Booth figured his stock with the Sioux chief was bound to go up after leading him to the small band of Snakes heading back from the treaty talks. The bitter hatred between the Sioux and Shoshoni was well known, and even though the Sioux greatly outnumbered Chief Washakie’s warriors, the Snakes held a superiority in firepower—having been well armed by their friend, Jim Bridger. Consequently Booth had figured that Iron Pony would jump at the chance to catch a small band of Snakes out of their territory. Maybe now Booth’s stock would be so high that he could influence the Sioux chief to use his warriors for other purposes beneficial to Booth.
* * *
The boy hiding in the burnt-out hollow tree now knew that the white man he had seen leering at him had not been an illusion. He felt his blood go cold and his body tremble with rage as the murdering white man rode up to talk with the Sioux chief. White Eagle made an effort to sear in his mind the image of the slender man in the black coat and flat-crowned hat. He memorized everything about the man, knowing that the Great Spirit must surely provide him an opportunity for revenge. No matter how far in the future that might be, he would recognize this evil man. He studied his movements and gestures, as the man took a round silver object from his coat pocket, opened it, and peered inside before returning it to his pocket. What it told the man, White Eagle could not guess, but the man looked at the sun before he stared at the object, then looked up at the sun again after he had put it away—so it must hold some strong medicine from the sun. I will remember you, he thought. Someday I will find you and kill you.
Stiff and shivering, his limbs aching from standing motionless for hours, White Eagle began to wonder if the celebrating Sioux were ever going to sleep. He had to fight the almost overpowering urge to break from his confining prison and take his chances in the glow of the many campfires. The one thought that prevented him from taking such foolish action were the words of his mother, Live to fight another day. In spite of his thirst for revenge, he knew that if he were caught trying to escape, he would be no more than an added amusement for the Sioux warriors. If he had any arrows left, it would be different. He could make the price of his death expensive for the hated Sioux. But with only his knife to fight with, he would be easily overpowered and his death would be for nothing. So he waited.
It was long after the moon had risen directly overhead before the last of the dancing and singing finally stopped and the Sioux camp was quiet. When he could see no one walking around the dwindling campfires, he decided it was safe to make his move. Straining as before, he squeezed his body through the narrow opening in the tree trunk, standing for a few moments on legs weak from lack of circulation. Walking unsteadily for a few steps, he quickly regained his balance and was once again his nimble self.
White Eagle made his way carefully between sleeping warriors, exhausted from their celebration and strewn randomly like dead bodies—some with blankets hastily wrapped around them, some lying half naked in the cool night air. It would have been an easy thing to sink his knife in a belly filled with the white man’s firewater, but he resisted the temptation and made his way quickly toward the stream.
Out of the camp now, he crossed the stream to the place where the horses were grazing. As he searched for his own spotted gray pony among the Sioux horse herd, he heard a grunt behind him. Whirling at the sound, he raised his knife, ready to defend himself, only to find a sleeping sentry, groaning in his slumber. His heart started beating again and his muscles relaxed when he realized he was not about to be attacked. He started to walk around the sleeping guard when he hesitated, looking down at the helpless man. Here was one of the men who had murdered his people, lying vulnerable at his feet. There was a great temptation to extract some measure of revenge. He considered the possible consequences. The body would probably not be found until after sunup, by which time he should be hours away. But if he left the sleeping man alone, no one would pursue him. It was a hard decision to make. His 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? The sleeping man shifted slightly, causing his blanket to fall slightly away. White Eagle started in fright, but the warrior did not awaken. A strange token attached to a rawhide string around the warrior’s neck caught White Eagle’s eye. As he stared at it in the moonlight he realized that it was a human tooth. White Eagle looked up at the warrior’s face again. 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.” The confused warrior did not understand the words, but there was no mistaking their meaning when, a moment later, the blanket was stuffed over his face and White Eagle’s knife opened his throat.
The eruption that followed was almost more than the boy could handle. As soon as he had severed the warrior’s windpipe, White Eagle tried to sit on the man’s head to keep him from throwing the blanket off and yelling an alarm. But the panicked Sioux rose up violently, tossing the boy aside. Staggering to his feet, the Sioux stumbled around in blind confusion, one hand holding his throat, the other swinging wildly in an attempt to defend himself. He could not make a sound other than a choking cough. Finally his stunned brain focused on the boy kneeling before him in the moonlight, and he stumbled unsteadily toward him. Terrified, the boy’s will to survive took over. His heart racing, he managed to avoid the wildly swinging arm. Slipping under it, he struck as hard as he could, sinking his knife in the warrior’s belly. Horrified when the man did not fall down dead, White Eagle backed away as fast as he could, eyes wide as he watched the last moments of the Sioux warrior. His chest glistening in the moonlight with the blood from his throat, the man frantically pulled the knife from his belly and flung it aside. Then he released a long sigh and crumpled to his knees. He remained in that position for a long moment, his eyes wide but seeing nothing. Finally he fell facedown in the grass.
