Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Pulling up around him now, the Blackfoot warriors continued to circle the fallen man, shooting arrow after arrow into his body. Soon Slim could not raise himself under the sheer weight of the many arrows that penetrated his bony frame. Still he would not die. Far beyond the threshold of agony, he did not beg for mercy nor scream out in pain.

  Astonished by the white man’s refusal to die, several of the warriors dismounted and stood over the mortally wounded man. Though he was bloodied and too weak to sit upright, his eyes were clear as they followed the movements of the warriors around him.

  “What keeps this old buzzard alive?” the warrior closest to Slim asked. His question was met with only puzzled grunts from his brothers.

  “It took enough of you,” Slim answered him, speaking in the Blackfoot tongue, his voice strained and raspy.

  Slightly taken aback, the warrior grunted and drew a long skinning knife from his belt. He held it up for Slim to see. “I will dance with your scalp tonight. In my song I will sing of the white man too stupid to die.” There was a low murmur of laughter from his followers.

  “Tell me your name, if you ain’t ashamed of it,” Slim forced through his painful grimace. “I wanna know who kilt me.”

  The warrior smirked. “I am Little Bull,” he said defiantly, pounding his chest with his fist. “It is Little Bull who kills you, white man.” Then he grabbed a handful of Slim’s thin white hair and prepared to scalp him.

  “Well, Little Bull, you heathen son of a bitch, I’ll wait for you in hell,” Slim rasped. With one last surge of will and defiance, he brought his knife up and struck Little Bull in the ribs, sinking it as deeply as his waning strength allowed.

  The Blackfoot warrior yelped in surprise and staggered backward, stumbling over the feet of the warrior behind him and landing solidly on his backside. Astonished by the sudden counterattack, his friends could only gape in amazement. Little Bull roared in anger as he stared dumbfounded at the knife in his side. Though painful, the wound was not deep enough to penetrate his lung, the major damage having been done to his pride. Embarrassed before his friends, he scrambled to his feet and set upon the helpless white man, stabbing him repeatedly with the Green River knife. Infuriated by the insolent grin on the dying man’s face, Little Bull struck again and again until he was too weary to continue.

  Finally Slim slid into the gentle darkness that awaits all men. His final thought was one of regret that he had been unable to find Trace McCall and tell him that Jamie Thrash and little Polly Tyler had been stolen away by Kutenais.

  * * *

  There was barely enough light to see when Buck left his rough shack in Promise Valley, crossed the river, and turned his horse toward the mountain pass to the east. It was a long shot, but he had a vague notion where his young friend might be. There was a camp high up in the Bitterroots, near a waterfall where he, Trace, and Frank Brown had found the streams filled with beaver—so many, in fact, that they were certain that they were the only trappers to have found it. After Frank died and Buck settled himself in Promise Valley with Reverend Longstreet’s flock, Trace returned to the mountains, often wintering in the camp by the waterfall. The market for beaver plews had long since died out, but it was still a good place to hole up if a body desired solitude. And that seemed to be the frame of mind Trace McCall was in since his mother died.

  Thoughts of the young mountain man filled Buck’s mind on this chilly morning in late summer as he guided his horse along an old Indian hunting trail that led to the buffalo country. Buck took some credit for introducing Trace to the life of a trapper. He had taught Trace how to set a beaver trap and how to skin the critter and dry the plew. But he could take no credit for the unexplained craving inside a man that pulled him toward the mountains. That had to be put deep into a man’s soul by his Maker, and Trace McCall was as much a part of the Rocky Mountains as the sheer wall of stone that defined the trail up through the pines ahead.

