Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Luke and Trace soon came to the eastern limit of the ledge, only to find that it ended at the face of another cliff that ascended straight up—a dead end. They turned around, retracing their steps, when they heard Buck sing out.

  “It ain’t exactly the St. Louie turnpike, but I expect it’s the best we’ll find.”

  It proved to be little more than a gully that slashed across the face of the mountain. But plenty of sign showed that it was an old game trail, so Buck was confident that it had to be a way down the mountain. “We ain’t got a helluva lot of choice,” Trace commented dryly. “At least they’re deer tracks and not goats, but I reckon we’d better go down on foot, though.”

  “I reckon,” Buck agreed. “That nag of mine ain’t exactly no deer.”

  Buck led the way, followed by Annie, then Luke. Trace stayed behind to make sure everyone got a headstart on the angry mob pursuing them. Calling to Buck, he said, “I’m gonna see if I can slow ’em up a little.” It would be slow going for at least fifty yards until the rude trail disappeared around an outcropping of granite. If the Sioux caught them on the open face of the mountain before they reached that point, they’d be sitting ducks for even the poorest of shots.

  After tying his packhorse on a lead line once more so it wouldn’t stray, Trace left his horses at the head of the gully, grabbed his Hawken and an army rifle that he had picked up from one of the dead troopers, and made his way up through the pines. As he had figured, the Sioux warriors were still on the open mountainside, but they had nearly reached the belt of pine trees. Scrambling wildly in an effort to overtake the white men, their ponies sliding and stumbling, the warriors drove recklessly on. Lying on his belly at the base of a medium-sized pine, Trace paused a moment to determine the range. Then he carefully lined his sights on the leading Indian and squeezed the trigger. The warrior threw both hands up in shocked surprise when the lead ball tore into his naked chest, rolling him backward over his pony’s rump. There was only a few moments’ pause by the warriors behind him as they sought to avoid the confused riderless horse. Trace picked up the other rifle and took deliberate aim. A second warrior cried out in alarm when the lead ball found its target.

  While the startled Sioux scrambled for cover among the rocks, Trace reloaded his rifles and waited for a clear shot. Certain that Buck and the others had now had time to reach the bend in the gully, still he waited, thinking that if he could convince the Sioux that they were making a stand, he might gain ample time to make good his own escape. He had to wait no more than a minute before the first impatient warrior showed his head from behind a jagged piece of granite. Even at that distance, Trace could clearly see the look of profound surprise when the slug created a neat hole just above his eyes. This last casualty created the span of time Trace hoped for as the Sioux drew back to powwow over a plan of attack. Trace moved a few yards farther to his right and fired another shot just to make them think there was more than one of him. Then he quickly withdrew and started back down through the trees at a dead run.

  Just as he had hoped, when he reached his horses again, there was no sign of the others—they had safely reached the outcropping. At least I can’t see any bodies at the foot of the cliff, he thought as he led his horses down into the mouth of the narrow gully. Making his way down the steep defile, placing each foot carefully and mindful of the tons of horse flesh immediately behind him, Trace hoped like hell he wouldn’t round the bend past the outcropping and find three frustrated souls staring over a sheer drop.

  About three quarters of the way to the bend, the gully broke down to form a ledge barely wide enough for one horse to negotiate. Peering over the side of the ledge, Trace looked straight down at the valley floor, eight hundred feet below. It caused him to worry more about the heavily loaded pack on his packhorse behind and above him. He glanced back then, but the animal appeared to be balancing the load adequately.

  There were only a few yards to go when the war party spotted him on the face of the cliff. Suddenly shots rang out as rifle balls whined and ricocheted from the rock above his head. Shielded by the horses, the Indian marksmen could not get a clear shot at him, so they began to concentrate their fire on the horses. Due to the steepness of the incline, the paint was also shielded, the packhorse catching the brunt of the attack.

