Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  When he was within a quarter of a mile of the camp, Trace tied his horses in a ravine dotted with low bushes and continued on foot—it wouldn’t do to let his horses get too close to the Blackfoot pony herd and start whinnying back and forth. Little Bull had camped in a broad valley that connected two converging ridges, forming a low box canyon at the southern end. After looking over the layout of the camp, Trace decided the south end of the canyon was the best place from which to watch. The Indians had settled near the closed end of the canyon, taking advantage of the shelter from the icy wind. Their position placed them directly under the gaze of anyone who might be watching from that cliff—an indication to Trace that Little Bull was unconcerned about caution. So Trace returned to collect his horses. He took them south of the hostile camp, then doubled back to a position behind the boxed end of the canyon and tied them in the trees on the southern slope. When he was satisfied that they would be concealed even in daylight, he made his way back over the ridge and down to a cluster of rocks some fifty feet above the Blackfoot camp.

  From his position above the camp, he found that he had an excellent view of the entire village. He might have been concerned for his safety if this was a more permanent camp. But the Indians were only stopping overnight. They had set up no lodges, and the people would simply wrap up in warm furs and sleep before the fires that night. Trace thought there would be little likelihood that any sentries would bother to scale the cliff he was watching from, so he left the cover of the rocks and worked his way closer to the edge of the cliff.

  A relaxed and carefree atmosphere enveloped the Blackfoot camp. The men sat in small groups, laughing and talking while the women were busy tending the fires and preparing meat for supper. Trace caught the aroma of roasting antelope as it wafted up the face of the cliff. It reminded him of his own hunger, and he reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of buffalo jerky. As he chewed the tough, leathery strip, he constantly scanned the camp below him back and forth in an effort to find Jamie. He saw no one who resembled her. His eyes darted from one cookfire to the next, from one small gathering of women to individual girls fetching wood or water. She was not there.

  Discouraged, he told himself that it was a large camp and it was very dark. It was quite possible that his visual survey could have missed her. Besides, she had been a captive for several weeks now—she would most likely be dressed in skins and moccasins, making it more difficult to recognize her. He would wait until daylight when he could see better. After the Indians had settled down to sleep, Trace made his way back over the ridge to check on his horses, then returned to his perch above the Blackfoot camp and waited for dawn.

  The new day broke cold and clear, the threat of snow that had hung over the mountains for the past week having faded away. Trace was jolted awake from a series of fitful catnaps by the sounds of breakfast preparations below him. It was early yet, and the Blackfoot women scurried around in the crisp morning air to revive the dying fires and prepare for the day’s march. Trace strained to see everyone in the camp, his eyes darting back and forth, searching as he had done the night before, but his luck was no better in the light of day. It was a large camp, with close to three hundred people, but he was certain that he could not have missed Jamie if she was there. As he watched, a group of warriors met near the center of the camp and appeared to carry on a serious discussion. Immediately after, three braves jumped on their ponies and rode out of the canyon, heading back along the previous day’s trail. Looking for the missing warrior, Trace thought. He watched them until they had ridden out of sight to make sure they weren’t going to circle around behind him.

  Reluctant to admit to his failure to find Jamie, he remained in his position above the camp until the village had packed up and moved on. He watched every preparation, looked hard at each family group as they took to the trail, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jamie. When the last Blackfoot rode out of the canyon, Trace reluctantly rose to his feet, watching the column of Indians disappear. Stiff and cold, he stood there for a few minutes while he decided what to do. He had been certain that Jamie was traveling with Little Bull’s band. Yet now he was certain she was no longer in the camp. He did not want to consider the possibility that obviously presented itself—that they had killed her. He decided to rule that out, simply because he did not want it to be so. There were other possibilities, such as the trail that he had guessed to be that of a hunting party. Now that he thought about it, those five riders leading extra horses never rejoined the main village. Unwilling to give up on the belief that he would eventually find Jamie, he resolved to return to the river and pick up that trail to the south. Knowing that he was now at least four days behind the smaller party, he hurried back to his horses and started back.

