Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  “Come on,” Plum ordered. “It’s a while yet to daylight, and we’d best git some sleep.” He reached down and pulled Jamie to her feet. “Git that horse and lead him back to camp.” He gave her a shove toward the animal. “I oughta make you walk tomorrow.”

  They left Ox to die there in the middle of the cold, dark trail. It was a horrifying experience for Jamie and left her cold and shaking inside, even after all the violence she had been a witness to in the weeks since she had been abducted from Promise Valley. She felt a deep sadness for the unfortunate innocent left to suffer and die alone. Ox, in his simpleminded compassion, had tried to release her from her prison. The price he paid for his kindness was far out of proportion to the crime he had committed. She would certainly have taken the opportunity to escape—she had nothing to lose but her life, and that had become considerably less dear to her. But logic told her that it would have been a futile attempt. Even if she had been fortunate enough not to ride off a cliff in the darkness, Plum probably would have tracked her down within a day’s time. As for Ox, a whipping with Plum’s rawhide whip would have been ample punishment to prohibit his trying to help her again.

  * * *

  The morning broke cold and clear. An icy wind swept through the ravine, threatening to scatter the glowing coals from the fire. Sowers dragged a dead log up to the fire to act as a windbreak while Jamie, at Plum’s instructions, filled the coffeepot from the spring. She turned her head when Crown took a few steps away from the fire to urinate, making no effort to hide himself.

  “Hurry up with that coffee,” Plum growled, still sitting by the fire, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Though the command had been directed at Jamie, his attention was not focused on the girl. He was glaring at Crown instead. It was evident to Jamie that Plum was irritated by Crown’s tendency to expose himself in front of her. Maybe, she thought, they will finally kill each other, and I won’t have anybody but Sowers to deal with.

  A confrontation between the two might seem inevitable, but it was not to come that morning. After Plum had had his coffee, he and Crown divided Ox’s belongings among the three men, and then they saddled up. Ox’s two horses were tied on a line behind Jamie’s horse, and Plum led them all down through the brush to strike the trail they had followed the day before.

  When they reached the place in the trail where Ox had been left to die, there was no body! Ox was gone! His three former partners were surprised but only mildly concerned, surmising that he had dragged himself off to die.

  “We shoulda put him out of his misery last night,” Sowers moaned.

  “Shut up, Sowers,” Plum snapped. He could not abide the waste of a bullet on a man who was going to die anyway.

  Leaving Jamie to hold the packhorses, they broke from the trail and scouted within a short radius of the spot where bloodstains still remained as testament to the previous night’s crime. Because of the steepness of the slopes on each side of the trail, the search did not last long. None of the three reported any sign of the dying man.

  “Well, he won’t git far before the wolves git him,” Crown said with a smirk. Not wanting to waste any more time on a dead man, they got under way again, leaving Ox to the wolves, or the vultures—whichever found him first.

  CHAPTER 8

  Trace studied the open plain before him. The Blackfoot war party had followed the river through a narrow valley that led out of the mountains. The path they had taken was an old hunting trail. Trace was now in familiar territory, for the war party had led him back to the country he had summered in. It was not far from this place that he had killed a buffalo cow, just before he rescued Buck Ransom from the grizzly. He found it ironic that he might have simply stayed where he was and waited for the Blackfeet to come to him, for they were evidently headed for the Blackfoot encampment on the Missouri—Little Bull’s village.

  This country was dangerous for white men. No one appreciated that more than Trace. The mountains now behind him had been his summer home, high on the upper slopes where he had been sought out and challenged three times by young Blackfoot braves who sought to gain big medicine by killing the Mountain Hawk. But now the Hawk was in Blackfoot domain, and Trace was well aware of a need to sharpen his senses. Knowing where the trail led now, he decided it would be best to travel at night from here on.

