Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  “Trace, I swear there wasn’t nothin’ I could do. There was too many of ’em. Buck’ll tell you.” He looked at Buck, his eyes pleading.

  “Jordan.” Trace said, acknowledging the slight little man’s presence. To him, it wasn’t necessary for Jordan to make excuses for not defending his daughter. Trace just naturally did not expect a man like Jordan Thrash to stand up to a raiding party. Together, he and Buck searched out what little sign remained after more than two weeks, and Trace could see why Buck was not optimistic about their chances for success in finding the girls.

  “Not much to go on,” Buck said.

  Trace nodded, then said, “You say the Tyler place was hit. Anybody else?”

  “No,” Buck replied. “They left here and went upriver till they come on the Tyler place. Killed both brothers and Rosemary, too—and burned their cabin. Then, from what I could see, they followed the river on up the valley. I reckon they figured they’d done enough mischief and decided to head for the mountains.”

  Trace looked back at Jordan, who was wringing his hands and fidgeting nervously. “And the Tyler girl ain’t been found yet?”

  Jordan shook his head vigorously. “No. Nobody’s found poor little Polly yet.”

  “Well, I’m going after them,” Trace announced quietly, “but I don’t know how much chance I’ve got of tracking them. Sign’s pretty old. Maybe I’ll have better luck when the tracks clear the valley and I can find out what trail they’re following.”

  “Reckon I’ll go with you,” Buck said.

  “I appreciate it, Buck, but I guess I druther go alone if you don’t mind.” Before Buck could protest, Trace quickly added, “I reckon the folks here in the valley will be needing to have you around in case there’s more trouble—they’d feel a whole lot safer.” He didn’t want to hurt his old friend’s feelings, and he was glad when Buck responded in agreement.

  “Maybe you’re right, pardner. These folks is already a little jumpy. Besides, it’s a lot easier for one man to stay outta sight.” Buck was relieved to find that Trace didn’t expect him to go.

  “I expect I’ll be gone for a spell,” Trace said. “That raiding party’s got a pretty good start, and it’ll be getting cold before you know it. I’m hoping to catch sight of ’em before the first snow, but chances are mighty slim.” He saw the pain in Jordan Thrash’s eyes when he said it, so he added, “’Course I could catch ’em before they get back to Kutenai country if they ain’t in a hurry. Anyway, I’ll do the best I can.”

  * * *

  It was a clear and pleasant morning when Trace left the ruins of the Tyler cabin and rode off upriver. Still, there was a bite in the morning breeze that warned that summer would soon be only a memory. Trace knotted a neckerchief loosely around his neck to ward off the chill. He checked the lead rope on his packhorse, glancing back at the roan as he did. He would have preferred to take only one horse—the paint he was riding—but he had a feeling that this task might take a while to accomplish. With winter coming on, he was going to need all the buffalo meat he had dried, plus the hide for warmth. The prospect of wintering alone in the mountains held no dread for Trace. He found that at this stage in his life he welcomed the solitude of the mountain meadows and forests. He had discovered at an early age that he was born to roam the high ridges, dependent upon no one but himself, his rifle, and his horse. This was the reason it troubled him that Jamie hinted of a future for the two of them beyond the close friendship that Trace envisioned. He did think a lot of Jamie, but each time he tried to imagine settling down with her as a wife, it seemed more like marrying his sister. Jamie represented domestic imprisonment to his spirit, yet he could not shake the girl’s grasp on his emotions. And here he was, he told himself, thinking about her again when he was supposed to be looking for sign.

  High above the ridge before him, a hawk wheeled on the fresh morning breeze. When he glanced up and saw it, Trace smiled. It was a sign to him, an omen that told him his path would be a good one. For the hawk was his kindred spirit. When still a boy, he had spent four years with Red Blanket’s band of Crows. His adopted father, Buffalo Shield, had taught him the importance of identifying his kindred spirit in the animal world. He had never thought to question the truth in Buffalo Shield’s words, for he could sometimes feel himself as one with the hawk. And when he heard the high, lonesome cry of the hawk drifting across the valley, he could feel its wild spirit trembling deep inside his own veins. He could not speak of such things to other white men—only Indians understood. When he thought of these things, he could not help but appreciate the irony in the fact that the Blackfoot band had given him the name of Mountain Hawk.

