He realized what he said sounded crazy. “Never mind. It was just a
thought. You are right…it is crazy talk.”
The men lay down in each other’s arms. Soaring Hawk thought
of what he had just proposed. He sighed. There must be a way.
There must be a place where they could find peace and acceptance.
He drifted off to sleep.
* * * It was late afternoon. He had worked many hours getting the furs ready for the traders to pick up the next day. They would be exchanged for tools, fabrics, vessels to cook in. The people gained much from trading furs. Now he was on his way to be with Lean Bear.
Ever since the night he had suggested they leave the village, he had not been able to get the thought out of his mind. He understood Lean Bear’s hesitancy: fear of the white man, separation from his people, no certainty it would be any better for them in the other world.
He had the same concerns. But overriding them was his desire to be with Lean Bear in a way freeing them both from the cultural influences dictating men such as they had to live as objects to be used by other men, with no chance of a life on their own terms.
When he reached the lodge, he pulled the elk robe back from the door and entered without hesitation. What he saw almost caused him to become physically sick. White Wolf was just finishing with his man. The brave stood, wiping his still dripping erect penis on Lean Bear’s butt.
“Ah, Soaring Hawk,” White Wolf said with a laugh. “He’s all warmed up and ready for you. I have finished with him.”
Rage surged through Soaring Hawk’s body. His fists clenched; his jaw became rigid. He saw Lean Bear turn his head and begin to rise from his knees, a look of agony on his face.
“Ho, Lean Bear, just stay down there. You have another visitor.” White Wolf placed his foot on Lean Bear’s back and pushed him down to the mat.
Soaring Hawk was shaking with anger. White Wolf walked past him, misconstruing his reaction.
“I can see you’re in great need. Go. He knows how to satisfy well.” With those words, he left the lodge.
Soaring Hawk stood in the doorway, looking at Lean Bear, who now lay on the matt, curled up in a ball.
His emotions ranged from fury at White Wolf, to bitterness at the mores of his people that allowed this, to compassion for the man he had come to love, who now lay before him in abject humiliation. He had assumed Lean Bear was still allowing men to use him, but actually witnessing it had brought the reality home to him in full force.
Letting the compassion he felt take the central role, he went to him and pulled him into his arms. The two sat. Lean Bear propped against Soaring Hawk’s chest, his legs drawn up, his arms folded against his own chest. He did not cry, but made whimpering sounds, like an animal in pain.
“We must leave,” Soaring Hawk said, trying his best to make his voice steady and soothing. “We’ll leave tonight. I’ll take my share of the furs. I have two horses And we can go while the village is quiet. We’ll go to the trading…”
“Yes,” Lean Bear said. “Yes, but it’s you who will go. I’ll remain here.”
“No! Why? Why will you not come with me?”
“I’m too frightened by what’s out there. I fear the white man. I cannot go.”
“Then I will stay,” said Soaring Hawk desperately.
“No. If you stay, what happened today will happen again. I cannot stand to have you see me like this and to know how much it hurts you. You must leave as we cannot go on this way. It would tear us both apart and lead to your downfall. Your anger would betray you. I could see, in your anger, you were ready to do White Wolf harm. You must go, tonight if you must, but go.”
Soaring Hawk tried to think. He knew he had been only seconds from attacking the brave who had violated what he considered to be his. He cried out in frustration and rage. He sat rocking Lean Bear back and forth, his eyes clenched tightly shut, praying this was a dream and he would wake. When he did open his eyes, he looked into the fire. There he saw an image of the bear. The last words the bear had spoken came back to him.
It would be good to keep in mind the name by which your mother calls you.
He held Lean Bear close one last time.
CHAPTER 4
SAMUEL HAWKINS
“Lookie what I found sneakin’ around outside. Sez ’is name’s Sam Hawkins. He’s lyin’. Ya can tell by what he’s wearin’. Looks like an Indian to me shore ’nough.”
Sam was pushed inside a log building. It seemed to serve as both trading post and general store for the small settlement along the Mississippi River. Once fully inside, he looked around warily. The four or five men present turned to look in his direction.
