Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  “Here you are, Mr. McCall,” Martha sang out cheerfully as she handed Trace a plate. “I’m going to let you get started while we wait for the biscuits.”

  Trace nodded and mumbled his thanks, suddenly embarrassed to be the focus of the Murdock family’s attention. Paul Murdock, especially, realized that this rangy, sandy-headed mountain man had undoubtedly saved them from losing all their earthly possessions and possibly their lives. As a result of the family’s appreciation, Trace found one or all of them constantly eyeballing his every move.

  Taking a big bite of the antelope shoulder, he started to chew, then hesitated with his mouth full of meat when he suddenly remembered his manners. When Paul and William were served and had sat down beside the fire, Trace finished chewing and swallowed. “Can’t remember when last I’ve had biscuits,” he offered as conversation, eyeing the pan of them baking in the coals at the edge of the fire.

  Martha stood behind him, watching the men eat. “Well, they won’t be anything like my biscuits baked in a good oven,” she replied, “but I don’t reckon they’ll kill you.”

  Paul Murdock grinned at their guest, openly proud of his wife’s cooking. He reached over and gave his daughter a playful pinch on the cheek. “This’un’s gonna be as good a cook as her mama. Ain’t you, darlin’?” he said, laughing as Beth pulled away from him.

  This man’s got himself a fine family, Trace thought, letting his mind fantasize about the possibility that he might someday have a family of his own.

  As if reading his thoughts, Martha asked, “Do you have a family, Mr. McCall?”

  “Ah, no, ma’am,” Trace replied, but his thoughts went immediately to a slip of a girl in Promise Valley. Jamie Thrash might be baking biscuits for her pa right now. He remembered the last conversation he’d had with her before he loaded his supplies on his packhorse and rode out of the valley in the early summer. Jamie had broadly hinted that he was going to have to settle down one day and end his love affair with the mountains. And she made it plain without actually spelling it out that she cared enough for him to wait until he got the mountains out of his system. It made him uncomfortable every time he thought about it. He admitted to having special feelings for Jamie, but it wasn’t the same as the way he had felt about a little Snake maiden who was somewhere with her people in the high country. Sometimes he wished he did care for Jamie enough to marry her, but the fact was, he didn’t.

  He quickly put these worrisome thoughts out of his mind. “Where’d you folks come from?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Illinois,” Paul answered. “Springfield.”

  Needing no further encouragement, he began an accounting of their journey up to that time, and where they planned to settle in the West. “We didn’t have anything holding us in Illinois. I was working six days a week in a sawmill for four dollars a week and trying to raise enough to feed my family on a little thirty-two-acre farm my father left me. When I heard that these two fellows in Springfield—brothers they were—Jacob and George Donner, were organizing a wagon train for California, why, me and the missus didn’t have to study on it very long. We were as ready to go as a body can be. Sold my farm to my brother, and we joined up with the Donners.”

  “These brothers,” Trace asked, “they had been to California before?”

  “I don’t know—I reckon—they sent us a guidebook on how to get there.” Paul turned to his son. “William, fetch me the book, son. I wanna show it to Mr. McCall.” While William hopped up into the wagon to get the book, Paul continued. “The book tells you how to get out to Fort Bridger, where this fellow Hastings is gonna lead us to California.” He paused to take the book from William, and he passed it over to Trace.

  Emigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California, by Lansford W. Hastings, Trace read across the front cover of the book before flipping through the pages. He nodded soberly as he glanced at the passages, stopping briefly to study the crude maps, trying to appear interested while marveling to himself that anyone would start out to cross the continent with nothing for a guide but a book. He glanced up at Murdock and said, “It’s getting on a mite late in the summer to be starting out to cross the mountains. That is, if you wanna get over ’em before it snows.”

  Paul nodded but rushed to add, “That’s the reason I’m in a hurry to get to Fort Bridger. I’ve got to catch up to the rest of the party.”

  “How’d you get behind?”