  Buck was right. The raiding party had ridden hard by the river to a point where the mountains closed in to wall off the valley. Then they turned to the east, following a long, narrow draw that led into the higher hills. The sign was old, but there had been no rain for weeks, so it was not difficult to follow the Kutenai raiders. Trace was able to make good time on the trail, since when sign became scarce, there was usually only one path through the steep passes. He simply took the only route available to him and picked up the Indians’ trail on the other side.

  After crossing the mountain ridges east of Promise, he came down into a seemingly endless stretch of rolling hills where the grass was still green, and here and there a fading patch of yellow flowers remained, stubbornly defying the coming winter. The war party had camped here, close by a restless stream. Trace took a few minutes to study the few signs remaining—ashes from the fire, some patches of grass that were still matted down, some bones from a rabbit. Not much fresh meat for a party this size, he thought. They must have a supply of dried meat or pemmican. He wondered how Jamie and little Polly had fared here.

  A short ride of no more than two hours brought him to the beginning of an old Indian trail that led into another line of mountains, higher than those he had just left behind. He was in the land of the Nez Perces now, and he knew that this was one of the trails Nez Perce hunters used to go to the buffalo hunting grounds on the eastern side of the mountains. He had often traded with the Nez Perces when he was trapping with Buck, and they had always been friendly. Trace did not, however, relax his sense of caution. These were unsettled times, and any tribe might get their dander up for the most insignificant of reasons.

  As he expected, the party of Kutenai warriors followed the hunting trail through the mountains toward Flathead country. Trace made his way up the slopes, following the winding trail as it sought out the passes and draws, until it crested and started down the far side. He paused for a few moments to scan the peaks around him. The sheer majesty of the Bitterroots never failed to impart a feeling of calm to him. He filled his lungs with the cold mountain air before nudging the paint with his heels. He would sharpen his eye when the trail descended the high ground and crossed the valley below him. If Jamie’s captors were intent on returning to their homeland, as he suspected, then they would have left the trail and struck out due north at some point in the valley.

  He crossed the entire width of the valley, riding slowly, searching the ground on each side of the Nez Perce trail, but he found no sign that indicated where the Kutenai had left the trail. Yet he felt certain that they had. The sign was too old, and the trail too well traveled for Trace to determine if the war party had continued on into Flathead country. His intuition told him that they most likely turned north, so he went back and searched the trail again, concentrating his efforts on the ground around the stream that bisected the valley. Maybe they had become cautious and decided to cover their trail. They had been careless and unconcerned to this point. Maybe there was bad blood between them and the Flatheads. Whatever the reason, they had definitely decided it was best to hide their tracks.

  It was pretty difficult to disguise the trail of a party this size, even tracks as old as these. Trace figured the only way it could be done was to ride up the stream, so he guided the paint into the water and walked him slowly up the streambed. T
here was no sign of any disturbance in the rocky stream bottom, but he was firmly convinced that his hunch was right, so he continued doggedly up the stream toward the northern end of the valley.

  Finally his patience paid off, and he saw what he was looking for. It was only a flat stone the size of a dinner plate, but it looked somehow out of place. He dismounted in the shallow water and stooped to examine it. It had been dislodged and tilted up on edge, the result of being stepped on by a horse, he figured. His hunch confirmed in his mind, he stood up again and looked at the valley before him. Kutenai country was to the north and west. Blackfoot territory was also north, but farther to the east. The valley where he now stood was crossed by parties from several tribes—Kutenai, Blackfoot, Nez Perce, Flathead, even Pend d’Oreille and Gros Ventres. This perhaps explained the Kutenai warriors’ caution.