  With the setting of the sun, the nights turned cold and brisk on the open prairie, and Trace pushed his horses hard to cover as much ground as possible while there was a three-quarter moon to light the way. The threat of snow that had hung over the mountains had given way to clear skies once he reached the rolling plains, and thousands of tiny pinpricks of light dotted the pitch-black sky His intention was to reach the Missouri by daybreak. Once he reached the safety of the trees by the river, he would stop and rest the horses, maybe catch a few hours’ sleep himself. When his horses were fresh again, he would push on in the daylight, following the river east to Little Bull’s village.

  Long and cold, the night seemed reluctant to release the darkened prairie, but at last Trace saw the welcome outline of the trees bordering the Missouri. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to spread across the rolling hills when he led the horses down to the water. He stretched his back and shoulder muscles while he stood there waiting for them to drink, stamping his feet to get some feeling in his toes. He had made good time during the night, and he was eager to go on to the Blackfoot village. But he knew the horses needed to rest. Looking around at the many gullies that etched the banks of the river, he figured that this was as good a place as any to make his camp. He found a hollowed-out depression underneath a tree-covered bluff and decided it was a suitable spot to spread his buffalo-hide bedroll.

  It was late morning by the time Trace was in the saddle and under way again, carefully avoiding the patches of frost that remained in the shade of the trees. He knew that the likelihood of his keeping his scalp depended upon his ability to traverse this territory unseen and without leaving a track. Constantly scanning the horizon for signs of a Blackfoot hunting party, he stayed close to the river, following its meandering course even though he knew he could reach the village quicker by riding on a straight bearing northeast. It would do Jamie very little good if he were caught out on the open plain by a large hunting party.

  The thought of Jamie caused his mind to linger. He had been searching for her for weeks now, and he could not rid himself of the nagging fear that she might be beyond his reach. He permitted himself to worry about her for only a few brief moments, then forced himself to push those thoughts out of his consciousness. The only option available to him was to continue searching until he found her—dead or alive.

  The presence of many trails—most of them old—alerted Trace that he was getting close to the Blackfoot village. Still, he had seen no riders, and as the sun began to sink behind the mountains to the west, it looked more and more as if Little Bull’s village might have moved. He was certain that he was within a mile of the Blackfoot camp, yet there was no glow of cookfires. He made his camp by the river and waited until sunup to confirm what he already knew.

  As he suspected, Little Bull’s village had packed up and left, seeking a more sheltered camp to wait out the winter. Trace scanned the horizon carefully before riding into the abandoned camp. As there was no sign of anyone else, he guided the paint into the water, crossed the creek, and rode to the center of the campsite. Dismounting, he studied the ground for sign. From the freshness of many of the tracks, it appeared that it had been only a short time since the village was dismantled. Raking through the ashes of one of the cookfires, he discovered that the ground underneath was still warm. They’re only hours ahead of me, he thought. The village must have moved out the day before. His heartbeat quickened slightly with the realization that he might overtake the Indians before sunset the following day.

  The wide trail left by the departing camp was easy enough to see, but Trace deemed it wise to scout the perimeter of the camp for any fresh tracks. After quickly
covering the circumference of the circle of lodges, he determined that the entire village had moved out en masse—with one exception. He stood and considered the one fresh trail that departed from that of the rest of the village. A party of at least four or more, with twice that many horses, had veered off toward the mountains, following the river to the southwest. Curious, he knelt down to study the tracks more closely. Though fresher than most of the old tracks that covered the banks of the creek, he decided they were slightly older than the wide trail left by the many horses and travois. Was this smaller trail important to him? He could only guess, so he decided that it was more than likely a hunting party that would, no doubt, circle back and rejoin the main camp at some point. Trace wasted no more time at the abandoned campsite. Eager now to overtake the Blackfoot village, he set out after them.

  * * *

  Medicine Horse’s son, Crooked Leg, guided his pony through the fir trees that covered the eastern slope of a low line of hills paralleling the trail his tribe had taken the day before. As a Blackfoot warrior, his responsibility on this day was to scout the backtrail in case an enemy might be following to attack the rear of the camp.

