Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Though she was conscious, Jamie’s mind was spinning wildly, back and forth between reality and a misty shroud of half-light in which Crown appeared to be a ghostly image. She was no longer sure he was even real until he grasped one of her ankles in each hand. Then the pain returned as her head started to clear, and she became fully aware of what was happening. Holding her legs apart, he dropped to his knees and forced his body closer to her. Staring horrified through swollen eyes, she was haunted by the repulsive image of Crown’s sinister face, gloating over his conquest. Then suddenly his face was no longer there.

  The butt of the rifle smashed against the side of Crown’s face with such force that it sent the surprised renegade sprawling. Holding his rifle by the barrel, Trace had swung it with all the strength he had. The impact with Crown’s head was sufficient to splinter the rifle stock, sending pieces of the wood flying and making a sound louder than the crack of a rifle shot.

  Crown rolled over, dazed for only a moment before he struggled to his feet and prepared to fight. Ignoring the stabbing pain of his broken jaw, he drew a long skinning knife from his belt and slowly advanced toward Trace. In a sudden spark of memory, he recognized Trace as the meddling stranger who had spoiled his opportunity to take the Murdock family’s wagon back on the Wind River. In spite of the pain it caused him, he managed a crooked grin as he moved cautiously to Trace’s right, holding the Green River knife in front of him and moving it back and forth, taunting.

  Crown was a powerful man, thick through the shoulders, with legs like tree trunks. He had killed more than one man in hand-to-hand fights, and he was confident of the outcome of this contest.

  However this time he faced the lightning-like fury of the Mountain Hawk.

  Trace watched with cold and unblinking eyes as the menacing hulk advanced slowly but confidently in a half-crouch, tensed for a sudden attack. Come on, he thought, bring it to me. Trace could have ended it earlier, quickly and without endangering himself. A rifle ball in the back would have done the job. But to satisfy a rage that had been smoldering for many weeks, he had to rip this vermin’s life from him with his own hands.

  Suddenly Crown attacked. Lunging at Trace, he thrust viciously with the long knife. Much too quick for Crown, Trace easily avoided the wild charge, stepping aside and catching the renegade with another solid smash of his rifle, which landed squarely on Crown’s nose. The blow stopped Crown in his tracks, and he dropped to his knees, dazed. The remaining piece of the wooden rifle stock now dangled from a single splinter. Trace unhurriedly broke it off and tossed it aside. Although he appeared to be calm and methodical as he slowly circled the injured man, Trace was actually a volcano of vengeful fury. Swinging the broken rifle like an axe, he brought it down on Crown’s skull. Crown was driven down into the snow, face first. Trace stepped back and waited. After a few seconds Crown, battered and bleeding, struggled to get up. Holding the rifle by the trigger guard now, Trace calmly walked around to stand before Crown, who was now on his knees again. His nose was splintered and flattened against his face, and blood flowed into his dingy beard. Crown stared, confused and disoriented, realizing that this was his moment to meet death’s dark angel. Trace put the barrel of the rifle up to Crown’s face and held it there for a moment. Then he pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  It had been too long. Jamie was afraid to believe her nightmare was over. Her body was racked with the pain of so many brutal beatings. Her face was swollen and bruised, and she felt sick inside, having been nourished that day with nothing more than her own blood, flowing from the cuts in her mouth. She stared at the man hurriedly cutting her bonds, uncertain of what was happening. And then the reality of it slowly penetrated her confused mind. “Trace?” she whispered, barely making a sound.

  Still locked within the grip of his overpowering fury for the loathsome monster who had tormented Jamie, Trace was unable to move for a moment. The sound of his name on her battered lips snapped him out of his trance and caused him to pause and gaze into her eyes. He stifled a gasp when he read the hurt in those gray, pleading eyes. “I’ve come to take you home, Jamie,” he said softly, and he gently wrapped her torn clothing around her, covering her exposed skin. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her over by the fire to warm her.

  “Trace?” she whispered again, her voice that of a small frightened child.

