Black Eagle

by Charles G. West

  Putting himself in the Indian’s place, he followed the stream back, looking carefully at the banks as he went. When he came to an almost flat expanse of thick grass, it struck him at once. This is where I would leave the stream. Coming up out of the streambed, he dismounted and scoured the bank until he found the prints of two horses. He studied the prints for a moment and they answered a question he held in his mind. Black Eagle had not dumped Shorty’s body in the river. Both horses were still carrying a load.

  Jason figured the Indian was confident he had covered his trail sufficiently for there seemed to be no further effort to disguise it. The trail seemed to be leading in a general direction toward the hills to the south. He looked up at the sun. It was close to midday, plenty of time to reach the hills before dark, if the renegade stayed on this course.

  Another hour and he was making his way through a line of low hills that formed a skirt around the higher hills behind them. The trail became harder to follow at times due to some rocky stretches but he was able to pick it up again with no trouble. At one point, Black Eagle had paused on the brim of a deep ravine. Both horses stood there before getting under way again. Jason followed the trail away from the ravine until it cleared the rocky ground and came out in the short grass again. He pulled Black up short and dismounted, looking carefully at the prints. One of the horses was lighter now. Jason quickly mounted and galloped back to the ravine.

  The sides of the ravine were steep and rocky but Jason drove Black over the edge and the Appaloosa descended the sharp decline with surefooted speed. Jason could feel the jolt of his hooves as the horse pounded the rough hillside below him, the rider’s back almost lying on his horse’s rump. When finally the horse leveled out at the bottom of the ravine, Jason did not have to search far. There, under a stunted pine where it had come to rest, was the body of Shorty Boyd.

  Little Thunder, Jason thought as he looked at the crumpled little body, laying against the tree trunk. If not for the battered features and bald head with the few scraggly gray hairs over his ears, it might have been the body of a child. Jason dismounted and knelt beside the body. He gently turned it over and discovered the gaping slit in Shorty’s throat. In death, Shorty stared up at him with eyes permanently open and testifying that he had, in that last instant of life, seen his executioner.

  “Damn, Shorty,” Jason whispered. “Look what a mess I got you into.” He brushed the flies away from the raw, crusted side of the little scout’s face where half of his beard had been sliced off. “I will.” He answered the silent command that seemed to scream out to him from the unseeing eyes to avenge his death. “I’ll get him.”

  He knew time was important but he could not leave Shorty’s body exposed to the scavengers waiting to devour it. The only tool he carried was a hand axe but he managed to chop and scrape out a shallow grave under the limbs of the pine. Being as gentle as he could manage, he laid Shorty’s body in the grave and covered it with the loose dirt. Then he gathered enough rocks to pile on top to keep the predators away. When it was finished, he stood over it for a few seconds. “So long, Shorty. I was proud to ride with you,” he said and climbed back in the saddle.

  * * *

  Sergeant Woodcock did not wait to report to Colonel Fleming about the incident with the arrow in the roof. When Fleming heard Woodcock’s account of the message conveyed by the arrow, he immediately ordered Lieutenant Anderson, who happened to be standing there at the time, to take a couple of men and proceed to the Indian camp and investigate. Thad was met with the same stoic front that had faced Jason. No one knew or had seen anything. He returned to the fort knowing only that Shorty Boyd was missing and that Jason had been to the camp and rode out toward the river.

  “What in hell’s going on, Sergeant?” Colonel Fleming demanded of Wes after hearing Thad’s report.

  “I don’t know much more than you do, Sir, but I can tell you what my gut tells me.” He paused and, seeing the colonel’s impatience, he continued, “That arrow sure as hell told Jason Coles a lot more than he told me. For one thing, he said Shorty was dead and he hightailed it over there because he knew who done it. To me, that spells Black Eagle. I think Jason is on Black Eagle’s trail, and where Black Eagle is, so is our baby.”

