Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Plum grinned. “Well, I can’t argue with that. I was just hopin’ that it was that other son of a bitch trackin’ me insteada you.” He motioned with the rifle for Ox to step outside. “Who the hell was he, anyway?”

  Ox hesitated. Would Trace want him to tell Plum who he was? Ox didn’t know, and he was intent on doing the right thing for once. Finally he made up his mind that he didn’t have to tell Plum anything. “He’s my friend, and I ain’t gonna tell you his name. He don’t make fun of me like you and Crown do.”

  Plum smirked. “So he’s your friend, is he? Well, you overgrown simpleton, let me tell you what’s gonna happen to your friend—I’m gonna track him down and kill him. Whadaya think of that? I’m gonna cut his heart out and eat it.”

  Totally distressed by Plum’s cruel taunting, the childlike giant could not see that he was simply being goaded into a suicidal attack for no other reason than to provide entertainment. “You’ve hurt enough people,” Ox said, the excitement rising in his voice. “You leave Trace alone.”

  “Trace, is it?” Plum jeered. “I figured it might be that bastard the Injuns think is a damn hawk or somethin’. Well, your friend is gonna soon be a dead bird. I’m gonna string his guts up over a tree for the buzzards to eat . . . right after I’m done cuttin’ you up for coyote bait.”

  Ox could stand no more of it. Blind with rage, he suddenly let out a frustrated bellow, lowered his head, and charged like an angry bull with one thought in his mind—to protect Trace McCall. Plum never wiped the smile from his face as he pulled the trigger and deftly sidestepped the charging bull. Although the rifle ball split dead-center, right between Ox’s eyes, his momentum carried him rushing past Plum, and he crashed heavily to the ground. Unhurriedly, Plum drew his skinning knife from his belt and, grabbing Ox by the hair, pulled his head back. He slit the big man’s throat from ear to ear.

  “Now, you stupid son of a bitch, let’s see you come back from this one.”

  Ox’s corpse was too heavy to carry, so Plum tied a rope under his armpits and used his horse to drag it around behind the cabin, where he laid it beside those of Boss Pritchard and his two partners. He kicked a little snow over Ox to speed up the freezing process and make sure he wouldn’t begin to smell before the spring thaw. Plum still planned to occupy the cabin until then.

  His thoughts turned now to the man Ox had been so determined to protect. The name Trace meant nothing to Plum, but his common sense told him the odds were good that he had already met the man. Thinking back, he recalled the tall sandy-haired mountain man who had spoiled his plans to murder Paul Murdock’s family and steal his wagon. He had thought at the time that the man might be the same one that the Blackfeet called Mountain Hawk. Now he was even more convinced. Who else could it be? There had been no other evidence of a lone white trapper in these parts.

  Plum felt an urgency to deal with this mountain man who had now shown up twice to complicate his life. He had the sense to realize that Trace would not be as easy to dispose of as the moronic giant now lying underneath the snow behind the cabin. A little more cunning would be required perhaps, but Plum welcomed the challenge. The quicker the Mountain Hawk was dealt with, the sooner Plum could settle in the cabin and wait out the winter undisturbed.

  Plum studied the hundreds of tracks the horses had stamped in the snow. He was as good a tracker as most of the Blackfeet he had ridden with, and he knew what he was looking for. Trace had obviously split off and followed Crown and the girl, so it was no chore to find the fresher tracks of one horse and rider, following Crown’s older trail. As he gazed toward a point near the river’s bend where the tracks disappeared in the distance, Plum considered the man he would stalk. Trace was tracking Crown. What would likely happen if he caught up with his old partner? It was even money, in Plum’s mind, that Crown would get the best of that fight. On the other hand, if this Mountain Hawk happened to get the best of Crown, he might just take the girl and keep going. This possibility caused Plum to think about Jamie again. Maybe he had been a mite hasty to give Crown free rein with her. It was bound to be a long winter, and it would have been handy to have a woman to keep him warm. Then his sensible mind told him that if Crown was still alive, it most likely meant that both the mountain man and the girl were dead. I reckon we’ll just have to see what’s what. But I want that damn woman back.