Pulling himself free from his captor’s grasp, he squared his shoulders and looked back at the men. They were dressed in deerskin for the most part. They wore hats made of fur. Most had full beards. Sam knew these men were trappers and fur traders. They looked similar to the men who came to the village to trade.
“I’m no Indian,” he said with authority. Immediately he felt a twinge of pain in his heart, as with those few words, he denied his heritage. “And I wasn’t sneakin’ around. I was just tryin’ to figure out how to get in here. I have some skins to trade.”
“He shore don’t sound like no Injun,” said one of the men. “He talks better English than you do, Russell.”
The men all laughed.
“Well, then, where’s them skins he’s talkin’ ’bout?” the man, apparently Russell, his captor, replied defiantly.
“I’ve got them hidden in the woods. I’ll bring um in here if you give me a chance,” Sam shot back in the same strong voice he had used earlier.
A tall, heavyset bearded man came forward from behind a counter piled high with furs and animal skins. He extended his hand to the young man, and introduced himself.
“I’m Dexter Manningham. I run this post. Thought I heard the name Sam Hawkins?”
Sam took the proffered hand. “That’s right.”
“Well, Sam, guess you kin forgive old Russell here for being confused, cuz with your clothes and all, you look for a sure enough Indian.”
Sam nodded. Scanning the room, he saw all eyes were still on him. He decided it would be good to get his story out.
“I was raised by a tribe up north. My mother and I were captured by the Shawnee and brought there to be traded. She married River Runs Deep, and he adopted me.”
Father, forgive me for denying you. Sam’s heart ached. “I came of age,” he continued, “and decided to find out what my own people are like.” Again, his words caused a deep twinge within him.
“River Runs Deep? Ain’t he the chief of that tribe?”
“That’s right, Dexter,” said another of the men. “We did some tradin’ with his tribe a while back before them Frenchmen took over that area. Ain’t been up that way in a few years.” The man looked closely at Sam.
“Seem to ’member he had a son. What was ’is name? Soarin’ somethin’.”
“Soaring Hawk,” someone else added.
“That musta been you.”
“Yes,” Sam said simply, doing his best to hide the misery he was feeling at his betrayal of his people.
As he raised his eyes to meet those of the man speaking to him, he saw, standing beyond the group gathered in the trading area, another man. This man was not dressed in animal skins as the trappers and traders were, but rather in a shirt of an unfamiliar material in a pattern of overlapping squares. Sam immediately felt a strong stirring in his groin. The man had a handsome face and was powerfully built. He had hair the color of yellow flowers. Even at a distance Sam could see he had eyes as blue as his mother’s. He was staring intently back at Sam.
“Well, Russell, that seems to clear up the question of who you found ‘sneakin’’ around,” said Dexter. Then to Sam, “You go on out and get them skins. Yer welcome to bring ’em in fer tradin’.”
Sam acknowledged the invitation and left the building. As h
e did, he glanced over his shoulder. The young man with the yellow hair was still looking at him.
* * * He returned some time later with his load of pelts. After bringing them into the trading post, he laid them on an empty table. The men gathered around. There were exclamations of admiration for the quality of the barter.
Sam looked expectantly around the group. The man with the yellow hair was not there.
“Hold on there,” Dexter said with a laugh. “Don’t wanna give this here fella the idea he can get some extra outta me.” He turned to Sam. “Only joshin’. This here’s good stuff. I ain’t ’fraid to give you top dollar.”
Sam smiled his thanks. “I’m goin’ to have to trust you, Dexter,” he said. “Having been raised among the people, I don’t have a handle on how your money works.”
“You can trust me, son,” Dexter replied.
Sam felt he could.
Dexter and his assistant, Tanner, carefully went over the pile of furs, examining and cataloging each one. Sam noted that here in the trading post, dealing with a man they considered one of their own, his goods were getting a more complete evaluation than the traders gave the same quality fur back in the village. He realized angrily that the people had probably been given much less than they deserved for the caliber of product they were offering.