  Fleming looked at his sergeant-major with a critical eye, evaluating the man’s gut feelings. He decided the sergeant was probably right. “All right, let’s get a patrol, troop size, in the field right away. Push across the river and find that damn hostile.”

  “Sir,” Thad volunteered. “I’d like to take B Troop after him.”

  Fleming studied the young lieutenant for a few seconds. “Anderson, your troop just returned from a search mission that covered an area to the south fork of the Powder. I admire your spirit but don’t you think your troop deserves a little rest?” When Thad seemed lost for an immediate answer, the colonel continued, “I think it best to send Captain Blevins out with H Troop.”

  Thad persisted. “Sir, you’re absolutely right. My men should have a day of rest . . . but I do not need one. Request permission to accompany Captain Blevins on this patrol.”

  Fleming was surprised. Young Anderson had never shirked his duty in the past but lately, since he returned from Fort Laramie, it seemed he was anxious to volunteer for every assignment that came up. Something had caused an attitude change in the man. Maybe he was just gravely concerned for the safety of the sergeant-major’s adopted son. “Very well, Lieutenant. You may accompany the patrol.” Thad was already running for the door. Fleming called after him, “And try to find Coles if possible. If anyone can find that Indian, Coles will.”

  Thad hurried out to intercept Captain Blevins, anxious to be in the saddle again. He could not tell the colonel that he welcomed any duty that could help keep his mind off of Martha Lynch. He had been tormented by the realization that he had lost the girl before he even had the opportunity to know her. The fact that she confessed strong feelings for him made it even worse. It would have been easier for him if she had rejected him at the start. There were so many things he wanted to say to her that would now lie silent in his heart and he blamed the military for the loneliness he must now be prepared to face. “Damn the army,” he muttered as he reined up beside Linus Blevins.

  “What?” Blevins asked, thinking Thad had spoken to him.

  “Nothing, Linus. I’m going to keep you company, that’s all.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the Platte, beyond the low rolling hills, to the higher slopes of the Laramie Mountains, a Cheyenne warrior sat before the fire, carefully applying red and black paint in wide bands from the bridge of his nose to the line of his jaw. Knowing that he was the object of a frantic search by the soldiers did not alarm him. In fact, it amused him, for he had supreme confidence in the power of his medicine to escape the clumsy efforts of the cavalry. Coles was another matter. It was for Coles he painted his face. He knew Coles would be coming. He rejoiced in the thought.

  Satisfied with the design on his face, he got up and went to the back of the cave where his uncle’s wife tended the little one. He stood over the woman and watched silently for a few minutes as White Feather prepared some corn cakes for the child. The boy had stopped whimpering for the moment and seemed to be resigned to his new surroundings.

  White Feather did not look up at her husband’s violent nephew but the thoughts running through her mind were causing her a great deal of anguish. She had cared for the child for one night and a day and she was certain of one thing . . . the baby was not the son of Stone Hand! This baby, though dark with black hair, had no trace of Cheyenne blood that she could determine. He was a white baby. Of that she was certain. If Black Eagle examined the baby closely, he would certainly come to the same conclusion and she feared what his reaction might be. He would certainly kill the boy and that would ensure the soldiers’ retaliation on her people. Her anxiety was doubled in that she also feared not to tell him.

  Black Eagle had endangered their little band of peacef
ul Cheyennes by his arrival in their camp—killing the white scout, snatching the white baby. Man Who Sings had told his nephew to hide the scout’s body and return the child but she knew Black Eagle had no intention of returning the baby. The soldiers would kill them all. The more she anguished over the matter, the more she felt only one solution offered hope. She must not tell Black Eagle of the boy’s true bloodline and, when she got an opportunity, she must steal away with the child and return him to the soldier fort. She would tell the soldiers she found the child on the prairie.

  Black Eagle tired of watching her and turned to leave. “I am going up on the cliff above the cave to talk to Man Above. When I return, I will eat before I go to hunt Coles.”