  “Yes, it’s Trace,” he answered. “You’re safe now, Jamie, I’ll take care of you.” He made no attempt to express the hurt that he felt for her—it went beyond the limits of the spoken word. He felt her arms tighten around his neck and her body press close to his chest, and she began to cry—tears of relief but also tears of despair. Still afraid to believe her ordeal was over, she held on to Trace with all the strength she had left while the agony of the past months flowed out with her tears. Trace held her until he felt her body relax.

  He placed her gently on a bed of pine boughs and covered her with his thick buffalo robe, then sat by her side until she drifted off to sleep. His heart went out to the slight figure who had suffered such brutal treatment at the hands of Plum and Crown. As he watched her sleeping, he noticed a gradual quickening of her breathing, followed by a restless fit of movement back and forth, and he guessed that she must be dreaming. As the restlessness increased, she began moaning softly. Suddenly she cried out in her sleep and Trace pulled her close to him to comfort her. “No! No!” she cried pitifully and struggled against his arms. Finally she screamed, “No!” defiantly and began to hammer her fists against Trace’s chest.

  “Easy, Jamie,” he murmured rocking her gently in his arms. “You’re all right now. You’re with Trace. It’s just a bad dream.” After a few moments, her eyes flickered, then opened, and she stopped struggling. She stared into his face for a long moment before starting to sob. Trace felt her body go limp as she let him cuddle her. It was enough to break his heart, to think of the torment she must have suffered. In a little while she stopped crying and was quiet. He rocked her gently until she began breathing heavily again and he knew she was asleep.

  Looking at her face, he realized that he would have been unable to recognize her, even without the horrible mutilation of her face, for she was barely more than skin and bones. We’ve got to fatten you up, he thought.

  “Trace!” she rasped as soon as he moved.

  “I’m not gonna leave you alone. I’m just trying to find something to eat.” He knelt down and put his hand on her hair, stroking it until she lay back again. “I don’t have much to give you but dried buffalo. I reckon that’ll have to do until I can hunt us up something.” Fresh meat was what she needed, but he knew he could not leave her alone.

  “Trace,” she called again.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Why in hell didn’t you come after me?”

  He was surprised by the question, but encouraged to hear her tone. Maybe there was still a spark of the old Jamie in her yet. “I came as quick as I could,” he answered simply. “You weren’t that easy to find.”

  The next morning Jamie was much improved, having benefited from the first night of uninterrupted sleep she had enjoyed in weeks. It would be some time yet before she even approached her full strength, though. Trace stressed the necessity for fresh meat, and she reluctantly permitted him to leave her and go hunting, but only after he loaded Crown’s rifle for her. He would hunt with his bow because it was silent, but also because his Hawken was out of commission until he could fashion a new stock for it. When he rode out of their camp, she was sitting with her back against a tree, the rifle across her lap and Trace’s pistol in her hand.

  They spent two more days in the camp that Crown had established. Jamie began to get much of her strength back, nourished by the heart and liver of the mule deer Trace had killed. There was no mention of the frozen body lying at the bottom of a deep gully some twenty-five yards away. Trace decided that if Jamie felt the need to talk about her ordeal with Crown, she would broa
ch the subject herself.

  “Pretty bad, huh?” she blurted out and pushed her chin up, thrusting her face forward. “It’s getting better. Some of the swelling must have gone down around my eyes, ’cause it doesn’t seem like I’m squinting through a crack every time I try to look at something.”

  “You’re coming along just fine,” he assured her, thinking to himself that he doubted she would ever fully recover. The beatings had been too brutal. There were wide cuts on her cheeks where the skin had apparently split under the impact of Crown’s fist—and there were old scars too, no doubt left from Plum’s brutal attentions.

  She watched his face carefully when he answered her, then asked, “How bad is it?”

  “It’s not bad at all, considering the beatings you musta took.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. He was thankful that she had no mirror to see the destruction for herself. “You just need some healing time, and you’ll be as sassy as ever.”

