The Search for Soaring Hawk

by Terry O'Reilly

  “You watch out there, Dex, or ya’ll be dealin’ with a cold fire and empty pots,” Tanner retorted.

  Sam could tell this banter was a usual occurrence between the two.

  “Sounds good,” Sam said somewhat hesitantly. Once more he felt the tug of the tribe and shuddered at how quickly he was being assimilated into this new world.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” Dexter asked.

  “No, I was just thinking about how my life was changing so fast. I’d really like the chance to work for you. Don’t know about that room, though. Not used to being inside much.”

  “I surely understand ya must be a might confused with your life right now, and I understand about the room. You may change yer mind, though, come winter. But good! I’m happy to have ya take me up on ma offer. Think ya’d be ready to go on this trip tomorrow? I got me an extra horse ya could use.”

  Sam smiled. “I won’t need your horse. I got two of my own.”

  “Well, shit, I got me a first-class trapper and he comes all set with his own horses. I’m a lucky man,” Dexter said with a laugh and a one-armed bear hug around Sam’s shoulders.

  “I was wondering,” Sam added, “is the man with the yellow hair one of the men you mentioned?”

  Dexter gave him a thoughtful look and slightly raised one eyebrow. “No, that’d be Nils, Nils Bjorn. He’s not a trapper. He’s a settler. Got himself a small place south a here. Comes in here a couple times a month for supplies.”

  Sam merely nodded in response, not wanting to reveal more than he might already have regarding his interest in the young man.

  * * * The next morning, the five men rode through the quiet forest, usually single file as the trail was so narrow. At times, it widened, and when it did, Russell usually rode next to Sam. Russell filled Sam in on the pattern of a trip like this. The first day they’d ride to a campsite and set up. The day following they’d go out, set traps along the river for beaver and muskrat, then hunt for any prey that would provide a good pelt. After that, they’d check the traps and bring in the kill for skinning.

  Sam became uneasy with this description of the work he’d be doing. Raised as an Indian, he had been taught you only killed for food when necessary. They used the skins for shelter and clothing and the bones to make tools. They did not approve of killing for the sake of killing.

  “Yeah,” Russell was saying, “we gotta go ferther south now. Lots of settlers movin’ in up north and them Frenchies are takin’ over that territory for trappin’ and tradin’. Game’s getting harder to find all the time.”

  About that time, Bernard, who seemed to be the man in charge of the operation, turned in his saddle and addressed the group. “We’re about a mile from camp. Russell, you take Sam and hunt us up some dinner. We’ll go on ahead and get things set.”

  Sam and Russell voiced their assent to the plan, pulled up and dismounted. They tethered the horses and began to make their way through the woods.

  “You need to get yourself a saddle,” Russell said. “No need,” Sam replied. “I’ve never needed one and I don’t need one now.”

  “You do need a rifle. How do you expect to bring in game usin’ a bow?”

  Sam looked at his partner. “Russell, I was raised hunting with a bow. How do you think my people feed themselves? The game didn’t just wander into the village and hop into the cooking pots.”

  Russell started to say something more, but Sam shushed him. “How are we supposed to hunt with you talking all the time?”

  “That’s what everybody says,” Russell replied, but he quit talking.

  As they approached a small meadow, Sam said, “You stay here. With all the noise you make, we’ll never find any game for dinner.”

  Russell began to protest, but a look from Sam quieted him.

  Sam walked silently into the meadow. Almost immediately there was a whirring of wings and the telltale cluck, cluck of a pheasant taking flight. With one swift movement, an arrow found its mark and the bird fell.

  “Hot dang,” Russell yelled from the trees. “You’re good.”

  Sam just shook his head as he brought the pheasant back to him. There he held the bird on its back in his hands and spoke in his native tongue. Then he held it to his mouth and breathed onto its face.

  “What’s that fer? What you sayin’?”