  * * *

  Jamie lay still, wrapped in a warm buffalo hide, the hair side turned in to make a soft and snug bedroll. She had been awake now for several minutes, reluctant to open her eyes to acknowledge the morning. Her sleep had been deep and healing, free from the nightmares that had filled her dreams over these many weeks. Without opening her eyes, she knew that Trace was close by. She could hear him as he put wood on the fire and set a pot of snow in the ashes to make water for the coffee he had found in Crown’s pack. It was a good feeling—to know Trace was near. The wounds on her face and body were tender and painful still, but she didn’t care anymore because she knew she was safe. Finally she relented, giving in to the bright ray of sunshine that had focused on her face, and opened her eyes.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna sleep all day,” Trace said cheerfully when he glanced back and saw Jamie stirring.

  She started to smile, but winced when the effort reminded her of her battered lips. “I think I could sleep right through the day if I didn’t have to pee,” she frankly admitted.

  Leaving the coffeepot to heat in the coals, he moved to help her up. “Don’t get too feisty now,” he warned when she got to her feet too quickly and staggered a little. “You’ve took a helluva lot of punishment. You’re gonna have to build your strength back up.” He supported her with a hand on her arm. “Think you can make it?”

  She assured him that she could, and after taking a moment to steady herself, she took a dozen tentative steps away from the fire and squatted in the snow. Realizing at once what she had done and feeling suddenly embarrassed, she asked him to turn his back. Then she glanced back at him and discovered he had already done so. She was overcome by a sense of shame. For months she had been treated with no more respect than that given a camp dog, forced to relieve herself with someone watching her, usually making lewd remarks. Though degrading and humiliating, she had had no choice, and in time she became numb to the gawking of her captors. Now things were suddenly different, and she felt ashamed to have sought no privacy in Trace’s presence.

  Finishing as quickly as possible, she moved back to the fire, her steps still unsteady, humiliation flushing her face and tears gathering in her eyes. She started to apologize, but before she could speak, Trace interrupted.

  “It’s all right, Jamie. I understand. I know what you had to go through.”

  She nodded silently, her tears spilling over and streaking down her bruised cheeks. He took her arm and gently lowered her back onto her bedroll. “I reckon you’ve been as close to hell as a body can get without dying,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “Well, that’s all over now. We’ll have you back to your old self in no time.” He endowed her with a great big smile. “Especially with my cooking.” Forgetting her split lip again, she did her best to mirror his grin.

  In spite of Trace’s constant reassurances that she would be good as new in no time at all, Jamie knew that there was a wound deep inside her that she would never recover from. She felt a pox inside that had soiled her very soul—a feeling of rotting shame that no amount of cleansing could expunge. How, then, could she even hope to recover her life? Of what value were her dreams of Trace McCall now? Through no fault of her own, she had been ruined, abused and ridden like a brood mare until there was no trace of decency left to her.

  Sensing the cause of her sudden reluctance to talk and her growing despondency, Trace tried his best to take her mind off the treatment she had endured at the hands of her captors. He talked of her father and Buck Ransom, of the Bowens and Reverend Longstreet, and the other families waiting to welcome her back to Promise Valley. Nothing seemed to l
ift her spirits, and he feared that she was slipping into a permanent state of melancholia. They rode that day in virtual silence. Trace, not inclined to talk much himself as a rule, found it difficult to press a reluctant Jamie into any positive conversation. He soon gave up trying, and they rode on through the quiet of the snow-covered mountainsides.

  While Jamie’s thoughts were weighed heavily with guilt—for reasons she could not explain—still she was determined to piece her life back together. Her sadness came from the feeling that she must say farewell to the part of her that had embraced hopes of a life with marriage and children. In her mind, those prospects were lost forever. But there were other things to live for. She could go back to the valley and help build a home for her father. They could develop the little piece of land they had settled, plant crops, maybe even raise some cattle. Her life was not ended. One thing she promised herself, however; she would never be taken alive by Indians again. When she glanced ahead at the tall, straight figure of the mountain man, rocking easily with the motion of his horse, she no longer felt the old familiar tug on her heartstrings, but she was sure she would always have special feelings for Trace McCall.