  She started to smile, but winced with the resulting pain from the split in her lip. “You always were a poor liar, Trace McCall,” she muttered and lay back to rest.

  As soon as he thought Jamie was able to travel, he saddled the horses and packed up their camp. Reluctant to climb into Crown’s saddle, Jamie tried to explain to Trace the fearful feelings she had in the presence of anything that had belonged to the evil devil who had tormented her so. Trace understood what she tried to convey, and he had a great deal of compassion for her. But there was a matter of practicality to be considered—it would be a hell of a lot easier for her to ride with a saddle than bareback. He tried to convince her that the man’s things couldn’t hurt her—they were just things. Besides, as far as his saddle was concerned, Crown’s evil was in his mind, not in his ass, so the saddle couldn’t hurt her. In the end Trace switched saddles, putting his on Jamie’s horse and using Crown’s himself.

  Jamie was further alarmed when he told her that he was not taking her back to Promise Valley right away. He explained that there were a couple of loose ends that he was obligated to tie up. Foremost was the matter of Jack Plum. That was a matter he had promised himself that he would take care of. He might not be required to take any action, depending upon whether or not Ox had been able to run Plum to ground. But he seriously doubted that Ox could have succeeded. Plum was far too clever for the simple giant. Trace hoped, for Ox’s sake, that the big fellow had not caught up with Plum. Regardless, he had to return to Boss Pritchard’s cabin because he had given his word to Ox that he would meet him there.

  Jamie was astonished to learn that Ox was still alive. His wounds had appeared to be mortal when Plum had left him beside the trail to die. While she wanted desperately to go home, still she felt indebted to the big man who had tried to help her escape, so she did not plead with Trace to abandon Ox.

  There were other reasons why Trace wanted to return to the cabin. He had been studying the sky that morning, and he didn’t like the look of the clouds moving in from the north. There were a few high mountain passes between here and Promise Valley, and he didn’t relish the idea of getting cut off by a snowstorm. It would be better to have a warm cabin in which to wait out the storm, stocked with provisions to last until spring if necessary. It wouldn’t hurt if Jamie had a little more time to heal up some before I take her back to her daddy, anyway, Trace thought, but he did not say that to Jamie.

  CHAPTER 13

  Almost certain now that there had been no more than two men who had attacked them at the cabin, Plum worked it over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more his anger erupted inside him. Two men! he thought. And one of them a half-wit. If he had known there were only two, he would have gone back inside and retrieved his rifle. He and Sowers could have held them off from the cabin. He cursed himself for not taking a shot at the bastard on the roof, but he had thought he barely had time to escape an Indian war party. We’ll see who scalps who now, by God! He turned his horse toward the bluffs above him and started working his way back. Below him, on the riverbank, Ox followed his trail. The two men passed within a hundred yards of each other, neither aware of the other.

  * * *

  Ox followed the obvious tracks in the snow, moving cautiously, stopping often to search the way ahead with his eyes before proceeding. Plum was as sly as a fox, as Ox was only too well aware. Trace had warned him to be careful and not take any chances, but it had been an unnecessary warning. Ox knew that Plum was the meanest man he’d ever seen—maybe with the exception of Crown. But that was the main reason Ox had insisted upon leaving Trace and going after Plum. His conscience was bothering him pretty badly—not just because he had fired prematurely back at the cabin, allowing Plum to escape, but for more serious reasons. He had stood by and done nothing to help Jamie when Plum was treating her so cruelly. If he had known that Jamie wasn’t really Plum’s wife, he might have stood up to the man. But he would make up for it now. He would follow Plum all the way to Canada if he had to.

  Ox had tracked Plum through the snow for no more than three miles when his trail suddenly turned away from the river and climbed up into the bluffs. Following doggedly after him, Ox was surprised to find that once he had gained the top of the bluffs, Plum had turned around and was now headed back the way he had come. Going back for the horses! Ox thought. Trace said he would. He whipped his horse for more speed. He should have known that Plum would never leave all his horses and plunder. He wished then that he had waited back at the cabin for him to show up.