Frozen in shock, White Eagle was unable to move for a long minute, staring at the body only a few feet from him. The realization that he had just killed a man struck him, an enemy, and in close combat. What he had just done was overwhelming, and his mind was in a confusion of shock, fear, and disbelief—but also pride. He might have stood there longer had he not felt a sudden nudge at his back. Startled, he turned to discover that his pony had found him. Awakened to action, he briefly hugged the pony’s neck before picking up a coil of short rawhide line that lay near the body of the Sioux horse guard. He quickly made two half-hitches in the middle of the line, looping them around the pony’s lower jaw for a bridle.
In minutes, the scene of the massacre was far behind him as he urged the gray across the prairie, retracing the trek his people had made the day before. It crossed his mind to circle the Sioux camp and try to continue on the long journey to find the rest of Chief Washakie’s people in the Wind River Mountains. But it was closer to ride back to Fort Laramie—one day if he didn’t stop that night, and this was where his mother had told him to go—to find the white trapper named Buck.
He wondered if Buck was his real father. He had known since he was a small child that Eagle Claw was not his real father. There had been no attempt to keep his white blood a secret. At one time he had hated the fact that he was not a pure-blooded Shoshoni like his mother and grandfather. But his mother had told him that he was not born the son of a typical white man—he was the son of the Mountain Hawk—a man who was feared by the Blackfeet, traditional enemies of the Snakes. After that, he was no longer ashamed to be half white. As he made h
is way across the moonlit prairie, he tried to recall the white man’s name his mother had called his father. In fact, he couldn’t remember if his mother had actually told him, but Buck didn’t sound familiar. What if this man, Buck, was not at Fort Laramie? He decided to worry about that after he reached the fort.
* * *
The day was clear and unseasonably cool when four weary riders approached the outer buildings of Fort Laramie. Most of the many bands of Indians that had attended the peace talks had been gone for almost a week, with only a few smaller groups lingering on outside the walls. Trace and Buck had set a ground-eating pace from the Black Hills, with no complaints from Lieutenant Austen or Annie Farrior. After the disastrous encounter with Iron Pony’s Sioux, Annie was especially anxious to put hostile country behind her, although she was not looking forward to her reunion with Grace Turner. Burdened with her own grief for the loss of her husband, she now had the sorrowful task of telling Grace of Ned’s death.
To further trouble her mind, she found her thoughts constantly straying toward the slender young lieutenant with the reddish-brown hair and the finely chiseled features. Though it made her feel guilty, she found she could not help herself. Poor Tom’s bones lay in the ground no more than a week, and already there were long periods when he did not cross her mind. She hoped Tom would forgive her, for she had no desire to betray his memory. Even now, as anxious as she had been to reach the safety of the fort, there was a definite feeling of dread that she would no longer see Luke Austen after they got back.
As for the young lieutenant, Luke had a great load on his mind upon reaching Fort Laramie. Foremost was the burden of responsibility he shouldered for the loss of his entire detachment of troopers—and this at a time when the post was dreadfully understrength. He knew he would have to answer for decisions that resulted in such a devastating massacre at the hands of the very tribe the committee was negotiating a peace with. He feared a court-martial might even be called for. In spite of the ominous cloud of concern, there was one thing he was certain of. As soon as it seemed proper to do so, he was going to call on Annie Farrior. It might be callous of him to think of such things with her husband only recently killed, but there wasn’t always time to do things the proper way in this country.
Captain Henry Leach got up from his desk and went to the open door. Moments earlier, his orderly had informed him that four riders were approaching and one of them was plainly Lieutenant Austen. As Leach stood there, he could feel his whole body tensing as the anger rose in his veins. So it was true, he thought. The whole damned troop was wiped out. It further infuriated Leach that his Sioux and Arapaho scouts knew about the massacre long before any official word reached his ears. The damned Indian telegraph, he fumed, unable to understand how news was able to travel so rapidly throughout the Indian nation.
Now, as the four crossed the empty yard of the fort, the captain could readily identify the riders. Austen, Ransom, the woman—but who was the other? Leach had never seen the tall buckskin-clad sandy-haired mountain man before. As he watched, Annie pulled her horse up short, and after a few words with Luke, turned back toward the river to seek out Grace Turner. Good, Leach thought, I don’t have to be bothered with the female. Finding it increasingly difficult to contain his anger, Leach turned on his heel. “Private, escort the lieutenant and the scout in here.” Then he returned to his desk and awaited their arrival.
“Sir, Lieutenant Austen,” the orderly announced and stood aside to let the three men enter.
Leach could not wait to sail into his subordinate. Ignoring Luke’s salute, he rose to his feet and demanded, “Thirty-four men! Maybe you can explain to me how you lost your entire troop, mister!” Luke blanched, but before he could open his mouth to explain, Leach railed on. “With thirty-four dragoons, you should have been able to defend yourself against any size Indian force. I’ll have your explanation, sir!”