  Buck’s thoughts turned to the purpose of his journey. He could not entertain much hope for Jamie Thrash. The girl had a lot of spunk, he had to admit, but she was likely to suffer more abuse at the hands of the Kutenai braves than her spunk could handle. If she was lucky, one of the warriors might take her for a wife—not a great deal of consolation, but better than if she was taken as a slave. The youngster, Polly Tyler, might have an easier time of it—if, in fact, the Indians had stolen her, as it appeared. Indians were right fond of children, and little Polly would more than likely be adopted by one of the Kutenai women—especially if that woman had lost a child to sickness or accidental death. It was Jamie he was worried about. She was a fair-looking young lady, and if Buck had to guess, he’d bet she was a virgin—and virtuous young women were highly desirable among any Indian tribe.

  “It’s a damn shame,” Buck lamented to his horse as he followed the trail higher up among the pines until they gave way to a treeless meadow strewn with craggy outcroppings of sharp, jagged rocks and weather-polished boulders that seemed to be only momentarily stable, as if at any moment they might start tumbling down the mountainside. Grizzly country, he thought as he took a long, sweeping look across the open expanse of grass before him. It was the time of year when grizzlies were adding fat for the coming winter, a time of year when they were even more irritable than usual.

  Satisfied that he and his horse were the only critters in the meadow, he nudged the animal forward, veering off to the south in order to strike the narrow pass that would take him across the ridge and down the other side of the mountain. He wasn’t worried about Indians—he didn’t expect to encounter any this high up on the ridges. Elk and deer hadn’t left for the lower ranges yet, but most of the tribes would most likely be down in lower country, following the buffalo herds to replenish food caches and take skins to turn into winter robes.

  The thought of elk meat was enough to cause Buck to lick his lips as he recalled the aroma of a sizzling chunk of freshly killed elk, roasting over the coals of a warm campfire. Moments like these were when Buck regretted his decision to settle down with Reverend Longstreet’s little gathering of pilgrims. “Damn, I miss the mountains,” he moaned. The brief span of years when beaver pelts were bringing top dollar had been the happiest years of Buck’s life, and every once in a while, when he was taken with a melancholy mood, he would mourn the passing of the old days, when he and his old partner, Frank Brown, rode the high country, free as a couple of eagles, enjoying the bounty offered by the streams and rivers from the upper Missouri to the western side of the Rockies. “Damn, it was a good life,” he blurted as his eyes moistened with emotion.

  As if to taunt him further, a bull elk emerged from the trees below and disappeared through the narrow pass that Buck was heading for. The temptation to taste elk meat again was almost overpowering, but Buck reminded himself of the urgency of his journey. Still, he couldn’t resist a little teasing of the lovesick bull, which was no doubt searching for a cow to mate. Buck followed the elk through the pass and descended the slope beyond, making his way through the boulders and stunted trees toward the taller pines below.

  There was no sign of the elk when Buck emerged from the ring of pines and entered a small grassy clearing. To his left was a steep cliff that rose more than a hundred feet; to his right, a thick forest of pines and fir trees. Straight ahead, the game trail he had been following cut through a broad thicket that was a tangle of high brush and vines. “Huh,” Buck snorted softly. “Now, which way did he go?”

  He decided to see if he could call the elk to him. Cupping his hands before his mouth, he pursed his lips and issued his best imitation of a comely young elk cow looking for a beau. There was no response, so he called again and paused to listen. There was still no answer to his mating call. He had no intention of lingering for long—he had no time to hunt—it was just in his nature to have the satisfaction of calling up an elk.

  He was about to give it up when he tried one last time. Still there was no answering grunt or bugle to his love call. But as
he started to ride on, he heard a noise on the far side of the thicket. Buck grinned. Maybe I ain’t lost my touch after all, he thought, and cupped his hands to his mouth once more. Come on, sweetheart. Come on and meet this sweet little honey. Again he heard the rustling of branches, and then he spotted the movement of the brush and small trees as the would-be suitor made his way through the thicket. He couldn’t see the animal as yet, but from the disruption he was causing, Buck knew he was a big one. Buck could not contain a chuckle as he thought about how angry the elk was going to be when he discovered the source of the love calls. Lucky for you I ain’t got time to shoot you and butcher you.