  “I’m thanking the bird for offering its life to nourish us. Then I breathed on it to release its spirit to live again in the above.”

  Russell looked at him quizzically. Sam realized this white man had no concept of what he had done or what it meant. He smiled and began explaining more of the ways of the tribe.

  Russell listened intently, and when Sam was finished he said, “I never really looked at killin’ that way. Kinda makes you think don’t it?”

  Sam nodded, but he was realizing that living among the white man was going to be a challenge.

  Later, the two returned to the horses with several rabbits and two more pheasants. They rode the last mile to the camp the others had set up.

  Arriving, shouts of gratitude greeted them for bringing such a bountiful harvest. “Hey, Russell,” one of the men taunted, “we got us a hunter. Maybe we’ll get to eat our fill for a change.”

  All the men set to work dressing out the animals, carefully skinning the rabbits to bring their fur back to the post for sale.

  After eating, as the sun was setting, the men sat around the fire. Charlie produced a bottle from his bedroll and it was passed around the group. When it reached Sam, he hesitated.

  “It’s whiskey,” said Charlie. “Take a swig. It’ll put hair on yer chest.”

  “He’s already got that,” Russell sang out.

  The men laughed. “Knowing you, I’m not surprised you’d a found that out already,” Bernard said.

  Sam took a small mouthful. It tasted awful and made him shudder. It burned going down his throat. He coughed.

  “Ah,” he said. “Why do you drink this? It’s terrible.”

  The men laughed.

  “You’ll see after a couple more drinks,” said Henry.

  The bottle came around several more times, and each time Sam’s reaction lessened. He also was beginning to relax. He had a warm feeling of affection growing within him for the men of the group. He thought of Russell and his offer to spend the night and felt a tingle in his groin.

  Maybe tonight when the camp is quiet…

  The men were talking about trapping and the Frenchies. Then Charlie brought up the name Lulubelle.

  “Yeah,” he was saying, “she has the best tits I ever played with…and that ass of hers, so round and plump. Man, I shore wish she was here right now.”

  Sam had no idea who this Lulubelle was, but the rest of the men seemed to know and appreciate her endowments. Each talked about her and then offered the names of other women they apparently had known. Sam noticed a couple of them were rubbing their crotches.

  They all seemed to be bemoaning the fact there were no women around, when Henry said, “Hell, we ain’t got us no pussy, but we got the next best thing. Hey, Russell, how about it?”

  “Shit, I thought you’d never git ’round to askin’,” Russell said, jumping unsteadily to his feet and starting to fiddle with the tie string of his deerskin pants.

  The other men also stood, undid their pants and slid them down to their knees. They sat back down and started fondling themselves. The bottle made its way around the circle again. This time Sam refused.

  Sam watched as the genitals of the men grew in size and length. They hooted and called to Russell to be first in line. Russell completely removed his pants and dropped to his knees in front of Bernard. He engulfed the man’s thick, hair-shrouded member and made guttural sounds of pleasure. Bernard grasped the sides of Russell’s head and thrust his hips, making the smaller man gag.

  Bernard quickly pulled Russell off. “That’ll do for now. Don’t want to shoot too soon. Get that mouth of yours over to Charlie. He’s about to give it up in his hand.”


  Russell crawled over to Charlie and repeated his performance. It didn’t take Charlie long until he roared like a cornered bear. Sam could see the excess of the man’s seed dribbling out of the side of Russell’s mouth.

  “Shit,” Charlie said, “I wanted to hold off.”

  “There’s always tomorrow,” said Russell, leaning forward and licking the last of the semen from the tip of Charlie’s softening penis.

  Charlie reached out and ruffled Russell’s hair. Then leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.

  “My turn,” Henry called out. “Only I want to get right to the point of all this.”

  Russell laughed and stood up. He began to work his hand into his ass crack, rubbing in the excess semen he had wiped from his face. He turned around and backed up to Henry, who remained seated. Spreading his cheeks, he positioned himself over the long, erect phallus.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” he sang out as he impaled himself on the turgid shaft.