  He climbed up through the rocks to the top of the cliff. Settling himself on the very edge of the precipice so he could view the entire length of the deep ravine before him, he spread his arms and looked up into the sky. “O Great One, mighty spirit of the sky and mountains, hear my prayer. You, who have given me my strength and power and made my medicine strong, hear me this day. Help me avenge the spirit warrior, Stone Hand. Strengthen my arm that I might send this enemy of the Cheyenne to the dark land to roam forever blind and lost. I pray to you, bring Coles to me.”

  He sat motionless, his eyes closed, his arms still outstretched for a long, long time, concentrating on his request of the spirits. A sudden whir of wings and a gust of air rushing directly over his head startled him. He opened his eyes in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the hawk that had swooped over him. “It is a sign,” he said. “Man Above has heard my prayer.” Confident that the spirits were favoring him, he returned to the cave to eat.

  He ate until he was satisfied, then he picked up his weapons and prepared to leave. “I go to kill the white scout now. I will be gone for as long as it takes. You must remain here until I return and take care of the little one. Then we will take the son of Stone Hand to Sitting Bull’s village.”

  White Feather did not lift her face to him when she replied, “My place is with my husband. Man Who Sings will be angry if I don’t return to our camp.”

  Black Eagle’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You must take care of the child. If my uncle’s blood had not turned to urine, he would be with Sitting Bull. No, you will go with me. When we get the child safely back to the people, then you may return to your life as a camp dog.”

  “It will be as you say,” White Feather replied, her face still lowered to hide the lie.

  He continued to glare down at her for a few moments before turning and stalking out of the cave. Outside, he paused to look up at the bright blue sky above the tops of the pines. “It is a good day to kill,” he said and walked to the grassy flat between the two tall pines where the horses were hobbled. He stopped to think about the conversation with White Feather moments before. He was not pleased with the woman’s attitude and, although she agreed to do as he said, still he did not completely trust her. He decided it best to take her horse with him as a precaution that the woman did not recognize the strength of his words. He led the horse down the ravine until he found a thicket high enough to hide the animal and hobbled it there. Satisfied she would not find the horse, he kicked his pony hard and set out to find the soldiers he was certain would be looking for him, and the scout who was sure to be leading them.

  He could not know that no more than three miles separated him from the white scout he sought to kill. Jason Coles, following a day-old trail, had left the ravine where Shorty Boyd was buried, doggedly on the tracks that would lead him to Shorty’s killer and, hopefully, an unharmed little boy.

  CHAPTER XVI

  White Feather waited in the cave, listening, afraid to move until she was certain Black Eagle was gone. She had feared to look into his eyes, afraid he might read the deceit in hers. After what seemed a long time to her, she got up from the fire and made her way slowly to the mouth of the cave, almost expecting Black Eagle to jump out and demand to know where she was going. She stood just outside the entrance for a few minutes until she was satisfied that he had indeed gone. Relieved but with her heart still pounding in her excitement, she returned to get the baby.

  “Come, little one, we must hurry.” She picked him up and, gathering her things, hurried from the cave.

  Looking quickly to her right and left, she paused but a moment at the entrance, then hurried down the slope to where her horse was hobbled. Between the two tall pines, that’s where Black Eagle had tied them. But there was no horse there. Maybe he had moved her horse to better grass. She put the baby down and ran first to one side of the narrow slope and then the other, searching for the horse . . . nothing. Coming back to the spot where she had last seen them hobbled, she studied the ground until she picked up Black Eagle’s tracks. There were two horses leading away from the pines . . . he had taken her horse with him!

  Now she was even more frightened. He did not trust her. Her first thought then was to run back to the cave and wait as he had ordered but she knew she had to return the baby or her family was bound to suffer for Black Eagle’s acts of violence. There was no choice left to her, she would have to make her way back on foot.

  With as much haste as she could manage, she returned to the cave to collect an antelope hide she had used to make the baby’s bed. She took her knife and cut two long strips from the hide. With these, she fashioned a carrying strap for the child. Once the child was secure, she set out down the valley, retracing the trail they had come in on. Black Eagle had left the cave on a more direct trail in the direction of the fort. It was only after being certain of this that she felt safe in starting out.