  Even though he was eager to return to the cabin to meet Ox, Trace made camp early that afternoon. Jamie was holding her own, but he knew it was best to stop and let her rest. He was further hampered by leading four extra horses, not counting the one Jamie rode. Even making slow time, though, they would reach the cabin before noon the following day.

  Seeking a sheltered spot up under the bank of the river, Trace discovered a shallow cave that had been carved out by the waters during times when the river was high from spring flooding. He got a fire started and made a place for Jamie to rest at the back of the small alcove. Once he had her settled comfortably and had prepared something for her to eat, his next chore was to gather enough cottonwood limbs to strip for the extra horses he had to feed. From the looks of them, it appeared that Crown had neglected feeding them for several days.

  After the horses were fed and left to paw around under the trees that lined the riverbank, Trace settled himself by the fire and began roasting his supper. Saying nothing for a long time, Jamie watched the sandy-haired young man as he turned the strip of meat over the flame. Finally she broke her silence.

  “Trace, I want you to teach me how to shoot a gun,” she said.

  Somewhat surprised by her statement, he smiled and replied, “I thought you already knew how to shoot—just aim the gun and pull the trigger.”

  “I don’t mean that,” she responded quickly. “I know how to do that. I mean, I want you to show me how to load it and clean it, and how to hit what I’m aiming at.” She had made up her mind that she was not going to remain a helpless female in the event of another crisis.

  Trace thought back over the years to a time when Jamie was more tomboy than girl. She had gone hunting with him once, and she had fired a rifle that day. As he recalled, she had not proved especially handy with the weapon then. He couldn’t help but smile when he pictured her reaction when her shot had miraculously hit the target. “I suppose you should learn a little about guns,” he said. In his opinion, every woman west of the Missouri should know how to handle a rifle. “I’ll show you how to load it and keep it from fouling, but I ’spect we better wait till I get you back home before we do any target shooting.”

  He spent the better part of an hour teaching her to load and aim Crown’s rifle. He showed her how to clean it and how to handle misfires and jams. She practiced aiming at various trees and rocks, and hefting the weight of the weapon. “When we get back to Promise, we’ll do some target practice. That’s the only way to get to know the rifle’s habits—like a tendency to shoot high or low, left or right.”

  By the time the shadows lengthened, connecting with those on the far side of the river, she felt very comfortable with her rifle. She was not bothered by the fact that it used to be Crown’s rifle, as she had been with his saddle. Somehow a rifle seemed less personal than a saddle. Trace, relieved to see her thinking about something other than the pain she had suffered during the last few months, recognized the first signs that she was going to be all right again. He excused himself to check on the horses, feeling that Jamie’s wounds—even those deep inside—were on the way to healing.

  She watched him as he disappeared over the top of the bank and into the trees, tall and straight, striding effortlessly and as natural as any animal born in the mountains. It’s going to be damn hard to put you out of my mind, Trace McCall. Sighing inwardly, she brought her thoughts back to the river and concentrated on the icy ripples tugging at the rocks at the water’s edge. A movement at the edge of her vision caused her to start, and she felt her heart skip a beat. Alert now, she peered at a clump of brush on the far side of the river. She could have sworn she saw something move there. At first afraid, she started to call Trace, but hesitated lest it was only the wind blowing the leaves. But there it was again. This time she saw a definite moving of the bushes, and she began to back slowly farther up under the bank, never taking her eyes from the spot on the other bank.