  “Oh, man! Oh, shit! Yeah, yeah,” Henry cried out over and over as Russell bounced up and down on his lap.

  Sam watched as Russell’s swollen member flopped and bounced as well. After several minutes, Henry grabbed his partner’s hips and held him tightly in place. He arched his back and stifled a moan into Russell’s back as he erupted into the man. Russell grabbed his own cock and pumped it furiously, leaning back against Henry, breathing raggedly. Several long streams of his seed flew from the tip of his inflated organ, illuminated momentarily by the firelight as they flew through the air.

  The two sat breathing heavily for a few seconds. Then Bernard called out, “Get over here and finish me off, ’fore I do it maself.”

  Russell rose, and Henry’s still-hard cock slid out of his ass. He walked over to Bernard.

  “You know how I like it,” the man said.

  Russell lay on his back and raised his legs, spreading them wide. Bernard got up. Sam was amazed at the size of the man’s organ. Surely, Russell would not be able to take all that inside him.

  Bernard kneeled down. “You ready, sweetheart?” he asked almost tenderly.

  Russell nodded.

  The big man pressed the head of his monstrously large member against the entry. Sam held his breath along with Russell. Slowly, gently, Bernard pressed. Sam watched as the head disappeared within Russell’s body. Then ever so slowly, the thick shaft followed, until the dense tangle of pubic hair was surrounding Russell’s testicles. He remained motionless for several seconds. Then Russell nodded. Bernard started a rhythm.

  Sam noticed Henry was stroking himself in time as he watched the union of the two men. Soon the rhythm of both men became erratic. Both men groaned and bellowed as they brought themselves to completion. Bernard lowered himself and lay down on his partner breathing heavily for several minutes. Then he got up, pulled Russell to his feet and gave him a huge bear hug.

  “You got yourself one more customer,” Bernard said, indicating Sam.

  Russell smiled and walked toward him, his half hardness swaying as he did. He stopped in front of Sam.

  “How can I help you?” he said with a huge smile.

  Sam just shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m…ah…fine.”

  He was hard and breathing deeply, but he just could not bring himself to participate in this orgy. Bernard, who had pulled his pants back up, came and stood behind Russell.

  “He’s good. Almost as good as any woman,” he said.

  “Ah, I’m sure he is, but I’m fine, really.”

  “Suit yerself,” Bernard said, and walked back to where he had been seated. He took a swig from the bottle passed to him.

  Russell shrugged his shoulders. A look of distinct disappointment on his face, he turned away. Sam felt a surge of compassion for him. He almost reached out to him.

  * * * The camp was quiet. Sam lay on his back, staring up at the stars through the branches of the trees.

  It’s no different here. Yes, they treated Russell with more respect than the men of the village treated Lean Bear. They’d even shown him some affection, but it was the same. A man who needed other men was only there to satisfy those in need.

  What would be his fate if they knew he was of the same spirit as Russell? Would they expect him to let them use him? He would not take that chance. He turned on his side. He could see Russell’s silhouette as he slept between him and the fire. He wished he could cradle him in his arms and let him know he understood. But he would not do that. He would guard his secret.

  With that sad thought, he fell asleep.

  * * * “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?” Dexter asked Sam as they sat at the long trestle table after the men had finished eating and had gone their separate ways.

  Tanner was clearing off the remains of dinner.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sam countered.

  “Well, ya been here a month now. At first, ya seemed pretty

  satisfied. But now ya seem sad somehow. So, what’s goin’ on?” Sam considered what to say. He liked Dexter. He liked all the men he trapped with. He appreciated the way Dexter had taken him on. However, two things weighed heavily on him. One he would share with the man. The secret he was guarding he couldn’t. Finally, he said, “I guess I’m still more Indian than I thought.”