  He rode to a position at the edge of the thicket where he could watch the elk when he came out into the open. He sat and waited by a clump of berry bushes that he deemed to be at a safe distance from the point where he figured the elk would emerge—elk were not especially sweet-tempered, and Buck intended to give this one plenty of room. It was simple enough to follow the big animal’s progress by the wake of bending limbs and shaking bushes. Buck was thinking that he should have been able to see the bull’s antlers by this time. No sooner did the thought occur than the bushes stopped cracking and trembling and it was suddenly dead quiet. Buck waited for a few minutes, but still there was no further movement in the thicket.

  He laughed and mumbled low, “What’s the matter, lover boy? You ain’t gone bashful on me, have you?” He nudged his horse a little closer, but the animal was reluctant to obey. He was about to give the horse a kick in the slats when the thicket seemed to explode before him, and suddenly he had an angry grizzly almost in his lap. The horse reared back on its hind legs, catching Buck by surprise and causing him to drop his rifle. He tried to wheel the terrified horse around, but the grizzly was too quick for him. The giant beast slashed out with one huge paw and caught the horse at the base of its neck, knocking it over on its rump and separating man from mount.

  Buck came out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, rolling in an effort to get away from the raging bear. Having lost his rifle already, his only weapons were his pistol and his knife. He drew them both from his belt, even before he stopped rolling. Buck saw his horse scramble to its feet, eyes wide with terror, and bound across the little clearing, bucking and kicking all the way.

  The grizzly hesitated a moment to consider the fleeing horse. Then he looked back at Buck, who was now inching slowly backward. Infuriated, the great beast reared up on his back legs. Standing at least eight feet tall, the monster bared his fangs and roared out his anger. The leaves on the bushes shivered in response, and Buck knew that he was about to meet his Maker. The grizzly dropped back down on all fours and started advancing toward the helpless man, slowly at first, but steadily increasing speed, his fangs bared and gleaming in the morning sun.

  Buck had no options left. He tried to back away slowly, hoping the bear would be content to see him retreat, but the grizzly was intent upon having a meal. There was no longer any time to be afraid. Buck played his only card. With the bear practically on top of him, he fired his pistol, aiming for the cavernous mouth of the monster. The slug hit the bear on his lower jaw, and while causing him to pause for a moment, it only added to his rage. With no more now than his knife and his bare hands, Buck prepared to fight for his life.

  With blood dripping from the wound in his jaw, the furious grizzly reared up again on his back legs and prepared to lunge. Buck looked up at what could only be certain death. Thoughts flashed through his mind—he had always known his life might well come to a violent conclusion, but he would have hoped for some ending less terrifying than the one he now faced.

  The great beast’s constant roar filled the air with a sound so loud that Buck never heard the crack of the Hawken rifle behind him. In fact, he was stunned, unable to understand what had happened when he saw the bear’s left eye suddenly explode, a result of the rifle ball expertly aimed for an instant kill shot. The grizzly’s roar ended with a bellow of pain, and then there was silence as the bulk of the great carcass settled in a heap at Buck’s feet.

  Buck could not move for a long moment, stunned by the glimpse of death still lingering before his eyes. He just sat there on the ground, staring at the monstrous hairy mound that was no more than a few inches from his feet. Weak and unsteady, he finally got to his feet and looked behind him to see his rescuer walking toward him, leading two horses. If Buck had been afforded the time to pray when the bear started to make his final lunge, he would have prayed for the appearance of the very man who now was walking tall and confidently toward him—Trace McCall.

  “When did you start hunting grizzlies with a pistol?” Trace said, a wry smile on his lips.

  “Trace . . . damn,” Buck replied, suddenly out of breath and weak in the knees. He sat down on the ground again, landing heavily on his bottom like a sack of grain. “I’m gittin’ too old for this.”

  “I found your horse running like hell on the far side of that slope back there—figured you might need a little help.” Trace led the horse up to where Buck had settled and held him steady when he tried to pull away from the carcass of the bear. “He’s got a nasty slash on his neck—oughta heal all right, though. I figured it to be a grizzly.”