  After leaving the cover of the mountains, Trace veered away from the wide trail left by the Blackfoot village and looked for an alternate route on the western side of the ridge, thinking to keep the ridge between himself and the three warriors searching for their friend. It was much slower returning that way, for there was no trail—not even a game trail, and he constantly had to climb or descend when suddenly confronted with a cliff or chasm. Still, he preferred that to the possibility of a confrontation with the three Blackfoot warriors. When he reached a point that was well past the dry streambed where he had been ambushed, he crossed the ridge and descended to the valley floor where he could make better time.

  He arrived at the site of the former Blackfoot village in early afternoon of the second day. He had seen no sign of the three warriors, so he was confident they had returned to their village. After watering his three horses, he studied the trail of the small party that had left the main body of Indians—this time more closely. He came to the same conclusion he had made before: four, possibly five, riders, with five extra horses. Jamie could be on on of those horses, he thought.

  * * *

  Four days south of where Trace stood, Jamie knelt before a fire, boiling some meat from a deer that Sowers had killed that morning. They had been out of fresh meat for three days, and Plum finally ordered a halt in their travel to hunt. The actual hunting was done by Sowers. Plum did not trust Crown to be left alone with his woman, and Crown was reluctant to let Plum out of his sight. That left only Sowers who could be trusted out of the sight of both men.

  The atmosphere among the three men had deteriorated to one of deadly suspicion. Plum was still furious with Crown for destroying his relationship with Little Bull’s band, while Crown was growing increasingly bitter with jealousy about Plum’s refusal to share his spoils—specifically, Jamie. Sowers remained in a state of nervous fidgeting, watching them both, hoping that when the explosion came, he would not get caught in the crossfire. His fears were not enough to persuade him to tuck tail and run, however. He still entertained the possibility that the two might kill each other, leaving him to inherit all the spoils, Jamie included. It was an uneasy partnership, but one that Plum found necessary since he no longer enjoyed the protection of Little Bull and his Blackfeet.

  “Gimme some of that meat,” Crown demanded, walking up behind the wretched girl tending the pot. He reached down and put his hand on her shoulder. She immediately flinched, causing him to smile a wicked, lopsided grin. He continued to crowd her as she attempted to move away. “What you squirmin’ away fer? I ain’t gonna hurtcha.” His eyes seemed to burn right through her clothing, his smile turning to a sneer. “I ain’t like Plum—I know how to treat a woman.”

  Jamie said nothing in response but continued to cower before the evil-smelling renegade. She feared Crown more than Plum. Plum was cruel and brutal, but she had become hardened to his rough treatment. Crown was sadistic. She didn’t have to hear about the two Indian women he had killed to know this. One look into those dark, calculating eyes told of his passion for causing pain.

  “You can git your damn hands off my wife now,” Plum spat as he came out of the trees behind Crown. He walked up to face his partner, his hand resting on the handle of his pistol. “I s
wear, a man can’t go take a piss without you gittin’ your hands where they don’t belong.”

  Startled at first when Plum came up behind him, Crown snorted defiantly, taking his time to remove the offending hand.

  “Your wife?” he scoffed. “I don’t remember seein’ you stand up in front of no parson with this bitch.”

  “You heard me,” Plum said, his fingers tightening around the handle of his pistol.

  Crown considered the advantage Plum had and decided the odds were not in his favor. “All I was after was somethin’ to eat,” he said. “You wouldn’t shoot a man for tryin’ to git somethin’ to eat, would you?” They glared at each other for a long moment before Crown shrugged and took the bowl of boiled meat that Jamie held up to him. One of these days I ain’t gonna back down, Crown thought as he favored Plum with a smug smile and moved to the other side of the fire to eat.

