Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Without bothering to drag the two corpses away from the campsite, Trace lay down by the fire and slept the sleep of the weary. Sometime during the night, he awakened and, realizing his carelessness, unsaddled his horse and took the packs from his packhorse. Then he lay down again and slept until dawn.

  Rested now, he was eager to complete his quest. Before bidding the late Booth Dalton and Charlie White Bull farewell, he gathered their weapons and ammunition. With his own bow and quiver once again on his back, he took the silver watch from Booth’s pocket, opened it, and read the inscription. THOMAS L. FARRIOR, LOVE FROM ANNIE. It would mean a great deal to Annie to have this returned. He tied the gray spotted pony behind his packhorse and cut the other horses loose. With the job he had ahead of him, he couldn’t bother with extra horses. Everything finished there, he turned the paint’s head toward the Yellowstone.

  * * *

  For the past week, Wounded Horse had kept his village in a state of readiness. Every day scouts went out to scour the surrounding prairie and hills, watching for signs of the Mountain Hawk. Fire That Burns had told of dreams he’d had that foretold of the coming of this white man-spirit. For three nights in a row, he had dreamed of hawks—there could be no other interpretation. There had been many dances celebrating the honor and prestige that would come to the village when the golden scalp of the Mountain Hawk was displayed on the council lodge.

  While White Eagle was treated with kindness, he soon found that he was still regarded as a captive. He was never allowed to leave the village alone. When he asked old Three Toes why the men of the village appeared to be preparing for war, he was told that it was nothing but springtime ceremonies. The boy suspected there was more to it than that, but he could not get any more information out of the old man, and Three Toes’s wife never spoke to White Eagle at all.

  * * *

  Several miles away, Trace knelt down to examine the tracks of two horses in a patch of snow. They were recent enough to tell him that he must be getting close to a village. He must exercise even more caution now to avoid encountering any Gros Ventre hunting parties. After another mile or so up the valley, the hunting trails grew more numerous, and he decided it was time to find a place to hide his horses. Most of his scouting would be on foot from that point and under the cover of darkness.

  On the eastern side of a low line of hills, he finally found what he was looking for, a sheltered defile that was ringed by thick pines—close enough to the village that he could hear occasional voices on the wind. Here he made his camp and waited for nightfall.

  When the last few shafts of light finally faded away, he laid his rifle aside. Taking up his bow and knife, he left his hideaway and started for the Gros Ventre camp. There was still too much snow on the ground to avoid leaving tracks altogether, so he would just have to trust to luck, and try to mix his tracks with others that he encountered.

  Long before he had made his way up a low hill some two hundred yards from the village, he could see the glow of a huge fire reflected on the dark clouds overhead, and hear the chanting of a war dance. Sounds like they’re getting ready for something big, he thought. Upon reaching the top of the hill, he saw the Gros Ventre village before him, spread along the riverbank. He estimated over a hundred tipis, and a large pony herd below the camp. It would not be an easy task to find the boy, especially at night, but the risk of getting close to the camp in daylight was too great.

  Twice, while making his way down the hill and across the narrow valley floor, he was forced to stop and take cover to prevent encounters with a Gros Ventre rider patrolling the perimeter of the camp. It caused him to wonder. It was not the usual routine for a camp this size, especially in winter. Possibly the village was expecting an attack from some enemy.

  When at last he worked his way up behind the outermost lodges, he began to edge his way around the camp, sometimes on his hands and knees, trying to find some clue that might indicate where White Eagle was being held. There was not much he could see. Still he continued to work his way around the camp, watching the people of the village as they either joined in or watched the dancers. There were many children in the camp, but none that could be distinguished as White Eagle. Finally he had to admit that his efforts were meeting only with frustration, and he backed away a bit to contemplate his situation.

  After giving it much thought, he decided that it would be impossible to find White Eagle at night. He could be in any one of over one hundred tipis. It was going to be risky as hell, but he was going to have to find a place to hide himself in the daylight, close enough to see the goings and comings of the village.

  He spent the rest of the night trying to find a proper location to hide himself. An ideal spot would be on a rise on the west side of the camp in a stand of trees, but he rejected it because the sun would be directly in his eyes for much of the early morning. Stopping once again to lay flat on his stomach as another Gros Ventre warrior rode by, he then made his way along the riverbank until he found a place that might be suitable. In fact, it may have been made to order. A large log lay close to the river, held on the bank by two smaller trees. By scooping out the snow between the two trees, Trace found that he could fashion a sizable hole beneath the log. Once he had dug out enough to accommodate his body, he crawled inside. Using his bow as a rake, he pulled the snow back up to the log and smoothed it out as best he could. He could only hope he did an adequate job of disguising his handiwork—daylight would be the ultimate judge. There was nothing to do now but wait for morning, so he made himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances, knowing that if he were discovered, this snowbank would be his coffin.

  When the sun rose the following morning, Trace was surprised to find that he had dozed off during the wee hours before dawn. For now he could already hear sounds of the village waking up. Anxious to see if his snow cave gave him the vantage point he had thought it would during the dark of night, he raked a small observation hole under the log. He was disappointed to find that he could only see about half of the camp—but that half he could at least see clearly. It might be necessary to find a better spot, but for now, he had no choice but to stay where he was, maybe even until that night.

