by Shirl Henke
After another breathless moment, Rider complied, swearing virulently all the while.
By the time Kyle saw Rider off Circle S and came up to the big house, Carrie and Feliz had an enormous breakfast ready for him, including his favorite sweet rolls.
When he came in the door, Carrie fairly flew across the kitchen and gave him an exuberant bear hug. “You sweet, wonderful Texan, you! How did you get here? Where have you been? You're the most beautiful sight I've seen this year, trail dust and all!”
The homely little banty guffawed and lapped up her affectionate compliments, then threw up his hands at her questions. “Jist wait up a minute 'n' I'll tell ya everythin'. Feliz, how's my gal? Still th' sweetest roll maker west o' th'`Mississip?''
“Yes, Kyle, and yes, I have a batch in the warming pan right now. How one man can eat so much and stay so skinny, I'll never know. It is not just.” Shaking her head, she returned to the stove and began to serve up the meal.
Kyle ate as he talked of his journey, dreading Carrie's inevitable questions about Hawk.
“What made you decide to come back?” Her earnest green eyes asked more. Why did you come back alone?
“I wuz workin' on the XIT down Texas way fer a spell. Got plumb homesick fer some fresh Montana air.”
“So you came just in time for winter,” Carrie said dryly.
He chuckled, then grew earnest and looked her straight in the eye. “Hawk 'n' me, we split up over six months ago. I mosied south 'n' he went ta join his mama's people. He wuz drinkin' somethin' fierce 'n' grievin', Carrie. I reckon he thought it wuz better ta be- a sober Cheyenne than a drunk white-eyes.”
Carrie's face registered shock, then a haunted fearfulness. “He—he's with Iron Heart's band? They can't be far, Kyle.” Her eyes held an unasked question for him.
“I'll try ta find him afore th' snow flies. I know me a couple o' traders who kin track fly sign through cracked pepper. Reckon a man oughta know he's got a fine youngun'. ”
Carrie felt the heat steal into her face for the first time in months. She was used to the cruelty and rudeness of people, but the little gunman's gallant kindness touched her deeply. “How did you know about Perry? You knew Noah died?”
He nodded, biting off a generous hunk of a sweet roll. “Yup. I got ta worryin' bout yew 'n' him. He could be right mean when he put his mind ta it, which wuz most o' th' time. Anyways, like I said, I wuz plumb tired o' Texas heat, so I started north. Didn't clear Wyomin' Territory afore I heerd th' old man's dead, 'n' Frank, too. Sorry ‘bout Frank.”
“And that Noah's wife had a red baby by his Cheyenne son?” Carrie softly supplied the rest for him.
Now it was Kyle's turn to blush. “Figgered ya.might cud use some help. I knowed Krueger'd be on ya like a coyote on a broke-leg dog.”
“Yes. We've lost nearly half our stock since July!” Carrie told him all she knew about Frank's murder, the rustling, Krueger's offer to buy Circle S, and Rider's highly suspicious moves. Finally, after they had spent the better part of the morning talking, she fixed him with a cool green-eyed gaze and said bluntly, “Well, Kyle, do I have a new foreman? I know I couldn't find a better man to run Circle S.”
He grinned crookedly. “Mighty proud ya feel thet way, Carrie. ‘Course, yew 'n' me both know who'd be better ta run Circle S 'n' anyone. I'll track him down fer ya. Till then, yew got yew a ramrod.”
* * * *
They spent the following weeks busily getting prepared for the onslaught of Montana winter. Kyle sent for several men he had known down in Texas, men who knew cattle and guns. Slowly, as winter descended, an equilibrium of sorts began to return to Circle S. The men who stayed on easily accepted Hunnicut's leadership. The new recruits were a hard-bitten, silent lot who did their job effectively. With Rider gone and pairs of armed men regularly patrolling the herds, the rustling slowed to a trickle. Circle S had been given a reprieve. By the time the snow flew, moving any number of cattle was totally impractical. Kyle and Carrie settled down to wait for spring.
It was to be a long, cold winter. The first thing Kyle did after he organized the hands was to go in search of a Frenchman named Le Beau, a trader among the Sioux and Cheyenne. If anyone could find Hawk Sinclair, he could. Whether or not he could find him before the high country became snowbound was uncertain. Hunnicut located Le Beau at an outpost near the Dakota border and received his promise to search out Iron Heart's grandson. Not wanting to raise Carrie's hopes too soon, Kyle warned her it might be summer before Hawk came home. It never occurred to either one of them that he would not return. They settled down to their routine around the ranch and waited.
If Carrie was bothered by her status as a pariah in town, she did not reveal it to Kyle. He watched her crisp, impersonal manner of dealing with the local merchants when they went to town for supplies. If she missed having Mrs. Grummond sew her clothes, she seemed pleased with Feliz's efforts instead. When women crossed the street rather than talk to her, Carrie walked on by, head held high, as if they were invisible in their scurrying haste to avoid her. To show her contempt for them all, she even wore her split riding skirts and took Perry with her on her visits to the bank and post office. She had become the scandal of Miles City, and rather than attempting to live it down, she seemed to take a willful delight in fanning the flames of gossip.