He wandered into the general store as the two men assessed his pelts. He looked at the shelves of foodstuffs and racks of tools. He walked through the tables laden with articles of clothing—shirts, pants, overalls, jackets. In crates at the ends of the tables were hats, gloves and scarves. All this was strange to him and he wished he had someone to help him to make some selections to begin his transformation into Samuel Hawkins. Along with this thought came the image of the man with the straw-colored hair and blue eyes, and the realization he was disappointed the man was no longer present. In the end, it was Russell, who now seemed to want to be his friend as firmly as he had once intended to be his enemy, who helped him pick out some shirts, pants, a jacket, some socks, boots, underwear and a union suit. The latter, Sam regarded with deep suspicion.
Russell led Sam to a small room in the back of the store. Here he supervised his changing into his white man’s clothing. Sam dropped his breechclout. He now stood completely disrobed before his mentor. Russell stood holding a pair of underwear in one hand, looking Sam up and down with obvious appreciation.
“Well, golly, if’n I’d seen all this,” he said reaching out and running his fingers through Sam’s dark chest hair, “I’d never mistook you for no Indian. Ain’t never seen no Indian with this much fur.” He chuckled.
Sam trembled slightly under the touch of Russell’s fingers. He felt his cock grow longer and heavier. His response was not lost on Russell, who gave his nipple a small squeeze, smiled and winked at Sam.
Embarrassed, Sam grabbed the shorts out of Russell’s hand and stepped into them. His semi-hard penis flopped out of the slit and he hurriedly tried to stuff it back inside. Russell laughed.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking hold of the pouch that hung around Sam’s neck.
Sam gently removed it from Russell’s hand. “Just something to remind me of home,” he said, thinking of the denials of his father and his heritage he had already made that morning.
Once Sam had finished with his dressing instruction, he returned to the main floor of the trading post. The proprietor greeted him. They went over the transaction for the skins and deducted the price of the supplies Sam had purchased. His final tally was nearly five hundred dollars. He had no way to gauge what this meant. Russell whistled through his teeth, however, and called him “one rich son of a gun.”
“Well, Mr. Hawkins,” Dexter said, “if we get rid of that hair of yours, we’ve got us one right proper white man.”
The two or three men still in the building all laughed. Sam managed a small laugh as well, but the thought of cutting his hair caused him much anguish. To a brave, long hair was a sign of strength and virility. Yet he knew if he were to gain acceptance in the white man’s world, he had to break his ties with his past.
“Anyone here want to do that for me?” he asked with determination.
“Tanner kin,” Russell piped up.
“Yup, I kin,” said the man who had helped Dexter with the assessment of Sam’s skins.
Sam took a deep breath. “Let’s have at it then. Might as well get this done now as later.”
Dexter seemed to sense something of the turmoil brewing inside him and said, “Ya don’t have ta go all that way, son. Lots a men leave their hair long and tied back, Indian or no.”
“No, let’s do it,” Sam said with conviction. He’d made his decision. He was Samuel Hawkins now. Soaring Hawk was to be left behind.
“All right then,” said Tanner. He left to get shears, while Russell sat Sam down in a chair, and one of the other men tied a large cloth around his neck. Tanner returned. Sam closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He could hear the snip, snip of the scissors and feel the weight of his hair lessening.
In fifteen minutes, Russell tapped him on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see his reflection in a mirror held before him. He stifled a gasp and fought to control a tear forming in the corner of his eye. Staring back at him from the glass was a handsome, young white man, his face framed in dark wavy hair, quite different from the brave who had sat down in the chair only moments before.
“This’ll fetch you another ten dollars,” Dexter was saying. “Those folks back east with their wigs and fancy hair pieces will pay top price for this.” He held aloft a long tail of black hair tied together at the end. “That’s if’n it’s all right with you?” he said looking deeply into Sam’s eyes.
Sam stared at the tresses hanging in space before him for a full second, then nodded to Dexter.