  “Hard luck,” Paul replied. “We’ve had our share of trouble ever since we left Grand Island on the Platte. We had a devil of a time crossing all the swollen branches of that river. I broke a wheel on a rock under the water—patched it up as best I could, but it didn’t hold, and we had to drop out of line. I got the wheel fixed near Julesburg and we started out again, only this time, we didn’t make it to Fort Laramie before we bent an axle. They left a message for us at Laramie to catch up as fast as we could because it was already getting late in the summer.”

  Murdock paused to light his pipe. “Hard luck,” he repeated. “We were on our way to Fort Bridger when we met up with Plum and Crown.” He glanced at Trace as if to apologize for his decision. “I knew the first time I laid eyes on those two that I was taking a chance going with them. But July’s gone already, and I was supposed to get to Bridger by the first of August. Well . . . you know the rest.”

  Trace handed the book back to William. The boy accepted it with the same reverence he would have accorded a Bible, getting up immediately to put it away in the wagon. Trace watched William scramble up into the back of the wagon while he considered whether or not to offer any advice of his own. He had always been reluctant to tell anyone else what they should do, but there were some things he felt sure Mr. Hastings’s guidebook might not tell, like that there are sometimes early snowfalls in the Wasatch and the Sierra Nevadas, not to mention a hell of a lot of desert in between. After thinking about it for a minute, he decided to speak his mind. “Mr. Murdock, I ain’t trying to tell you what to do, but if it was me, I’d have to say it’s too late to start out now—especially in a wagon needing repairs.”

  Paul Murdock didn’t reply for a long while. It was obvious that he had already spent a lot of time worrying over that very thought. But he was seriously lagging behind the rest of his party and anxious to get to California; it was just too difficult to give up now. After thinking about it a little longer, he said, “I hear what you’re telling me, Mr. McCall, but I feel like if I can just catch up to Mr. Donner and the rest of ’em, I’ll be all right. There’ll be more’n ninety of us in the party, and I’m sure we can take care of each other. If I don’t catch ’em before they leave Fort Bridger, then I guess I’ll just have to decide then what’s best to do.”

  Trace nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll get you to Fort Bridger as fast as I can.”

  CHAPTER 2

  It was the fourteenth of August when the log palisades of Fort Bridger were sighted, as Trace led the Murdock family across the broad, grassy river bottom. Jim Bridger had built his fort on Black’s Fork of the Green River, and Trace had to admire his choice of sites. There was grass for the animals, and tree-lined channels of cool, clear water provided by the melting snows of the Uinta mountains. Little wonder Bridger called it one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth, and his paradise—although Trace himself was partial to the Bitterroot country. It was a disappointing sight to Paul Murdock, however, because there was no wagon train camped near the fort—only small groups of traders, mostly Indians from the Snake village, camped among the cottonwoods by the river.

  Fort Bridger consisted of an eight-foot-high stockade with four log cabins inside. One of these housed Bridger’s forge and workshop, and this is where Murdock pulled his wagon to a halt. Trace stepped down from the saddle as the familiar round figure of Louis Vasquez stepped out from another cabin that housed the store and trading post.

  “Trace McCall,” Louis called out, a wide smile on his face. “I figured surely you’d gone under.”

&nb
sp; “Howdy, Louis,” Trace said with a grin. “I figured those Snake warriors you’re so cozy with would have burned this place down by now.” After they shook hands, Trace introduced the Murdock family. “Louis, this here is Paul Murdock, Mrs. Murdock, William, and Elizabeth. They were hoping to catch up with a party heading for California.”

  Vasquez frowned. “The Donner party? They left here ten or eleven days ago.”

  “Damn,” Murdock complained. He turned to look at his wife. “Just more hard luck.” Then he looked back at Trace, a spark of hope in his eye. “Maybe we could still catch up.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Paul. There’s some mighty rough country between here and California, and you’d best be on the other side of the mountains before October. I doubt you could make it by then.”

  Vasquez nodded his head in agreement. “Trace is right, Mr. Murdock. It ain’t a good idea to drive a wagon off by yourself this late in the summer. Besides, the Donner party was planning to take a different trail to California, one I ain’t familiar with. That feller Hastings was set up here for a spell. I understand he was supposed to lead the Donners over his new shortcut, but he left with another train before they got here. Left me a note to give ’em, said he’d mark the trail for them to follow.”