  Trace hurried as much as he could, but it was impossible to go any faster without chancing a misstep that might result in an eight-hundred-foot fall. The hail of slugs from the Sioux rifles soon found their target. The packhorse screamed in agony as shot after shot impacted, and Trace saw that his horse was mortally wounded. Afraid the wounded animal would go over the ledge, dragging the paint with it, Trace squeezed between the paint and the face of the cliff and managed to cut the lead rope. Only a few steps away from safety now, Trace led the paint around the bend in the trail. Past the rock outcropping, he discovered that the trail was still no more than a narrow ledge. But it was not as steep and it did widen enough to get around his horse, so he left the paint there while he went back to check on the wounded packhorse.

  On his hands and knees, he inched his head around the edge of the granite wall to determine the fate of his horse. The poor animal had been riddled with bullets and was dead, but it had not fallen from the ledge, having simply dropped against the face of the cliff, its legs folded under it. Trace realized at once that the dead animal had performed one last service for him, for the narrow ledge was now effectively blocked. Trace crawled along the ledge until he reached the carcass. Using the horse for cover, he managed to reach an extra bullet pouch and a sack of buffalo jerky from the pack before being forced to retreat by the constant barrage of rifle fire from the Sioux, still gathered at the mouth of the gully.

  Making his way carefully back to safety, he led the paint down the ledge until the narrow path began to level off and widen, finally leading off the face of the cliff and into the trees. Here he found Buck and the others waiting for him at the head of a ravine that led down to the valley.

  “Where’s your packhorse?” Buck asked as soon as Trace appeared.

  “He decided to stay,” Trace answered.

  “Heard all the shootin’. I was just fixin’ to go back to see if you needed help,” Buck said. “Are they still on our tails?”

  “I think they’ll be held up for a while, but I expect we’d best waste no time, anyway.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Old Broken Arm suddenly released the water he had just scooped in his cupped hand, letting it trickle through his fingers as he strained to listen. His warrior’s instincts confirmed the faint sound he thought he had heard—like that of a moccasin treading upon a small pine branch. Forgetting his thirst, he rose to his feet, looking all around him, aware also that a sparrow lark singing noisily moments before was now silent.

  Looking across the wildly swirling waters of the wide stream, to the lodges of his small party, arrayed in a half circle—fourteen tipis in all—he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he had a feeling that something was wrong. It might be a good idea to alert the young men and take a look around the camp. This country was familiar hunting ground for both the Sioux and Cheyenne, and Broken Arm’s band was small, mostly relatives, numbering only twenty-eight warriors and thirty-two women and children. Unaware of the Sioux warrior behind him, he turned, too late to avoid the heavy war ax that buried in his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and driving him backward into the stream. Unable to give a warning cry, or defend himself, Broken Arm was set upon by the grinning warrior, the old Shoshoni’s blood already tinting the rapidly running water.

  Twenty yards downstream, a Snake woman paused in the process of filling her water skins to puzzle over the crimson streaks flowing past the rock she knelt on. At almost the same instant she realized it was blood, the eerie war cries of the Sioux raiding party rang out across the little valley, and suddenly the peaceful camp was shattered by an explosion of cracking rifles and war whoops. Dropping the water skins, she ran for her life, only to be tum
bled to the ground by an arrow between her shoulder blades.

  In the confusion of the surprise attack, Broken Arm’s young men ran to get their weapons in an attempt to repel the hated Sioux. But Iron Pony had planned his attack well. Outnumbering the unsuspecting Snakes, his warriors converged upon the camp from all sides, slaughtering men, women, and children—even the dogs were slain. Most of the Snakes were killed within a half hour. The few that had managed to avoid the dreadful sweep through their camp scurried to take refuge in a rock-strewn pocket of willows and brush. Of these, only four were warriors, while the remaining seven were either women or children.

  Working frantically to help dig firing pits for the men, Blue Water called to her son. White Eagle heard his mother’s calling, but he did not come to her. Instead, he had taken a place beside the four warriors, facing the attacking Sioux, his bow ready to shoot as long as he had arrows. Though little more than eleven summers, he was ready to fight for his people.