  For Jamie, another moment in a lifetime of tense moments had passed without bloodshed. Her existence was punctuated by one threatening situation after another. In her agony she wondered why she did not simply lose her mind. Beyond despair now, she no longer had thoughts of suicide. She yearned only to live for the chance to punish those who had destroyed her soul. If she could be granted that one opportunity for revenge, she did not care what happened afterward.

  “One more day oughta find us at Three Forks,” Sowers offered as a change in conversation. He, like Jamie, had felt the tension in the confrontation between Plum and Crown and wondered if this was going to be the showdown. He had mixed emotions about the potential face-off. While he enjoyed the thought of the two of them killing each other and leaving him to take the plunder, he didn’t particularly relish the notion of wintering alone in this territory—not even of wintering with the woman. It would have been fine if Ox hadn’t crossed Plum and gotten himself killed. There was going to be a great deal of hard work building a rough lean-to, wood to cut for the fire, gathering enough food to last the winter, Ox would have come in handy. Too bad the simple bastard was so softhearted, Somers thought. I reckon he got what he deserved.

  CHAPTER 9

  Trace moved out from the abandoned Blackfoot village early in the afternoon, finding the trail left by nine horses easy to follow. He made good time, covering a lot of ground before darkness forced him to make camp for the night. The night sky was clear when he bundled up in his buffalo robe and went to sleep, planning to get started again as soon as it was light enough to ride.

  He awoke to a stark white world. A good four inches of snow covered his buffalo-hide bedroll already, and it was still falling, so thick that the trees around him seemed to have vanished behind a frosty veil. It had been coming for days now, but Trace had hoped it would hold off until he found this small party he had been trailing. “Dammit!” he swore as he roused himself from his bedroll and hurried to saddle the paint. “Pretty soon, there ain’t gonna be no trail to follow,” he complained to his horse. Not taking time to eat or make coffee, he started out.

  He picked up fragments of the trail whenever it led under trees where the snow had not completely covered the ground, but he was able to make barely a mile before every trace of hoofprints disappeared beneath a blanket of white. Discouraged and frustrated, he could do nothing but guess where the party was heading. It could be anywhere, but so far they had stayed close to the river, so he assumed they would continue to follow it. He prodded his horse and started out once again.

  The snow continued for the greater part of the morning but tapered off at a depth of about ten inches, making travel a little difficult in some places. Bundled against the cold, Trace pushed on, keeping a sharp lookout on the way ahead while periodically checking to the rear to make sure nobody was trailing him. Behind him, his packhorse and the Blackfoot’s bay followed patiently along, their breath like puffs of smoke on the frigid air.

  Before noon, the clouds began to dissipate, and soon the sun burned through scattered holes in the overcast sky, creating towering shafts of brilliant light as it reflected off the snow. Trace was almost forced to close his eyes when passing through these patches of blinding sunshine, and he felt extremely vulnerable to anyone who might be waiting in ambush. It was with a great deal of relief that he welcomed the thickening of the clouds during the afternoon, which shut out the direct rays of the sun once more.

  He had not stopped since leaving camp that morning, so he decided it was time to rest and feed his horses. His own belly felt the need for something hot as well. He continued on until he came to a wide stream that emptied into the river. A thick stand of willows on the bank of the stream would afford him some shelter for a fire, and a scattering of cottonwoods would provide feed for his horses.

  In a matter of minutes, Trace had a healthy fire going, fed by a pile of dead branches that he dug out of the snow. Once that was taken care of, he cut off a bundle of green cottonwood branches and stacked them by the fire, using the buffalo robe of the slain Blackfoot for a ground cloth. Pulling one of the burnt ends of the deadwood from the fire, he fashioned it into a handle by sticking the point of his Green River knife into it. Then, using that as a drawknife, he skinned the sweet, tender bark from the cottonwood limbs. Soon, he had enough bark shavings to feed all three horses. He watched them eat for a few moments before seeing to his own supper.