  Crooked Leg was respected in his village for his courage in battle and the many scalps on his lance. Most of the other young warriors scouted in groups of three or more, but Crooked Leg often rode alone, confident in his ability to prevail over any danger he might encounter. This past summer, he had ridden alone up into the high mountains, searching for the legendary Mountain Hawk, on a quest to establish himself as the most powerful warrior in his village. It was with great disappointment that he had been unsuccessful in his search for the man Little Bull had seen transform himself into a hawk. All Crooked Leg had found was the remains of Two Horses at the base of a steep cliff. His friend had been missing for ten sleeps after announcing that he was going to seek out the Mountain Hawk. Crooked Leg brought back the unmarked arrow that had killed Two Horses. Medicine Horse had said that the Mountain Hawk made no marks on his arrows, and he was certain that Two Horses had been killed by the Hawk. Medicine Horse’s words had filled his son’s heart with an even stronger desire to find the Mountain Hawk—Two Horses had been his friend, and his death should be avenged—but revenge was not the sole reason Crooked Leg had searched for this white devil. Two Horses had enjoyed a reputation as the most fearsome warrior in Little Bull’s camp. If Crooked Leg could succeed where Two Horses had failed, he would bring great honor to himself.

  Approaching the edge of the trees, Crooked Leg suddenly pulled his pony up hard. On the flat below him, a lone rider leading a packhorse followed along the trail left the day before by the Blackfoot camp. From his appearance, he seemed to be one of the crazy white trappers that wandered the land. Crooked Leg wondered why any white man would be foolish enough to follow the Blackfoot village. I will ride down and kill him, he thought, and turned his pony to intercept the rider. Still puzzled that this intruder boldly trailed his people, Crooked Leg watched the rider closely as he converged upon the point where their paths would cross.

  Lower down the slope now, Crooked Leg could see his prey more clearly. The trapper sat tall in the saddle. He carried a rifle in front of him, resting across the saddle, but he had a bow strapped to his back. Crooked Leg realized at that moment that his prayers to Man Above had suddenly been answered—it was the Mountain Hawk! It had to be! No other white man would be fool enough to follow the Blackfoot village alone. It made sense to him now: When the people of the village had left, the Mountain Hawk had come down from the upper slopes looking for them.

  Crooked Leg could feel the tension in every muscle as he fought to contain his excitement. He would have preferred to pray and make medicine, paint his face and adorn his pony for battle, but there was no time. He must quickly prepare for his ambush, striking like lightning before the man could turn into a hawk and escape.

  Leaving his pony in the trees, Crooked Leg shed his heavy buffalo robe and made his way down to the bottom of the slope on foot. He left the musket that Jack Plum had sold him with his pony, taking only his knife and his axe. This kill must be hand to hand in order to gain the greatest honor. As he moved silently through the low brush near the bottom of the hill, he watched the progress of the mountain man as the man approached a dry streambed. The paint tossed his head and snorted, causing Trace to become immediately alert. He pulled the nervous pony to a stop while he looked hard at the trail ahead. His eyes searched the trees on the hill to his left, but he could see nothing that could possibly have spooked his horse. He listened. The constant wind whispering in the fir trees was the only sound he heard. To his right, there was no sign of life on the treeless hills that rolled toward the horizon. After a few moments, he decided it was nothing and nudged the paint gently with his heels. Ahead was a streambed—dry now with the absence of winter runoff—and he guided his horse toward it.

  The attack came silently, so swift that Trace was taken completely by surprise. He had no hint of the danger until he suddenly found himself in midair, frantically trying to brace for the impact with the hard ground and at the same time struggling with his assailant to protect himself from the slashing thrusts of a knife. Upon impact with the ground, they separated, both men rolling quickly to break the fall and then scrambling to their feet.

  Trace found himself facing a determined Blackfoot warrior, a knife in one hand, a war axe in the other. He realized his heavy buffalo coat had saved him serious harm from the Blackfoot’s knife. There was no time for additional thought, for Crooked Leg charged into him, anxious to attack before the mountain man transformed himself into a hawk. Screaming a bloody war whoop, the Blackfoot warrior lunged at Trace and swung his war axe at Trace’s head. Now encumbered by the heavy coat that had saved him moments before, Trace nevertheless managed to jump back, the blade of the axe missing his face by inches. Fumbling furiously to get his coat open, he finally got his hand on the handle of his pistol and drew it from his belt just in time to aim it and fire. The lead ball smacked squarely into the center of Crooked Leg’s chest as he charged into Trace once again. Though mortally wounded, Crooked Leg was only slowed by the bullet, and he continued to lunge at Trace. Again, Trace was quick enough to avoid the war axe, stepping aside at the last instant, then cracking the back of Crooked Leg’s skull with his empty pistol.