  Hours passed and Trace watched as the daily life of the Gros Ventre village unfolded. A few of the women cooked the morning meal outside, even though there was still snow on the ground. Smoke from the smoke-flaps of the tipis was evidence that the majority preferred the comfort inside the warm lodges. Cramped and hungry, Trace envied those warriors still in their fur robes as he rubbed his arms and legs to stimulate some circulation.

  Gradually the village came to life. Some of the men went to tend their horses, only a few prepared to go hunting, a fact that puzzled Trace. He saw many young boys running between the lodges, but none that looked like White Eagle. After a while, he began to wonder if the half-breed had lied to him about the boy. As he grew more and more uncomfortable, he started to question the wisdom in burying himself in this frigid hole.

  Later in the morning he spotted the chief of this band of Gros Ventres. His lodge was in the center of the village, close to what appeared to be a council lodge. From the manner in which other men of the camp approached this man, Trace could tell that he was either a chief or at least a respected member of the tribe. As Trace watched, an old warrior came from one of the lodges close to the chief’s and went to talk to him. Then the older man returned to his tipi and said something to someone inside. A few moment later, White Eagle emerged and went around behind the tipi to relieve himself in a patch of bushes.

  He was no more than fifty yards away. Trace could feel the muscles in his arms tense, and he had to remind himself to remain calm. Had there not been twenty or thirty warriors milling about, he might have made a move to grab the boy right then. But he knew that would be suicide, and it would get both of them killed. He turned his attention back to the old warrior who positioned himself a few yards away from White Eagle, obviously guarding the boy. Even though he would h
ave to wait for a better opportunity, Trace now knew which lodge White Eagle was being held in.

  Suddenly he heard a voice behind him, and he was sure he had been discovered. Quickly turning over to defend himself, he expected to find someone pulling the snow away from the log. Instead, he saw two Gros Ventre women walking to the water’s edge. During the early hours, the snow had evidently fallen away from the log, creating a long narrow gap through which he could clearly see the two women. Every nerve in his body seemed to be twitching at once. If they chanced to turn in his direction, they could not help but discover him, stretched out under the log. At that moment, he wondered how far he could get before a Gros Ventre war pony ran him to ground after the women screamed in alarm.

  A stupid way to die, he thought. But the women turned away from him and began to fill their water skins. Lying as still as he possibly could, he listened to their conversation.

  “My husband refuses to go out to hunt, and I have cooked the last of that puny deer. I’ll see how he likes eating nothing but pemmican.”

  Her companion laughed. “Mine, too. None of the men want to be away from the village when the Mountain Hawk comes for his son.”

  Hearing her words, Trace was astonished. They know I am coming? White Eagle must have said he would come. How else could they know?

  Listening again, he heard the first woman say, “My husband says that Lame Elk thinks this hawk is a mortal man, but Wounded Horse is certain he is a spirit.”

  “My husband agrees with Wounded Horse,” the second woman replied. “He knows the Blackfoot chief who saw the white man turn into a hawk and fly away.”

  Trace didn’t listen closely to the rest of their conversation, his mind was too busy working on the startling information just heard. This news changed his plans dramatically. Thinking before that his task would be simply to steal into the camp at night and take the boy, hopefully while everyone was asleep, he now had to consider other factors. Now he understood the roving sentinels that constantly scouted around the perimeter of the camp. The whole village was waiting for him to show up. With his original plan, he felt it would have been highly likely that the Indians would think White Eagle had run away on his own. They might not have even cared enough to go after him. But now Trace could see the stakes were higher—the Gros Ventres were intent upon killing what they thought to be a spirit. When he took the boy, they would most definitely come after them. He would have to think on it, come up with some way to ensure a good head start after he got the boy.

  During the morning, several more women followed the same path to the river to fill waterskins while Trace lay hidden in his cave. Stiff and fidgety, he longed to extricate himself from his snowy grave but was resolved that he must wait until darkness. Later on in the afternoon, he came to change his mind, for more than an hour had passed with no one venturing close to his hiding place, not even the mounted perimeter guards. His discomfort had advanced to the point where he was approaching a reckless state of mind, causing him to conclude that there was little risk that he would be seen.

  Slowly at first, he raked the snow away, his hands red and stiff from the cold. Then, once he thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, his efforts became more rapid, as he wriggled his body out into the open, searching constantly from side to side, expecting to be discovered at any minute. His joints frozen from the long confinement, he staggered to his feet, taking care to remain behind the cover of the trees. So far, so good, he thought. There was no one around. Watching the people moving back and forth through the camp, he was satisfied to see that no one looked in his direction. Taking a few moments to smooth the snow around the log again, he then hurried down the riverbank, leaving the village behind.