  * * *

  Thad sat his horse impatiently while he watched Little Hawk and Cross Bear scout up and down the riverbank, hoping to pick up Jason’s trail. Tracks were plentiful for there had been several small hunting parties crossing the shallow river that morning and they led in several different directions. Finally, after spending a half hour studying the two best possibilities, the two Crow scouts came back to confer with Captain Blevins.

  “Two trails,” Little Hawk said, speaking in broken English. His command of the English language was meager but he could converse on a limited scale. Cross Bear knew but a few words so it always befell Little Hawk to do all the talking.

  “Which one is Coles’?” Blevins asked.

  Little Hawk shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Maybe him.” He pointed upstream where Cross Bear waited.

  “You think that’s the trail?”

  Little Hawk shrugged again. “Don’t know. Maybe him.” This time he turned and pointed downstream to the other possibility.

  “Damn,” Blevins replied. He looked at Thad. “Any ideas?”

  “Damned if I know . . . flip a coin, I guess.” Thad was impatient to ride, one trail or the other, it didn’t matter to him.

  “All right,” Blevins decided. “We’ll follow this trail,” indicating the one downstream.

  * * *

  Shorty Boyd had gone under and that weighed heavy on Jason’s mind. It was too bad. Shorty was a good man and, although he felt somewhat responsible for the little man’s death, Jason did not dwell on it long. Death, from any number of causes, was as much a part of life on the western frontier as eating and breathing. And, in the business of scouting, the possibility of losing your scalp was a constant that Jason had long ago accepted. He was sure Shorty had been just as pragmatic about it. So Jason’s mind put Shorty to rest and turned his full attention to the trail he now followed.

  Since leaving the ravine where Shorty was buried, Jason had climbed steadily upward through the low hills and toward the mountains beyond. The tracking was more difficult now and the trail began to wind around rock outcroppings and through stands of pines, changing direction frequently. He suspected Black Eagle’s camp was close now because of the obvious attempts to disguise the trail.

  He continued upward, examining the ground before him carefully and cautiously searching the rocks and trees for any hint of anything amiss. He st
opped. Up ahead, on the ridge above him, a slight movement in the trees caught his eye. At that distance, it was difficult to immediately identify it . . . probably a deer, maybe a fox. He dismounted and led Black behind a tangle of bushes. Then he made his way on foot to a point where he could watch the ridge above him. His eyes searched the line of trees methodically, from side to side and back again. There it was again—just the flicker of movement through the pines, this time farther down the ridge. He lay still and waited. Whatever it was, was coming down toward him. In a few moments it cleared the tree line and emerged onto a knoll covered with short grass.

  Jason was startled. It was neither deer nor fox. It was a woman, an Indian woman on foot. He continued to follow the woman’s progress down the ridge until she was close enough to see plainly. She seemed to be wearing a pack of some sort. When she had advanced to within fifty yards of where he now knelt behind a boulder, he realized the pack was in fact a child.

  His mind was immediately bombarded with a multitude of thoughts. Could his luck be this good? It could be no one else but the Cheyenne woman sent to care for the kidnapped child. His cautious nature warned that this was most likely a trap, set by the guiling renegade, and he searched the ridge behind the woman. There was no movement he could discern. Now she had advanced across the grassy knoll and was almost abreast of the boulder he was hidden behind. Still there was no sign of anyone following and he decided she and the child were alone.

  Very slowly he raised himself to a crouching position and carefully moved to the edge of the boulder and waited. In a moment he could hear the sound of the woman’s breathing as she approached the rock and her footsteps on the loose gravel. Now! In one quick movement, he was standing before her, his rifle pointed at her forehead.

  She was so startled, she recoiled backward, losing her feet and landing in a sitting position on the ground. Jason moved with her, keeping the rifle inches from her face. Knowing her life was to end at that moment, she made no move to run or defend herself. She closed her eyes and began to moan a death chant.