  It was a hopeless defense, as the four warriors had very little ammunition. After an initial volley, they were forced to retreat back to the cover of the pocket to reload. Amid the storm of rifle balls and arrows, the boy stood firm until his last arrow was shot. Then he scrambled to the cover of the streambank where his mother still clawed at the rocky soil with her bare hands. He tried to shield her with his body, a knife now his only weapon.

  “We cannot stay here!” one of the warriors shouted as the hailstorm of Sioux arrows began to find the range, and the whine of bullets was almost constant. “Run for the gully on the other bank!” The words had barely left his lips when a rifle ball split his forehead, and he sank to his knees.

  Blue Water screamed in horror as the warrior tried to get to his feet. No longer in control of his limbs, he took two wobbly steps before collapsing helplessly on the rocky soil. Grabbing White Eagle by the arm, she scrambled over the side of the sandy pocket after the other fleeing survivors. Spotted immediately by the Sioux warriors, the remaining Shoshoni men turned back to meet the overpowering numbers of their assailants in an attempt to give the women and children time to escape.

  White Eagle turned to stand with the men, but Blue Water yanked him around and dragged him after her. “It is hopeless,” she cried as she pulled the reluctant boy along behind her. “Live to fight another day.”

  The mouth of the gully was no more than a few yards away now, as they made their way up the bank of the stream. Behind him, White Eagle heard the death moans of the three Snake warriors as they were overrun by the bloodthirsty Sioux. Looking straight ahead, his eyes fixed on his mother’s back, he was aware of the stinging bullets spitting in the sand around her feet as she ran. Just as Blue Water reached the mouth of the gully, she fell. White Eagle thought that she had stumbled, only noticing the dark stain spreading between her shoulder blades when he tried to help her up.

  “Mother!” he cried, but she only gasped as her lungs began to fill with blood. Frantic, he took her wrists in his hands and dragged her into the gully. Safe for a moment, he tried to prop her up in an effort to keep her windpipe clear of the blood that was choking her. Her eyes fluttered wildly as she struggled to breathe, but it was becoming more and more difficult, and he knew that she was dying. Looking back down the gully in the direction of the pursuing warriors, his eyes were captured by an image that would burn in his mind forever. It was the leering face of a white man, staring straight at him. As White Eagle knelt frozen for an instant, the man laughed and started to reload his rifle.

  “My son,” Blue Water suddenly said, calm for a moment, “you must get away from here.” She groaned from the effort required to form the words. “We are too far from Washakie and the others. Go back to Fort Laramie and look for the old white trapper called Buck. He is a good man. He will help you find our people.”

  “I can’t leave you here,” he cried, his gaze shifting frantically from his mother back to the evil white face under the flat-crowned black hat. The man’s horse, frightened by the shooting close behind it, reared and jumped, causing the man to fumble with his rifle, unable to reload it quickly.

  “Go!” Blue Water commanded. “I am dying.” Then she smiled at her son—her only child—the son of the Mountain Hawk.

  Blue Water did not slip peacefully into the spirit world. The rifle ball that tore into her lungs and damaged her internal organs caused a massive flow of blood that literally strangled her to death. It was not of a long duration, but the agony his mother endured before she finally lay still in death would remain in White Eagle’s memory, a vivid and lasting picture.

  Even as he lay her gently back on the sand, he could hear the footsteps of the swarming Sioux warriors as they splashed through the stream and charged up the bank toward him. There was no time to run. He thought of leaping from the gully to meet them, to die like the warrior he sought to be. But his rational mind told him his mother was right. He must try to survive and live to avenge his mother’s death. With no chance to run for it, he did the only thing he could think of. Smearing his mother’s blood on his face and neck, he lay down next to her, hoping the Sioux would think him dead.

  Moments later, they were there, pouring over the sides of the gully, chasing after the few terrified survivors who were running in a desperate effort to reach the hills beyond the stream. Two Sioux warriors paused briefly to stare down at the woman and boy in the bottom of the gully. Satisfied that they were dead, and anxious to participate in the slaughter of the final survivors, they raced after their brothers. There was no sign of the white man in the black hat. Had it been an illusion, brought on by the terrible slaughter going on around him? At that moment, he was not sure.