  The Blackfoot crashed to the ground and lay still, dazed by the blow to his head, dying from the bullet in his chest. Trace quickly picked up his rifle from the ground where it had fallen when he was knocked off his horse, and stood over the prone Indian. When Crooked Leg did not move for several seconds, Trace took his foot and rolled him over on his back. He could see then that his bullet had finished the Indian. Crooked Leg’s eyes fluttered open momentarily and gazed into the face of his executioner before they closed for good.

  Trace stood there for several minutes, looking around him for signs of additional warriors, glancing down occasionally at the corpse lying at his feet. He was in luck—the warrior was alone. It had been a close call. He took his coat off and counted three rips in the hide, then he looked at the long skinning knife still in the dead man’s grasp. That coulda been it right there, he thought. Thinking it unwise to linger any longer, Trace took the corpse by the wrists and dragged it into the brush. No need to advertise it, he thought. That done, he rounded up his horses and, knowing that the Blackfoot would have had a horse nearby, started back up through the trees.

  He was not halfway up the hill when the paint whinnied and was answered by the Indian’s horse. Trace found it in a thicket of smaller trees, well out of sight. The Blackfoot’s buffalo robe and a musket were lying on the ground beside the horse. Trace picked up the musket and examined it. One of the old ones from the Hudson’s Bay Company, he thought. No doubt it came from his friend Jack Plum. It was loaded, and Trace knew the Indian could probably have killed him from ambush if he had used the musket. But having lived with the Crow Indians when he was a boy, Trace knew the significance of Crooked Leg’s attem
pt to kill him in hand-to-hand battle.

  Trace had thought at first to cut the Blackfoot’s pony loose so that it wouldn’t starve to death tied to a tree. Traveling as he was in hostile country, he wasn’t keen on the prospect of leading an extra horse—one was trouble enough. But after examining the Indian pony, a powerfully built bay about fifteen hands high, he decided the Blackfoot had been extremely well mounted, and he was reluctant to leave such a fine piece of horseflesh to go free. He strapped the buffalo robe on the back of the Indian saddle and secured the musket on his own packhorse. That decision made, he set out on the trail of the Blackfoot village once again.

  * * *

  After another half day’s travel, Trace examined the trail carefully. It was fresh, no more than a few hours old. Already cautious, he would have to be even more watchful. He had steadily gained on the moving village, and now he must be mindful of overtaking a rear guard. Another worry was the warrior he had killed. Certainly by nightfall, they would become concerned that he had not returned and might send a scouting party to search for him.

  The trail had steadily led toward the north, and Trace figured Little Bull’s planned destination was the Milk River. There were several spots along the river where the Blackfeet and the Gros Ventres had wintered before, and if Trace’s memory served him, the Milk was no more than forty miles away. That meant at least one more day on the trail before the village would strike the river. Little Bull would probably make camp early today and reach the Milk tomorrow. Since the sun was already low in the sky, Trace could overtake them any time now. To be on the safe side, he decided to wait until dark before going any farther. Spotting a grassy draw that would afford him shelter, he led his horses in, dismounted, and waited for sundown.

  He started out again when the last rays of sunshine began to flicker out behind the mountains to the west—in a matter of minutes, it would be totally dark. It was not difficult to find the Blackfoot camp however. The glow of cookfires in the dark, cold night could be seen from more than a mile away. Trace rode steadily toward the fires at a leisurely pace. He was no longer in a hurry, for if he did find Jamie he would have to wait until the camp was asleep before he could attempt to go in after her. Finding her was the first priority. Only then would he have to figure out how best to rescue her.