  “Meanin’?” Sam sighed. “I know white men look at things differently than do Indians. They look at life in a different way. To the Indian, all living things have a spirit, an inner being that is respected.”

  Sam paused. Dexter looked at him and waited for him to continue.

  “I’m not judging you or the men. It’s just that the way I was raised, I cannot continue to hunt, trap and kill just to make money from the animals. They’re left to rot in the forest. We don’t use them for food and they’re not given the honor they deserve. I know that sounds crazy to you, but that’s my belief. I am a white man, but after all those years in the village…” He let his voice trail off.

  “I guess that means you’re thinkin’ a movin’ on?”

  Sam looked him directly in the eye. “Yes.”

  “Damn. You’re a fine hunter and trapper. You skin them critters cleaner than I can.”

  Sam was about to say he was sorry when Dexter spoke again.

  “But though I’d like ta try ta talk you outta it, I gotta respect your way a thinkin’. Where’ll you go? Got any ideas?”

  “No,” Sam said. As he said that simple word, he realized how small his world was—the village, the trading post and the hunting land surrounding it. He didn’t even know which direction to think of taking. He stared at the rough lines of the log table.

  “Well, I got me one for ya.”

  Sam looked up.

  “Ya know that fella Nils Bjorn? The one that was here the day you came?”

  Yes, Sam remembered him. Many were the nights when he had been seeking relief by his hand, and the image of the handsome blond man had risen before closed eyes just as he had come to his peak. Sam nodded.

  “Well, he was in the other day while you was out on a trip. He’s lookin’ for some help with clearing more a his land and building a cabin. Don’t know what he’s livin’ in now. Anyways, I bet he’d take ya on if you was interested.”

  Sam felt his heart begin to pound and tightness come to his groin. “I’d be interested,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Sounds like ya got yerself a plan then,” said Dexter, rising from the table just as Tanner walked up beside him.

  “And, who knows, you may find just what you’re looking for. I got me a feelin’ that things are gonna work out fer ya in every way.”

  Dexter smiled what Sam took for a wise fatherly smile. At the same time, he laid one arm across Tanner’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Tanner looked at Dexter and smiled, then looked back at Sam.

  Sam smiled at the two men. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE CABIN

  Following the directions Dex
ter had given him, Sam rode south, away from the trading post in the warm October sunshine. The men had given him a fair send-off. They all seemed sorry to see him leave; no one more so than Russell, who had shed some tears at their parting.

  Sam rode uncomfortably. He had decided to get a saddle. He figured he would fit in better in the white man’s world, with fewer questions, if he looked more like one of them. He didn’t like having his movement restricted, nor did he care for feeling out of touch with the horse beneath him.

  Along with the saddle had come a rifle. This was a gift from the men. He figured Russell was at the bottom of that as, despite being impressed with Sam’s prowess with a bow, he still often expressed his opinion on the superiority of firearms. The rifle would also help him blend in with the whites.

  Behind him, he ponied his second horse loaded with his new clothing, a few supplies and two bags of money Dexter had held safe for him.

  Reaching a place where the trail Dexter had set him on intersected with a stream, he dismounted. He tethered the horses and squatted at the water’s edge, taking several handfuls of the cold, clear liquid in his cupped palms. He then sat down with his back against the trunk of a gnarled old oak tree. Resting his head against the tree, he closed his eyes.

  “Well, Samuel Hawkins,” came a low growly voice, “how are you doing in this life among the white men?”

  Sam’s eyes flew open. The bear was lying in front of him, his great paws crossed.

  Astonished, Sam’s jaw dropped.

  “I asked you a question,” the bear repeated.

  “I’m…I’m doing all right,” Sam finally managed to get out.

  “Are you sure? You left the trading post.”

  “He left because there are many things about the white man’s world that are troubling him,” came another voice, this one from the branches of the oak.

  Sam looked up. There above him was the hawk. The bird unfurled its wings and glided to the ground, gracefully landing next to the shaggy bear.