  Ox couldn’t tell if he was gaining any ground on Plum or not, but he knew he was within half a mile of the cabin, and there was still no sign of him. He would have to be very careful now. It wouldn’t do for him to run up on Plum by surprise. Coming to the rise where he and Trace had kept watch on the little log shack below, Ox got off his horse and continued on down the slope on foot. Careful and alert, he took his time descending toward the cabin, his rifle charged and cocked. Before passing the clump of snow-covered bushes where he had hidden before, waiting for Sowers to come out, he paused and took a good look around. He saw smoke coming from the chimney and behind the cabin, in the trees, he saw that three of the horses had wandered back—Ox couldn’t tell if they had been hobbled or not. It looked like Plum figured everybody was gone and he was left with all the plunder.

  This called for some thought on Ox’s part. It was apparent that Plum was in the cabin. And if Plum was watching the slope, he would be sure to see Ox long before he reached the bottom. Ox needed the element of surprise. Plum was fast and he was slick, too dangerous to be given any advance warning. Ox looked around him, trying to find a better way to advance on the shack. The best, he decided, would be to circle around to the back, the same way Trace had gone when he sneaked up to the cabin. If he stayed low, he could use the bushes for a screen for most of the way until he reached the pines that started halfway up the slope. Once he reached them, he could make his way down to the river and come up through the cottonwoods behind the cabin.

  Because of the snow and the circuitous route Ox had to take, more than half an hour elapsed before he reached the trees where the horses were. Plum had hobbled them, he noted, and there, up close to the cabin, he saw Sowers’s horse. Ol’ Sowers ain’t gonna like that, he thought, forgetting for the moment that Sowers was dead. Making his way slowly toward the cabin, Ox held his rifle before him, ready to fire at the first sign of movement from inside. At the back corner of the log structure, he stopped to listen. There was no sound but the wind and the heavy thump of his own heart as it beat against his chest. Inch by inch, he worked his way along the side of the cabin, placing each foot carefully to avoid making noise on the hard-crusted snow until he reached one of the small rifle ports that Boss Pritchard had cut on each side of his cabin to shoot through in case of attack. Slowly and silently, Ox stuck the barrel of his rifle through the port, just far enough to push aside the hide covering. As the wind swirled around the cabin, sweeping smoke from the chimney down around him, he peeked inside. Plum w
as rolled up in a thick robe, sleeping before the fireplace. Ox would have shot him then, but the port was not wide enough to bring his rifle to bear on the sleeping form—and he could not risk a miss. As slowly and quietly as he could manage, he withdrew the rifle barrel from the port and continued along the side of the cabin until he reached the front.

  At the door now, he paused again and readied himself for the attack. The element of surprise was extremely important. Checking his weapon once more, he stood with one hand on his rifle and the other on the door handle. One deep breath and he suddenly yanked the door open and stepped inside, firing into the form lying before the fire. The crack of the rifle echoed inside the tiny cabin, the sound reverberating off the log walls. Not waiting to assess the damage of his first shot, Ox dropped the rifle and pulled the pistol from his belt, sending another lead ball after the first. Two shots dead center, and the form did not move. Ox knew at once that he had been tricked. In a panic now to reload his weapons, he turned to find Plum pointing a rifle directly at his head.

  “Well, now, if it ain’t my old friend Ox.” Plum’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t,” he cautioned when Ox started to raise his empty pistol, “I’d put a ball between your eyes before you could swing it.” When Ox dropped his hand to his side, Plum continued talking. “How many times have I gotta kill you? I thought you woulda learnt the first time that it don’t pay to double-cross Jack Plum. And now you’ve done shot a good buffalo hide full of holes. Why, I halfway think you was planning to do me some hurt.”

  “I was gonna kill you. You shouldn’ta been so mean to that woman, Plum,” Ox scolded. “You’re an evil man.” He stood there waiting, like a calf before the slaughter.