  “They left without a guide?” Murdock asked.

  “They did,” Vasquez confirmed. “Stayed here three days, deciding which way to go—finally decided to take Hastings’s cutoff.”

  Trace helped a dejected Murdock family set up camp inside the stockade. They left the wagon to be repaired and turned the mules out in the corral next to the fort. Jim Bridger was away from the fort, but his wife, a heavyset, round-faced woman, came out with Vasquez’s wife to make them welcome.

  Resigned to the fact that he had missed his chance to get to California this season, Paul was now faced with a decision. Should he head back East, perhaps to winter at Laramie or Grand Island, or should he stay where he was and wait for a train to come through next spring? With some persuasion from Vasquez, and Trace’s promise to act as a guide come springtime—or have his friend Buck Ransom take them through, Murdock decided to stay.

  Trace was eager now to return to the mountains, but he offered to stay long enough to help Paul lay in a supply of meat for the winter ahead. After three days of hunting, Trace left the Murdocks in the hands of Jim Bridger’s Indian wife, who took Martha under her wing and showed her the basics of drying meat to be stored away.

  “My thanks, Trace, for seeing us through,” Paul said as Trace stepped up into the saddle and took hold of the lead rope on his packhorse.

  “Glad I could be some help. I’m sorry you got delayed on your trip, but I think you’ll be all right here till spring.” He turned the paint’s head to the north. “Take care of that family of yours.”

  “I will,” Paul promised. “I just hope all the good land in California ain’t gone by the time I get there.”

  Trace laughed. “I reckon there’s land aplenty for everybody.” He nudged the paint with his heels and was off.

  “Hey, Trace,” Vasquez yelled from the doorway of the store, “hang on to your topknot!”

  “I aim to,” Trace called back.

  * * *

  More than a month had passed since Trace left Paul Murdock and his family at Fort Bridger. In that time, Trace had not laid eyes on another white man, having trapped and hunted the mountain country up through the Yellowstone, over to Pierre’s Hole, the Bitterroots, and back to the Wind River—managing to stay clear of the Blackfeet and the Shoshones. He was just following the wind, wandering, nursing off the clear mountain air, taking in nature’s bountiful offerings.

  On a cloudy morning in early October, Trace found himself near the Three Forks of the Missouri River. It had been cold in the mountains for several weeks now, each day promising that winter was not far away. Trace had even given thought to the possibility of going to Promise Valley to winter with his old friend and partner Buck Ransom. He had to smile when he thought about Buck. For one who so often scoffed at the notion of living inside a log house, Buck had looked mighty comfortable in his cabin by the river when Trace last saw him. How many months ago was that? Trace wondered. He had lost count. Folks in the little valley would be getting set to face another winter about now. As he rocked along comfortably with the easy rhythm of the paint’s walk, Trace tried to picture Buck in his tiny shack on the river. Sometimes Trace wondered if the day would come when he settled down in one place. This invariably led to thoughts of planting corn, raising young’uns, and leaving the mountains. He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts.

  North of the forks where the Missouri began, he had started looking for a place to camp for the night when he was brought up short by the sound of an axe. Not expecting to find anyone on this section of the river, he naturally followed the direction of the sound to find its source. Climbing a low rise that hid the river from view, he discovered a long gentle slope on the other side that led down to the water. At the end of the slope, where the trees lined the riverbanks, Trace spotted three men building a cabin.

  Knowing it was never wise to show your hand until you were sure of the game, Trace stood motionless at the top of the rise and watched as the men notched logs and dragged them into place. After a few minutes, he decided there was nothing amiss about the three white men—they appeared to be trappers—so he nudged his horse and rode on down.

  In order not to alarm them, Trace called out a hello when he was halfway down the slope. In spite of his greeting, the three were startled by his sudden appearance and scrambled to pick up their rifles. Trace continued down toward them, walking his horse slowly. When he was close enough to be identified as a white man, one of the men, a heavyset man with a bushy gray beard, cautioned his two partners to keep their eyes peeled. “Come on in, mister,” he called out to Trace.