  Buck was so happy to see his young friend, and so relieved to still be alive, that he almost forgot that he had been on his way to find Trace. The traumatic encounter with the bear over, he remembered why he was on this trail in the first place. “Trace,” he blurted, “I come lookin’ fer ya. Injuns run off with Jamie Thrash and Polly Tyler!”

  He could not have stunned Trace more if he had hit him with a club. The tall young mountain man had already started to skin the grizzly when Buck’s statement stopped him cold. Jamie, stolen! The thought hammered at his brain, numbing it with shock. He stepped back from the carcass, his skinning knife already bloody, his eyes staring but not focusing on anything in the present. After a long moment of silence, during which he attempted to collect his emotions, he questioned Buck, asking for all the details of the abduction. He listened without comment while Buck recounted the events that had brought him to this mountain pass.

  His emotions under control now, Trace said, “Well, we’d best get started.” Glancing at the still-warm carcass, he said, “I reckon we’ll leave this one for the wolves.” As an afterthought, he added, “I’ve got a packhorse loaded down with buffalo, anyway.”

  They started out up the ridge to retrieve Trace’s packhorse, then rode back on the trail Buck had just come up. As they made their way back down through the pines, Buck asked about Slim Wooten. “Slim Wooten rode out toward Three Forks about two weeks ago to tell you about Jamie and little Polly Tyler. I reckon he didn’t find you.”

  “I reckon I found him,” Trace returned softly, “at least what I think was him.”

  This caused Buck to cock his head around abruptly. “Gone under?” he asked, looking directly into Trace’s eyes.

  Trace nodded. “Blackfeet. I never saw so many arrows in a body before. When I found him, he was getting pretty bloated, and his face was cut up so bad I wasn’t sure who he was. It sure didn’t look like Slim, but I reckon that’s who it was, all right.”

  “Damn,” Buck muttered, almost under his breath. “There ain’t many of us left from the old days. Dammit, Trace, we used to ride free as birds over these mountains. Most of the Injuns were right hospitable, except the Blackfeet and the Gros Ventres, and maybe the Utes, but even they was friendly when it come to needin’ somethin’ they could trade for. Now all the tribes is gittin’ stirred up. I tell you the truth, Trace, I’m too old to traipse around these hills anymore. I can’t half see—I’m even gittin’ to where I can’t hold my water anymore.” He stopped abruptly as soon as he made that last statement, realizing that he was confessing things he’d had no intention of admitting to anyone.

  Trace had no answer for his old friend. He felt compassion for Buck while realizing that no one could fully appreciate the anguish and frustration every man must experience
when his days in the sun were nearing an end. Knowing Buck as well as he did, Trace decided it was best not to comment. On other occasions, Trace would have probably chided Buck about being too old to cut sign. But he sensed that Buck’s brush with death on this day had had a sobering effect on the old trapper, and he knew Buck was embarrassed to have admitted to human frailty.

  * * *

  There was not a great deal of conversation on the ride back to Promise Valley. Both men were deep in their thoughts—Buck bemoaning his own mortality and Trace troubling over the distressing news Buck had brought. He wasn’t sure how old Polly Tyler might be—seven, eight, nine—he wasn’t good at guessing the age of children. But he felt deep compassion for the child. She was too damn young to have her whole family murdered right in front of her eyes. And he had a special feeling for Jamie, and he knew she was fond of him. This ordeal might be enough to destroy her mind. The thought of the two girls in the hands of Kutenai warriors created an urgency in him that he needed to put out of his mind. Otherwise he would not be able to keep his concentration on his business when it came time to track their captors.

  Early the next afternoon they rode down through the lodgepole pines and out into the broad river valley that was the tiny settlement named Promise Valley by Reverend Longstreet. They went directly to Jordan Thrash’s place, where they found Jordan working to rebuild his burned-out log house. When he saw the two riders approaching, Jordan laid his axe aside and went to meet them. He started apologizing immediately, not even waiting for the two men to dismount.