  While she watched, her heart racing, a small gray head poked through the brush and drank from the river. “Damn!” she whispered. “A deer—you scared the hell outta me.” Relieved, she almost laughed out loud. Then she realized it was the perfect opportunity to test her proficiency with the rifle. Moving very deliberately so as not to startle the unsuspecting animal, she measured the powder and poured it down the barrel, selected a lead ball and a patch, ramming them down, and picked a percussion cap out of the skin pouch. Ready now, she very slowly cocked the hammer back and brought the rifle to her shoulder. Remembering what Trace had told her, she took a breath, held it, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  She felt the butt slam against her shoulder as the sharp crack of the rifle split the evening calm, scattering a brace of birds nesting in a nearby bush, their wings beating a staccato retreat into the trees. The sudden explosion brought an involuntary squeal from Jamie herself. She almost squealed a second time when she saw the deer drop instantly, its head still in the water. Filled with newfound confidence, she rose to her feet and was about to wade out into the chilly water when Trace appeared on the bank above her, panting from running through the snow, his rifle ready, searching for the point of attack.

  “Jamie! What the hell . . .” He stopped himself from saying what he was thinking. It was a dumb thing she had done—that rifle shot could be heard for miles, announcing their presence to every Indian in the territory. Seeing the look of alarm in her eyes, he knew that it was pointless to scold her. The seriousness of her thoughtless action had just occurred to her.

  “Trace, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Damn, I’m sorry.” She glanced quickly to all sides, expecting to see hostiles converging upon them.

  He said nothing for a few moments while he considered the probability of an Indian hunting party being in this section of the mountains. What’s done is done, he decided. Finally, he spoke. “Pretty good shooting, but I reckon you’d best let me go fetch your kill for you.” He turned to head for his horse. “There’s a better place to ford the river downstream a ways,” he explained. Pausing at the top of the bank, he added, “I expect it would be best to go after game with my bow after this.”

  Jamie was furious, mostly with herself for being so stupid—but she was also a little mad at Trace for taking her blunder so calmly. He should have raised holy hell with her, for shooting at a deer. Instead he quietly let it pass like a benevolent and patient father. It was difficult to explain her feelings. It was just that she had finally resolved never ever to depend on anyone to take care of her again. It was the reason she asked Trace to teach her to shoot in the first place. Frustrated, she picked up a stone and threw it into the fire, sending sparks flying to land sizzling in the snow. Within fifteen minutes, Trace appeared on the other side of the river, riding bareback on his Indian pony to retrieve the deer.

  * * *

  Trace watched
Jamie while she reloaded her rifle. “This time, don’t shoot it unless there’s an Injun on the other end of it,” he said, grinning broadly. “Now I’m gonna take a little ride around this river bottom to make sure we ain’t got company coming to eat some of that deer you shot.” Her expression told him that she didn’t appreciate his humor.

  Guiding the paint up a snowy draw to the bluffs above the river, Trace made his way downriver beyond the point where he had forded to retrieve Jamie’s deer. There were no tracks in the clean white expanse of snow but his own. He stopped there on the bluff and listened, turning slowly to look in every direction before moving on. There was no sign of another living thing for as far as he could see in the growing gloom of evening. Soon it would be dark, so he crossed the river and scouted the other side to a point well above his camp. By that time, it was no longer possible to see farther than a few dozen yards, so he returned to the shallow ford and crossed back to the other side.

  When he returned, he found Jamie seated by the fire, her back to the steep riverbank, the rifle resting across her knees, keeping a sharp lookout. “It’s me, Jamie,” he called out when he rode into the trees where the horses were hobbled. “Don’t shoot that damn rifle.” After taking care of the horses, he began skinning the deer Jamie had killed. “I almost waited too late,” he said. “He’s damn near froze already.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Plum jerked back hard on the reins and listened.

  He smiled to himself when he was sure that he had heard the unmistakable sound of a Hawken rifle. Crown had a Hawken. Plum had heard the distinct crack of that rifle on more than a few occasions. Turning his head to minimize the whistling of the wind around his fur cap, he strained to catch any further sounds. One shot, that was all. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to have come from upwind—hard to say how far, maybe three or more miles. Feeling confident that he had found his prey, he dug his heels in his horse’s sides and loped off down the ridge toward the river. There would only be another hour of daylight, if that much, so he hurried to close the distance before darkness forced him to make camp for the night.