  Boss Pritchard stood watching their surprise visitor approach. He still held his rifle in front of his chest, ready to fire if necessary, his feet spread wide to support his ample bulk, his eye steady and unblinking. Not many white men roamed around these parts alone, and this one looked about as wild as any Indian he had ever seen. Pritchard had heard some talk about a renegade who was running with a band of Blackfeet. A man like that might not be concerned about traveling alone.

  “What do you make of him, Shorty?” Boss said, his voice low.

  Shorty Whitehead squinted his eyes as if trying to make them see farther. “Can’t say. Looks like he’s by hisself, though.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Boss replied. “Could be that feller that raids with them Blackfeet. Jake, you’d best take a look back there at the horses. Make sure there ain’t no damn Injuns sneakin’ around back there while this feller makes talk with us.” Jake Watson made no reply but slowly backed away from the half-finished cabin.

  Boss Pritchard had been trapping the Rocky Mountains for fifteen years. He, Shorty, and Jake had been free trappers, working with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company when Jim Bridger was running things. When beaver were still shining, the three of them used to winter with large numbers of company men in log forts where they could hold their own against a sizable Indian war party. But in the last several years, most of the trappers had given up or were dead, so now there were just the three of them. That changed things a great deal. Most important, it made it necessary not to winter in the same place every year.

  Trace was not surprised that the three men were greeting him with rifles in hand. A man couldn’t be sure what manner of renegade might be riding into his camp.

  “Hell, I know him,” Shorty suddenly announced. “Ain’t he that young feller that rode with Buck Ransom and Frank Brown?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “Shore he is. We seen him at the rendezvous on the Green River, when ol’ Joe LaPorte got killed.” Shorty lowered his rifle. “Don’t recall his name.”

  That served to revive his memory. “McCall,” he said, and his face lit up as he remembered, “Trace McCall, as I recollect. Y
ou recognize him now, don’t you, Boss? He’s changed some, but it’s him, all right.” Boss grinned and nodded, and Shorty called out to Trace, “Come on in and set by the fire, Trace.” He walked over, propped his rifle against the cabin wall, and waited for their visitor to dismount and lead his horses up to their camp.

  “It’s Trace McCall, ain’t it?” Shorty asked.

  “That’s a fact,” Trace answered, smiling, but surprised that the man knew his name.

  “Where’s ol’ Buck?” Boss asked when Trace came up to the fire to warm his hands. “He ain’t gone under, has he? I heared about Frank Brown, but last I heared about Buck, he was leadin’ a bunch of pilgrims out to Oregon Territory.”

  “Yeah,” Trace replied, “Frank’s gone under, but Buck’s all right. Just been treed, that’s all—took a piece of ground for himself in a little place they named Promise Valley. I guess he kinda got attached to the folks he was leading and just decided to settle down with ’em.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Shorty said. “I never woulda thought Buck would go civilized.” He shook his head sadly, almost as if he had been told that Buck had died.

  “I think he feels like he’s getting too old to roam these mountains,” Trace said. “I’ve got some fresh deer meat on my packhorse I’d be pleased to share with you.”

  “That shines,” Boss quickly replied. “We got plenty of coffee. We might as well cook us up some supper. We’re about ready to quit workin’ on the cabin for the day, anyway.”

  The rest of the evening was spent telling tales and recalling past rendezvous when beaver was prime and free trappers ruled the Rockies. Boss’s eyes fairly sparkled in the firelight when he talked about the past. But now times were hard for the few free trappers who desperately clung to the old ways. For men like Boss Pritchard—and Trace McCall—there was never any thought about going back to the settlements to live. That was the reason the three partners were working hard to finish their cabin and get a roof on it before the severe weather hit. As soon as the cabin was ready, they would spend most of their time hunting for their winter supply of meat and laying in a stack of firewood. It would be a long, hard winter, but to them it was preferable to wintering in a settlement back East.