  It was necessary to make a wide circle around the Gros Ventre camp to avoid being seen. Even so, he was obliged to dive for cover once to avoid two warriors on horseback. When all was clear again, he crossed the river valley and entered the pines that ringed the line of low hills where he had made his camp. As he made his way back to check on his horses, he tried to formulate a plan to rescue White Eagle that would allow them enough time to gain a sizable lead on their pursuers. The only way that could happen, he concluded, was if there was some distraction to occupy the warriors when he made a try for the boy. At that moment, he didn’t know what that could be.

  As he neared the tree-lined defile where he had made his camp, he stopped to listen. Hearing nothing but the afternoon breeze stirring the pine needles, he continued on. A little closer—now he could hear the horses stamping nervously, sensing his presence, he presumed. The paint’s showing his displeasure for leaving him all night without any feed, Trace thought as he entered the head of the defile. Well, you ain’t the only one that didn’t get any supper.

  The thought had barely left his mind when he was suddenly knocked sprawling to the ground with such force that he was sure he had been attacked by a mountain lion. Instinctively rolling with the blow, he was on his feet in an instant, to find himself confronted by a painted Gros Ventre warrior. Knife in hand, the warrior attacked, slashing out at Trace as he charged, causing Trace to back away while he tried to pull his own knife. The warrior was quick and powerful. Trace had to lunge sideways, diving in the snow once again to avoid the slashing knife. Seeing his adversary on the ground, the warrior sprang upon him, his face a mask of triumph, only to register mortal shock a moment later when Trace’s long Green River knife measured the depth of his belly. Still the Indian struggled, trying to find Trace’s throat with his own blade. With his hand still on the handle buried deep in the warrior’s belly, and his other clamping the wrist of the Indian’s knife hand, Trace got to his feet, lifting the warrior with him. Once on his feet, Trace slammed the warrior down in the snow, withdrawing his knife as he did so. The warrior, gasping with pain that seared his innards, struggled to get up, knowing he was finished. Trace stood over him for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. When he saw there was still some fight left in the warrior, he reached down, grabbed his topknot and pulled his head up. One quick slash with his knife opened the Indian’s throat before Trace let him drop to the ground.

  When it was over, he sat down in the snow, still a little stunned by the sudden attack on his life. His assailant lay dying at his feet, his only motion a series of violent spasms as a scarlet stain spread under him in the snow. That was damn close, Trace thought, scolding himself for being ambushed so easily. He had been lucky, however. If the warrior had not launched his body so violently, he might not have knocked Trace out of reach of his knife hand. It was close, but Trace didn’t dwell on it, having accepted the fact long ago that it took a generous portion of luck to survive as a lone white man in Indian territory. He got on his feet and checked on his horses.

  “You tried to warn me. I just didn’t listen,” he said as he stroked the paint’s muzzle.

  He found the Gros Ventre’s pony halfway down the back of the slope, tied to a small pine. Not willing to risk having a riderless horse wander into the Gros Ventre village, Trace moved the horse down the hill a few dozen yards to a thicket and tied the animal in the center of it. “At least you won’t starve to death before somebody finds you.”

  The next question to be resolved was what to do with the dead Indian—if anything. If one Indian could stumble upon Trace’s camp, then it was not out of the question for another to do the same. Maybe I should at least cover him with snow, he thought. And then a better idea occurred to him—one that might serve two purposes. To make good his attempt to rescue his son, he needed a diversion of some kind. Now he had one.

  * * *

  When it was just about dark, Trace began his preparations. Earlier that afternoon, he had selected his spot, a clearing on the highest point of the hill, a spot that could be easily seen from the Indian village. Now with twilight approaching, he gathered a great amount of dead limbs and branches and stacked them just out of sight below the ridge of the hill. When darkness finally came, he went back for his horses. Lifting
the warrior’s corpse onto the back of White Eagle’s pony he returned to the hilltop. Selecting a stout limb, he dug a hole in the ground and drove the limb in it, pounding it down with a large rock. When he thought it steady enough, he carried the corpse over and propped it upright against the limb. The weight of the body proved to be too much for the shallow footing of the limb, and it promptly toppled over.

  Not discouraged, Trace replaced the limb, then piled rocks around the base of it. Again, the limb toppled. Refusing to be defeated by a dead Indian, Trace dragged the body back a few yards to a tree at the edge of the clearing. Taking a coil of rope from his pack, he tied it under the Indian’s arms and threw the other end over a limb. Letting his horse do the lifting, he raised the corpse off the ground and tied it off around the tree trunk. Hell, that’s better, anyway, he thought. Makes him look about ten feet tall.

  Satisfied with his Mountain Hawk, he brought the dead wood up from below the brow of the hill and formed a large stack behind the Indian hanging from the limb. When he figured the time was right to start the show, he spread some of his Du Pont black powder along the base of the firewood, and then lit a dry branch.

  When the branch was burning with a healthy flame, Trace began to yell at the top of his lungs. “Awaken, Gros Ventre dogs! I am the Mountain Hawk. Come and fight me, if you are not afraid!” He kept yelling it over and over until he saw signs of activity outside the tipis below. I hope to hell this doesn’t fizzle, he thought as he threw the flaming branch into the stack of wood.