  Lying next to his dead mother, White Eagle breathed once again. He knew he had been lucky, and he also knew he didn’t have much time. When the Sioux had completed the massacre, they would be back to take scalps. He had to find a better place to hide until dark. Then he could make his escape. Cautiously raising his head above the edge of the gully, he peered after the warriors who had just passed him. They were intent on overtaking the Snake women running toward the hills. Looking back toward the camp, he saw the main body of the war party busily scalping and plundering among the tipis. Behind him were the open plains and no chance for escape until darkness could hide him.

  His eyes darted back and forth frantically, searching for a safe place. He had to hurry, the warriors would be back soon! Finally his gaze fell upon a hollow cottonwood. Larger than the others, it had been struck by lightning sometime in the past, and now it was no more than a shell, hollowed out by the fire that had resulted. The opening on one side looked just big enough for a boy his size to squeeze through. There being no better choice, he crawled the length of the gully, and keeping low behind the bank of the stream, made his way back toward the riotous band of Sioux, now whooping and laughing in celebration of their victory.

  With more difficulty than he had at first anticipated, White Eagle was able to force his body through the opening in the hollow trunk, leaving some of his skin in the process. Once inside, he found he had room to stand, though his chamber was extremely confining. There were splits and cracks large enough for him to see through, but his hiding place was not obvious to anyone who might not suspect it. It was through one of these cracks that he saw the white man ride into the center of the plundering Sioux.

  * * *

  “Don’t give me that ol’ evil eye, you heathen son of a bitch,” Booth Dalton warned—a wide smile on his face as he said it, knowing the warrior didn’t understand a word of English. He prodded his horse past the sullen brave and made his way through the throng of noisy Indians to sidle up beside Iron Pony. “It was just like I told you, Chief, just ripe for the pickin’.”

  Iron Pony was pleased with the overwhelming victory his warriors had earned that day. He would have been more pleased if the Snakes had possessed greater amounts of powder and flints, but a good many rifles were captured, just as Booth had promised. Some of his warriors were suspicious of Bo
oth’s intentions. Although he and his friend, Charlie White Bull, had brought them many things to trade their hides and horses for, there were many in Iron Pony’s camp that did not trust them.

  Iron Pony sneered at the thought of the peace treaty just completed. He felt contemptuous of his Sioux and Cheyenne brothers who attended the conference with the white soldiers, sitting to smoke with the Snakes. He would never smoke with the hated Snakes, nor with the soldiers who sought to cheat the Lakotas and push them back from their ancestral hunting grounds. His scouts had told him of the large band of heavily armed Snakes that had made the journey to Fort Laramie. They were too many and too well armed for Iron Pony’s band of Sioux. But then Booth came, claiming to be a friend of the Lakotas, and told him that a smaller group of Snakes had broken off from the main body and was traveling alone. This was when Iron Pony knew the spirits were smiling in his direction. He glanced over at the grinning white man who had just ridden up beside him and smiled. You are my friend, white man, but only until you cross me. Then I will tie your scalp to my lance along with those of these Shoshoni dogs.

  Booth Dalton was corrupt, godless, and completely without morals, but he was also a sly fox who considered himself a shrewd conniver. At this particular moment, Booth was feeling justifiably smug for the successful massacre of the unsuspecting Snakes. He grinned unabashed as his witless partner, Charlie White Bull, joined in the looting and mutilating with Iron Pony’s Sioux warriors. It struck Booth as rather humorous that the whole bunch might jump on ol’ Charlie if they knew he was really half Flathead. Like most Injuns, Charlie derived great satisfaction from the mutilation now taking place—it was supposed to make it harder for their dead enemies to find their way in the spirit world, and render them incapable of doing them any more harm. A foolish belief in Booth’s opinion, mutilation of those he had killed never held any interest. So he sat on his horse and watched the savage rituals, a disinterested spectator.