  Climbing aboard the paint again, he continued up the stream, studying the banks on either side. The Kutenai left the streambed where a group of willows bordered the low bank, and headed in a general northwest direction. The trail was easy to follow until it led up through a narrow draw and out onto a flat, rocky slope. There it ended. He searched in vain for a hoofprint, a disturbed rock—something—but there was nothing. The slope was too rocky and the trail too old. After a long while, during which he dismounted and scanned the ground, he stood up straight and sighed. I reckon this is where the tracking ends and the searching begins.

  CHAPTER 5

  Left Hand stood over the white woman while he studied her thin features. Jamie stared back at him defiantly. He was unmoved by her show of courage, being more interested in her value as a possible trade. This white woman was very skinny. She didn’t look like she could do much work, but he supposed he would keep her as a slave unless someone showed an interest in her as a wife. He knew a Flathead man who had taken a white captive for a wife, and it had turned out very well for him. She had made a good wife. He was not so sure about this one. She was pretty enough, but her body was frail, her hips were thin, and he wondered if she would have a problem birthing a child. Maybe one of the younger men in the village might be interested in her. Left Hand himself was content to have just one wife, although he sometimes wondered if Red Leggings might wish he would take another wife to help her. Maybe he would give her this white woman for her slave.

  The child was another matter. Eight or ten summers, she could more easily be taught the Indian ways. He would cut her bonds as soon as they reached the village. His good friend Black Elk had already expressed an interest in the child. Black Elk’s wife had been unable to bear him a child. So when they had killed the two men and the woman at the last cabin, Black Elk spared the child.

  Though determined to show a brave face to her captors, Jamie was terrified inside. She got to her feet when the gruff-looking Indian motioned for her to get up, a somewhat difficult task with her hands tied behind her. The gruff one, with the help of another Indian, picked her up and put her on the back of one of Tyler’s horses. Polly Tyler was likewise deposited on another of her father’s horses, and they were once again on the trail.

  Heartsick and despairing, Jamie had no idea how far they had come from her father’s log house. She only knew that she was weary from the long days on horseback and the meager allotment of food. Her captors were not overly abusive to her, although their handling of her was far from gentle. Aside from the lump on the side of her face, received as she had tried to run when they had first descended upon her house, she was none the worse for wear physically. She was horrified when first captured, though, and the first night on the trail she had not slept at all. Having witnessed the merciless slaughter of Bradley and Bentley Tyler, she was too terrified to close her eyes, fully expecting to be raped and then murdered. It had not happened, however, and now after so many nights that she had lost count, she still had not been threatened with undue violence. She might receive a stinging blow across her backside from one of the warriors’ whips if she didn’t move smartly enough, but that was about the extent of the abuse. It was far more difficult for her to endure the absence of privacy when it came to taking care of nature’s call. She was never allowed out of her captors’ sight, not even to urinate, and she was forced to do her business in public as well, humiliated by the watchful gaze of one or more of the men, observing her like farmers at a stock show.

  In an effort to put on a brave front for Polly’s sake, Jamie forced a smile as she caught the girl’s eye. Polly gave no indication that she noticed, simply staring straight ahead. The little girl had cried almost constantly for the first two days on the trail. Now, her tears seemingly exhausted, she made not a sound—just stared at the horizon as if trying to look beyond the terrible tragedy she had witnessed. At night Polly was permitted to sleep close to Jamie, and she would snuggle up as close to Jamie’s body as possible, cringing whenever one of the Indians would approach. The child was never threatened with physical harm, but Jamie feared that the traumatic events of her capture might destroy Polly’s mind. She did the best she could to talk to her, hoping to restore some stability to her life. It was a difficult thing to do in the presence of such obvious savagery. The gruff one was especially terrifying—standing over them, admonishing them in strange guttural tones that Jamie could not understand. The fact that she had not been physically harmed up to this time was not enough to reassure her that she would not be abused once the war party reached its destination.