“I’ll add it to what I owe ya,” he said, “less Tanner’s fee for the cut.” He winked and chuckled.
* * * Later that night, Sam sat alone by the fire at his camp in the forest. Russell had asked him to stay with him. He’d said he had a room over the trading post. Sam had been tempted after what had transpired between them as he had changed clothes, but declined the invitation. He needed to be alone, to let his emotions catch up with the external changes that had taken place. He stared into the fire. He wished the bear would appear once again. He wanted to ask the spirit guide of the white side of his being if he was on the right path. But there was to be no reassurance that night. So, alone in the forest by the fire, Samuel Hawkins fell asleep.
Morning came, and Sam busied himself taking care of his needs and those of his horses. As he went about these tasks, he found he was restless, feeling empty and somewhat lost. He had accomplished his goal of leaving his people, making his way to the white man’s trading post, and taking on the identity of Samuel Hawkins.
But now what? He realized he had not thought beyond this point. If Lean Bear had come with him…but he hadn’t. Now Sam was alone and no closer to finding the life he desired than he had been back in the village.
Well, he thought, as he gathered firewood, at least here I won’t be expected to be used for other men’s pleasure unless I choose to be.
That thought reminded him of the brief encounter he’d had with Russell while changing clothes. He felt himself responding as his mind took the moment beyond the reality of what had transpired, to what might have been if he had accepted the invitation to spend the night. He liked Russell now that the issue of his being an Indian thief had been resolved. But would it be right for him, with his goal of finding love, to just be with a man? It would not be the same as being used as Lean Bear was, if both partners desired to pleasure the other and gain release, he reasoned. Sam shrugged and shook his head. He had no answer. Tasks finished and not knowing what else to do, he made his way back to the post.
Inside, he found only Dexter and Tanner going through the pelts that Sam had brought in the day before. They looked up as he entered. Dexter smiled and came around the long table and clapped hi
m on his shoulder.
“’Mornin’ Sam. How are you today?” “Good,” Sam returned, with a nod to Tanner, who had greeted him with a wave.
“How about a cup a Tanner’s coffee? If you kin call it that,” Dexter said with a laugh.
Sam was not sure what coffee was, but he accepted the offer.
Tanner walked over to the fire, where a large black pot sat on the grate. “Ain’t all that bad,” he muttered, as he poured a steaming black liquid into a tin cup. “It’s purty hot, so be careful,” he said handing Sam the cup.
“Hot’s about all that’s good about it,” said Dexter, keeping up the good-natured teasing.
“Don’t like ma cookin’, then you can just do fer yerself,” Tanner retorted as he went back to his work on the skins.
Sam took a sip. Dexter was right. Hot was about all you could say about the bitter tasting liquid. He didn’t think he was going to like this white man’s drink. He wrinkled his nose and shuddered.
Dexter laughed. “You’ll get used to it. After a bit you’ll feel like ya can’t start yer day without a couple a cups to wake ya up.”
Sam wasn’t sure about that, but nodded politely.
Looking around the room and over into the general store, he found he had a sense of disappointment. It took him a minute to realize he had somehow hoped to see the young man with the straw-colored hair and piercing blue eyes again.
“Where are the men?” he asked Dexter.
“Getting ready for a trappin’ expedition,” he replied. Then as if an idea had struck him, he added, “How’d you like a job workin’ fer me on the trap lines? These skins you brought in are top quality. I could use a man like you.”
Sam contemplated the offer. He had not thought of what he would do living among the whites. Now this opportunity had come his way. It matched the skills learned in his former life. It seemed a good idea.
“I think I’d like that,” he said. “What would I be doing?”
“Ya’d work with Bernard, Henry, Charlie and Russell. They go out fer sometimes a week at a time. Set traps, hunt, skin the kill and bring the skins back here. Sometimes they visit the local tribes and do some tradin’. I’d pay ya a good wage and give ya a room upstairs. Tanner ’ere would keep you fed, if you can stomach what he serves up.” Dexter chuckled again.
The Search for Soaring Hawk Page 6