But for all her defiance and bravado, Carrie was lonely, and Kyle knew it. She had no women friends except for Feliz. Most men treated her with rudimentary politeness, but looked at her with lustful speculation when she turned away. After all, she had lain with a half-breed. That made her fair game, at least for their fantasies. Kyle knew he and the Mexicana were the only people on earth Carrie trusted. For a beautiful young woman of scarcely twenty years, it was not an easy or good life. He prayed for word about Hawk. Then, when it finally came in the icy blasts of early November, he wished he had not heard.
Blackie Le Beau spat a wad of brownish tobacco juice and wiped his greasy chin with the back of his buckskin sleeve. Not by nature an overly fastidious man, the little Texan still found the trader's habits and odor hard to endure.
“Yew heerd ‘bout Hawk, Blackie?” Kyle knew the filthy little Frenchman wanted his payment before he would say anything. He also knew the trader would not have sent word to him unless he had some definite news to report.
“Oui. I know where he ees and who ees weeth heem.” He waited, his shrewd black eyes assessing how the Texan would take the news.
Kyle shrugged, hefting a small pouch of coins, then threw it at the wiry man whose grimy little paw caught it deftly. “Now, where's Hawk?”
Le Beau shifted uneasily on his mule, scratching some straying vermin that had wandered too far afield and become isolated on his arm. “You weel not like eet, monsieur. Zee half-blood Hunting Hawk remains weeth hees grandpere's band, high een zee mountains to zee west.” He paused. “He can be reached, eef you weesh. eet, monsieur.”
Kyle became suddenly uneasy. What didn't the Frenchman want to tell him? “Yeah, I reckon I do 'weesh eet.' Why 'n tarnation wouldn't I?”
“You look for heem, not for yourself, but for zee woman, hees father's wife?” he inquired haltingly. At Kyle's silent nod, he continued. “Perhaps you weel not want to tell her thees, but zee half-blood, he ees married—to a Cheyenne woman, since last spring. She ees enceinte, weeth child. The bebe ees to come weeth zee new year.” He looked over at Kyle, unsure of what the gunman would do. Le Beau knew about Noah's wife and her half-breed baby. He could easily guess why her foreman searched for the child's father now that Noah was dead.
Kyle sat rooted to his saddle, freezing in the gusting prairie wind. How could he face Carrie with this? It would break her heart. He swore to himself, furious with Hawk, with the town, Krueger, everyone who conspired to make her unhappy. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Hawk know ‘bout his son? Thet his pa's dead?”
The wizened face became sympathetic. It was rotten luck, and he was sorry for them all. “No. When you asked me to find he
em, I had not been to Iron Heart's camp seence early last weenter. When I find them last month, I deed not theenk you would weesh me to say anything.”
Kyle nodded. It was better that way. No point in either of them knowing about the other. Hawk couldn't claim his son now, and she for sure couldn't marry him. If she knew about the Cheyenne woman, it would break her heart. If he knew about Perry, it would break his.
Bidding the Frenchman farewell, Kyle started back toward Circle S. Usually after a hard day's ride in the blustering winter cold, he could not wait to see Feliz's warm kitchen. Tonight it did not beckon him. What would he tell Carrie?
* * * *
The drums were beating low and steadily. A keening chant spread its eerie pall across the clearing. The village was still as death. It was filled with death, over half the people dead or dying. It always happened this way, ever, since the white traders first started to come among the People, Iron Heart thought sadly. Even when they came in peace they always brought death—measles, diphtheria, cholera, smallpox. Feverish wasting diseases that infested the body and drove the breath from it, all brought by white men.
Looking about the deserted camp, the old man thought sadly, They will win, not with guns and bullets or even with wooden roads and iron horses. Only this will defeat the People.
His sad reverie was interrupted by the pounding of hooves. Hawk leaped off Redskin's back, kicking dirt and pebbles from the frozen ground and scattering them into the fire. “Where is she?” His face was pale and drawn, his black eyes glowing in anguish.
The old man answered, “White Buffalo is with her, in there.” White Buffalo was a medicine man, a skilled healer when the enemy was a broken bone, an aching tooth, even a snakebite or bear clawing. However, for the spotted throat of the white man—diphtheria—there was nothing he could do.
Seizing the flap of the lodge, Hawk pulled it open roughly and slipped inside. It was warm, too warm, fetidly cloying with death. Shedding his heavy furs, he watched as the old healer chanted over the woman lying on the pallet. She was flushed and laboring to breathe. Silently he waited until the medicine man had finished. When White Buffalo rose, Hawk crossed the small space and knelt beside his wife. He had seen by the sad, hollow expression on White Buffalo's face that he could do no more.
