth of the canyon?”

  “I said they were,” Trace replied. “I moved them to the other side of this ridge where I left my horses.” Again, this was all that needed to be said for Buck to know that Trace had eliminated however many Indians were left to guard the horses. It also explained why Luke, Annie, and he were not followed up the rock cliff by the Sioux.

  “I expect we’d better git ourselves out of here before that band of Sioux comes back lookin’ fer their cousins,” Buck said. “They’re gonna be plenty hot when they find all these dead Injuns.” He paused to consider which direction might be best to make good their escape. “You got any idea where this bunch’s camp is?”

  “Two days ago they were camped on the Belle Fourche,” Trace answered. “I had to take a detour around them—Iron Pony’s bunch, I think.”

  “If they’re on the Belle Fourche,” Buck said, “then I reckon we’d best head east to the Cheyenne—work our way back south from there.”

  Before anyone could take a step, Annie interrupted the two mountain men. “What about my husband?” In the pressing concern to escape before the band of Sioux returned, no one had given thought to the original purpose of their mission. “We’ve got to find Tom and the others,” she reminded them.

  The distress in her voice caused Buck to stop and think for a moment. In the aftermath of the slaughter of the entire troop of dragoons, he had assumed that the mission was canceled, the primary concern now was to save what hair was still growing on the few heads that survived. “Considerin’ our predicament, I naturally figured the lieutenant here would say to head back to Laramie.” He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. “What do you say, Lieutenant?”

  Like Buck, Luke had all but concluded that the mission was canceled. But now, seeing the look of distress on the upturned face of Annie Farrior, he hesitated, not sure what to do. “I’ve already lost a troop of cavalry. I think my first responsibility is to the safety of the lady, so we should probably get back to Laramie as fast as we can.”

  Annie, frightened into tremors hours earlier, was now in possession of her former resolve. “I’m not going back until I look for my husband. That’s what I came out here for, and if Mr. McCall has found our horses, I intend to continue. You can go back without me.”

  “Annie,” Luke pleaded, “I can’t let you do that.”

  Buck glanced at Trace to see his reaction, but there was no change of expression on the imperturbable face of his tall friend. Foolishness, Buck thought, but he understood why she felt she had to say what she did. Seeing the indecision in the face of the young lieutenant, he offered a suggestion to placate the lady. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a look around some of these canyons while we’re headin’ toward the Cheyenne—if that’s all right with you, Lieutenant. There ain’t but a few valleys they could be in, anyway, and we can check them out all right.” He glanced quickly at Trace, aware that his friend knew there were a hell of a lot of places where the four prospectors might be. But Trace made no comment. “The most important thing right now is to git ourselves away from this ridge,” Buck added.

  CHAPTER 5

  Of the dozen horses Trace had hobbled on the far side of the ridge, Buck’s scruffy-looking bay and Luke’s chestnut were recovered. Aside from Trace’s two horses and three Indian ponies, the rest were army mounts. By this time, some of the other strays had probably wandered back toward the canyon, but they had no desire to be burdened with the task of driving extra horses. One of the army mounts was selected for Annie to ride, the rest were unsaddled and set free.

  By the time they got underway, the first hint of dawn was upon them. They rode in single file, Trace leading, as they made their way through the narrow valleys, winding deeper into the dark green slopes that towered up on each side of them. Not until the sun was almost directly overhead did they pause to rest the horses and take time to eat something themselves. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Buck, Luke, and Annie had their last meal. So the dried buffalo meat from Trace’s pack was welcome fare. To wash it down, Trace was also able to provide some coffee from his dwindling supply.

  “I was fixing to head back to pick up some supplies when I came across your little party back there with those Sioux,” Trace commented as he watched over his coffee kettle. This was in answer to Buck’s question as to how Trace happened upon them.

  Buck nodded. “I sure am proud you showed up when you did. We was gittin’ down to skinnin’ knives and prayers.”

  Annie, chewing away at a rock-hard piece of buffalo jerky, studied the soft-spoken man, dressed in buckskins. He was a tall man, taller than Luke even, with sandy-colored hair that barely touched wide, powerful shoulders. Unlike most of the so-called mountain-men—like Buck for instance—Trace was clean-shaven, Injun style as Buck would say. He carried a Hawken rifle, much like Buck’s. On his back, he wore an otterskin bow case and quiver, decorated with beads and porcupine quills—a gift from a Snake maiden, Buck had said. Buck had also told her that Trace was known to the Blackfeet as the Mountain Hawk. Judging by the ease with which he moved through the wild country that surrounded them, she decided that Trace McCall belonged in these mountains—fully as much as the hawk for which he was named. For reasons she could not explain, she felt safer with him than she had before when escorted by a whole troop of soldiers.

  Following old game trails for much of the time, they worked their way up into the hills, scouting out any streams they chanced upon for signs that the four white prospectors had passed that way. There was no evidence that anyone other than Indian hunting parties had been there. Trace and Buck were careful to cover their tracks whenever possible. They figured the Sioux war party was sure to be trailing them. The country was rugged and the riding hard. Still they continued to search until sunset found them close to the Cheyenne River.

  “We’ll strike the river ’bout noon tomorrow,” Buck said, as he and Trace sat by the fire, discussing the next day’s march. “I reckon that little gal is gonna be mighty disappointed we didn’t find no sign of her husband. But I don’t see much future in hangin’ around this territory any longer. You know that dang party of Sioux is gonna turn this country inside out, lookin’ for us.”

  Trace nodded and glanced toward the horses where Annie was talking to Luke as he checked the condition of the
girth strap on Annie’s saddle. He thought for a moment more before making a suggestion. “I know a place that might be a likely spot to check. It ain’t far from here, but we’ll have to backtrack about half a day.” Before Buck could ask why he hadn’t mentioned it a half a day ago, Trace explained. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I guess I just forgot about it. It’s a little hard to find, so I doubt they would have stumbled on it. The only reason I know about it is because I followed a deer there last fall.”

  Buck called Luke and Annie over to discuss a decision to backtrack or to continue to the river. If they continued, he explained, they would be out of the hills the next day, and should probably have the best chance of getting back to Laramie before being over-taken by a Sioux war party. In spite of the danger, Annie urged them to continue the search. It seemed obvious to Luke that they could spend weeks searching every draw and valley before finding a trace of the missing four. Concern for Annie’s safety was foremost in his mind, and his better judgment told him to get the hell out of there while they still could. He was already burdened by his failure to prevent the massacre of his patrol. On the other hand, he found it hard to deny the young lady’s wishes.

  In the end, the three men gave in to the lady. They decided that Trace should start back immediately, since there were still a couple of hours before dark. The others would start back in the morning. He could make much better time alone, perhaps enough to scout the area and intercept them before they backtracked the entire distance. Once it was decided, Trace wasted little time saddling his paint pony, and leaving his packhorse with Buck, started back the way they had come. He had drawn a little map on the ground to show Buck how to find a large column of stone that stood like a chimney near the foot of the ridge that hid the stream where he had followed the deer. If things went as he expected, he would be on his way back before Buck and the others got to that ridge.

  * * *