  Three more days’ travel brought them to the edge of a large lake surrounded by mountain peaks. Left Hand led the party around the western shore of the lake, and as they progressed farther and farther around the expanse of water, Jamie detected an air of excitement among the warriors. Soon she saw the reason for it. When they filed over a small rise covered with fir trees, she saw the lodges by the water’s edge. It was Left Hand’s village. Now the warriors restrained themselves no longer. Calling out with whoops and loud greetings, the younger men in the party raced their ponies toward the village. The people in the village returned the greetings, and women and children could be seen running to meet the returning warriors. In the excitement of the war party’s return, Jamie considered making a run for freedom, but Left Hand, his perpetual stoic demeanor in place, pulled his horse up beside hers and paced her, shoulder to shoulder. It was just as well, she thought, for she would surely not have gotten far before they ran her down.

  As she rode into the Kutenai village, her hands tied in front of her, her horse led by Left Hand, she was at once frightened by the upturned faces that stared at her; some jeering, but most displaying open curiosity. Some, mostly women, tugged at her legs as if testing the muscle. Left Hand did not stop until he reached a skin lodge where a short, stout woman stood, her hands on her hips, watching her husband’s progress through the gathering of her people.

  “So,” Red Leggings said, “my husband has brought home another wife.” She was not pleased.

  Left Hand’s stoic expression did not change as he ignored his wife’s sarcastic tone. “I captured a white woman. I have no need for another wife.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you might want her to help you with your work. If not, maybe I can trade her.”

  Somewhat mollified to find that she was not to have competition in her lodge, Red Leggings nodded her head while she thought it over. She considered the prospect of having a slave for only a few moments before she decided. “I don’t need anyone to help me in my duties. Trade her.”

  Left Hand responded with a grunt. His wife’s curt command, with many of his friends standing around listening, was degrading and embarrassing to him. After all, he thought, it was a man’s place to decide if he would take another wife. After a moment, he said in his gruff voice, “It may please me to keep her. I’ll think on it some. In the meantime she can help you in your work.”

  So Jamie’s fate was decided on the whim of an obstinate husband. Red Leggings huffed her disapproval but made no reply, her lips pursed in an expression of silent protest. She walked up beside Jamie, who w
as still seated on her horse, and cocked her head to one side, then the other, thoroughly scrutinizing this unwelcome addition to her lodge. “Huh,” she finally grunted and grabbed Jamie’s ankle. Before Jamie knew what was happening, Red Leggings suddenly shoved Jamie’s leg up, dumping her on the ground.

  With her hands still tied, she had no time to try to break her fall, so she landed hard, the wind knocked out of her. As she struggled to catch her breath, she was only vaguely aware of the laughter of the people gathered around. Although she was afraid and confused and gasping for air, she somehow understood that she must not cower before the ill-tempered Indian woman. Jamie got unsteadily to her feet, then strode directly up to Red Leggings. With her face thrust nose to nose with the Indian woman’s, Jamie glared defiantly into Red Leggings’s eyes. Somewhat surprised, Red Leggings took a step backward while shoving Jamie away with her hands. Emboldened, Jamie took a step forward and again thrust her face into that of Red Leggings. When this brought another wave of laughter from the onlookers, Red Leggings blinked, exasperated. Then her anger took hold. She grabbed a handful of the impudent captive’s hair and yanked her sideways, off her feet. Again Jamie fell to the ground, and Red Leggings received a roar of approval from the people. So encouraged, Red Leggings administered a kick to Jamie’s bottom before the stricken white girl could recover.

  “Enough!” Left Hand commanded and pulled his wife away. “She will be of little value if you beat her to death.” He looked down at Jamie, who was struggling to get to her feet. “Get up,” he ordered.

  She did not understand his words, but from his gestures, she guessed what he had said. On her feet now, and trying to maintain a defiant posture, she was aware of a child crying behind her. She realized then that it was Polly. A warrior, whose name was Black Elk, she would learn later, lifted Polly off her horse and held her at arm’s length, closely examining the child. When Jamie looked around, she saw the warrior leading Polly away, toward the center of the camp. Her heart went out to the child, but she was powerless to help her. Polly looked back at Jamie, pleading with her eyes, but she did not resist.