Luke, stunned at first by the hostile reception, steeled himself to meet the captain’s angry tone. “We were led into a trap, sir, and attacked by a superior force of Sioux. There was no way we could hold out against the overwhelming odds.”
“How in hell could you be foolish enough to be led into an ambush? Maybe they didn’t teach you that at West Point, but out here any shavetail junior officer knows that you don’t go chasing after a few Indians into a blind draw.”
Before Luke could respond, Buck figured it was time to butt in. He didn’t particularly care for the direction Leach was taking. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but none of this was Lieutenant Austen’s fault. It was that damned double-dealin’ renegade Bull Hump. He damn shore set us up for that massacre—led us right into that box canyon.”
Leach cocked his head at the old trapper, squinting his eyes as if annoyed by Buck’s intervention in the captain’s dressing down of his subordinate. “Are you suggesting we put the blame on a trusted Sioux scout?”
“Trusted, my ass,” Buck responded. “I’d like to know who decided he could be trusted. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ I don’t take part of the blame. He pulled the wool over my eyes, too. I just thought he wasn’t too smart—wanderin’ away from the rest of us for half a day and more—actin’ like he didn’t know one canyon from the next. He was smart enough all right—led us right to the slaughter. I caught a glimpse of him when we was runnin’ for cover at the end of that canyon. He was right in the middle of ’em.”
Leach paused to consider this. He was still inclined to place at least part of the blame for the tragedy upon the broad shoulders of Luke Austen. There was going to be hell to pay for this when word got back to Washington. If the massacre of thirty-four soldiers by hostile Sioux got into the papers back east, then there was going to be a public outcry for justice. And Leach was smart enough to know that wasn’t going to please the generals. For one thing, the peace talks were not even a week old—and another, the army didn’t have enough manpower to go against the Sioux nation at the present time. Leach was going to have to leave it to his superiors as to what action, if any, should be taken against Lieutenant Austen. Somebody back East was going to have a hell of a job keeping this one quiet, especially when they had to explain to The Chicago Herald how their reporter got killed.
“Who the hell is this?” Leach suddenly demanded, glaring at the tall clean-shaven man in buckskins who had stood silently in the background while Buck and Luke gave the captain the details of the attack.
Buck glanced back at his friend briefly. “This here’s Trace McCall. If it wasn’t for him, you might be standin’ here talkin’ to yourself.”
Trace remained silent, his expression unchanged. Luke hastened to explain Buck’s flippant response to the captain’s question. “Mr. McCall managed to dispatch a body of hostiles that had us pinned down with our backs to a cliff. Mr. Ransom’s right. We might not have made it without Mr. McCall’s help.”
“Well, then,” Leach began reluctantly, “I expect the army owes you a word of thanks.”
Leach’s manner irritated Trace. He gave the belligerent officer a long look before answering. Then he said, “Thanks ain’t necessary. If the army owes me anything, it’s a horse.”
“That’s right, sir,” Luke said. “Mr. McCall’s packhorse was killed while he was holding off the hostiles during our escape. I expect he lost more than the horse—there were supplies, too.”
While Luke related the events that led up to their escape along the narrow precipice, Leach kept his eyes on the tall mountain man. One of the real wild ones, he thought, more Indian than white. Being a military man, Henry Leach held no particular admiration for the brand of men like McCall who roamed the prairies and mountains. It was his opinion that most of them were hard-drinking, squaw-loving rascals whose greatest attribute was the ability to tell colossal lies about their exploits. Now he was thinking that he might have to change his opinion about this one at least. There was a quiet confidence in Trace McCall’s bearing that conveyed a sense of strength, and Leach knew that here was a man to be reckoned with.
He glanced at the old scout for a moment, a true mountain man, too. But the contrast was impossible to miss for someone as perceptive as Henry Leach. Buck was old, of course, but he was as noisy and rowdy as a prairie thunderstorm. McCall, on the other hand, was like the deadly flight of an arrow—silent but lethal.
“All right,” Leach said, when Luke finished his account of Trace’s part in their escape, “Mr. McCall can pick a replacement horse from the army’s stock—maybe pick up some things at the post trader’s store to replace his lost articles.”
“Obliged,” Trace said.
Leach turned back to Luke. “As for you, Lieutenant, you can report back to duty. But make no mistake, you’re not off my shit list just yet. I’ll file my report on this incident, and we’ll see what disciplinary action is called for.”
* * *
“What are you aimin’ to do now?” Buck asked as he and Trace led their horses toward the sutler’s store.
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t reckon I’ll stay around here for longer’n it takes to replace some of what I lost on my packhorse.”
“I swear,” Buck snorted, “you’re gittin’ so you can’t stay around people for more’n two or three days before you go hightailing it back up in them mountains.”
Trace laughed. “Now, that ain’t exactly so, Buck. I’ve been hanging around with you for the most part of a week. ’Course most folks wouldn’t call that the same as hanging around with people.”
Son of the Hawk Page 11