  The next morning he was relieved to find that there had been no additional snowfall during the night. The morning was cold and gray, however, and he studied the sky while he waited for his coffee to boil. It didn’t look like it would snow again anytime soon. He had not made coffee the night before because his supply of coffee beans was nearing depletion. Three or four more pots and that’s about it, he thought. His buffalo jerky was just about gone too. Soon he would have to hunt for fresh meat.

  Under way once again, he had ridden no more than a mile when he pulled the paint up short, for he heard something on the wind. He listened and soon recognized the unmistakable sound of a pack of wolves attacking. They probably jumped a deer or an elk, he thought, maybe a bear. Maybe they’ll share a little of it. He nudged the paint forward and rode toward the sound, keeping a cautious eye out to make sure he discovered the wolfpack before they discovered him.

  Topping a low ridge, he pulled up again when he spotted the source of the sound. Below him, near a treeless gully, he counted six wolves attacking an animal that had gone down but was still making an effort to defend itself. Trace strained to identify the wolves’ prey. After a moment he realized what he was looking at. “Damn!” he muttered. “That’s a man!”

  Kicking his horse firmly with his heels, Trace checked his rifle as the paint immediately responded, galloping toward the snarling pack of wolves. Intent on attacking their prey, the beasts were unaware of the mountain man charging down upon them until the Hawken rifle spoke, knocking one of their number down. Reloading on the run was difficult with half-frozen fingers, but Trace had done it before. By the time he was within twenty yards of them, another wolf was lying dead in the snow. The remaining four scattered, snarling and yelping as they fled.

  Trace pulled up and dismounted. The victim—Indian or white, Trace couldn’t tell at that point—lay back in the snow, exhausted. Trace moved quickly to his side, pausing to assess the situation before kneeling down to see what help he could provide. He was a white man, apparently a trapper. Trace had not realized how big the man was until he knelt beside him. No wonder I couldn’t tell if it was an elk or not, he thought. The man’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing, so Trace tried to determine how badly he was hurt.

  There was blood on the man’s hands and arms, but it was from superficial wounds, not serious enough to cause a man to be in the state this one seemed to be in. Then he noticed the crusted stains of an old wound in the man’s side and another across his belly. Odd, Trace thought, that he was wearing no heavy coat or robe in weather like this. It was a wonder that he hadn’t frozen to death. Upon closer examination, Trace determined that the wound in the man’s side was a puncture woun
d, while the other was a long slash. Someone had done a fair amount of work on him with a knife.

  After a few more moments, the big man’s eyes flickered, then opened wide. He looked into Trace’s face, and managed a weak smile. “Thanks, mister. I thought them wolves was gonna eat me,” he rasped.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Trace asked. He looked around him, expecting to see a horse. “What happened to you? Indians?”

  It was with a great deal of effort that Ox tried to answer Trace’s questions. Already barely hanging on to life, he had been further weakened by his efforts to defend himself from the wolves. “T’ warnt no Injuns,” he forced out. “T’was my friends.”

  “Your friends?” Trace responded incredulously. “Mister, you better find some new friends.” He looked again at Ox’s wounds. “That cut on your belly looks pretty bad. We’re gonna have to see what we can do about that. What the hell are you doing out here, anyway? Ain’t you got a horse?”

  Ox shook his head. Then taking a deep breath, he said, “They left me to die, but I ain’t dead yet.” There was no trace of defiance in his tone, just a simple statement.

  Trace shook his head, amazed. “No, you ain’t dead yet, but you’re pretty damn close to it. Who left you to die?”

  “Plum . . . and Crown,” Ox answered weakly.

  “Plum!” Trace shot back. “Jack Plum? How the hell . . .” he started but at once realized what should have been obvious before. “Were you riding with that scum?” Ox nodded, and Trace continued. “Did you just ride out from Little Bull’s camp?” Ox nodded again, and Trace realized for the first time that it had not been a party of Blackfeet he had been trailing. Anxious now, he asked the question that had been burning his brain. “Was there a white woman with you?”