Gently Hawk took her dry, hot hands in his own, still cold from the outdoors and his long ride through the night. He had been gone for two weeks, hunting in the mountains to the south.
Winter had come early, promising to be bitter and long. Game was scarce, even in this isolated region of jagged mountains and rushing streams. Before the full brunt of winter struck, Hawk had gone hunting to get them as much meat as possible. He knew he must provide for Iron Heart, Sweet Rain, Bright Leaf, and now more importantly for Wind Song and his unborn child.
As he rode toward camp, travois-laden with two big elk and a deer, he was met by the dread news. An epidemic of the spotted throat had broken out. Many were stricken, among them his wife.
He looked at her strong, lovely face, its chiseled profile illuminated by the flickering firelight as she lay with her head turned toward the flames. She was burning up with fever, and her eyes were closed.
Stroking her hands, he spoke in a low, urgent voice. She must hear him. “Wind Song, I have returned. Can you hear me?” His voice almost broke. He could not let her die!
As she moaned and turned her head, he reached to caress her cheek. Her eyes opened and focused with difficulty on his beloved face. They glowed with fever and also with the sudden joy of seeing him once more before she must make her journey across the hanging road to the sky.
“I knew you would come,” she rasped out. It hurt so to speak, but she must, while there was time.
“Shh...” he soothed her, “I am here now. I will never leave you, WindSong.”
She smiled sadly and said, ‘‘It is I who must leave you, Hunting Hawk, much as I do not wish it. Especially now.” One hand slipped down to hold her mounded belly, full of their child. Her face was filled with anguish for the loss of the child above all.
He shook his head in denial, willing the nearness of death away. “You will not leave me. I will not permit it,” he said fiercely.
Wind Song put one slim hand on his hard chest, gently rebuking him. “The Spirits do not always listen to our wishes, my husband. We cannot go against their will. I had hoped above all else to give you this child, a man-child. Then I might take her place in your heart. But it is not meant to be.”
“No!” The cry was torn from him. “No, there is no one but you in my heart. You are my wife. I will not let you die!”
She reached up, stretching her long, slim arms to wrap around his neck as he knelt over her, clasping her to him and holding her feverish body. Wind Song buried her face against his neck as the fiery, wracking pain suffocated her once more. Yet she was glad to be in his arms one last time.
Her voice was muffled when she spoke again, breathless and low. “You must not grieve too much, beloved. Things happen as they must. You will return to the world of white men someday, to her. I think I always knew that. Still, it was worth the pain to have loved you.” She coughed, gasping for air as her swollen throat closed.
He held her silently, shaken by grief and guilt, denying all she said, still unable to forget the white woman who came between them even in death. His heart felt crushed by the burden. “Please, do not leave me, beloved wife. Wind Song...?”
He held her for several moments more, then gently laid her still form back on the furs of their bed. The swollen mound of her belly seemed even larger now, so lifeless and yet accusing. He lay his head on it and wept. There would be no children, no joy, no belonging.
Slowly, fighting for breath and strength, he began the death chant, mourning for all that might have been, should have been in her young life, snuffed out so cruelly by a disease of the white man. It was not only one death but two, hers and the child she so desperately wanted to give him. How much better the veho`s pestilence killed than his bullets. It was not the first time Hawk cursed his white blood, but never before had he hated all white people and himself as much as he did at that moment.
* * * *
It was spring at last. The snow melted and clear water burbled its way down the rocky ravines, billowing into the rivers and lakes. Willows sported pale lime-colored fuzz on branches that whispered in the wind, promising lush, verdant greenery soon. The sky was azure and cloudless, the wind still gusting, but with a hint of sun-kissed warmth. Soon.
At last free from snow's fetters, cattle, thin and sluggish after their winter struggle for sustenance, were gamboling in anticipation of fresh grass. New calves bawled for their mothers and walked on shaky legs across the rolling prairie.
Carrie sat on Taffy Girl, looking over a herd of prime beef that had survived the winter. Things were looking up at last. Despite a bitter winter, spring was early and most of the cattle had pulled through. The calf crop would be good, despite the smaller herd. The hands were out in work crews, beginning to get organized for a mammoth spring roundup.
When would Hawk come home? All through her lonely winter vigil, the thought had been with her incessantly. Ever since last fall, Kyle had been vague and evasive about receiving word of him. First he said it would take weeks to locate Iron Heart's band. Then he predicted it could not be done until the snow was clear. Now with even the high country opening up, Carrie could not understand why no one had found such a large encampment. Surely Hawk must be there.
The thought that he did not wish to return to her nagged at the back of her consciousness, but she refused to acknowledge it. Of course, if it were so, it would explain the little-Texan's nervous avoidance of her questions about Hawk. No. The Frenchman must not have found their band yet. Hawk was alive and well. She knew it, feeling sure if anything had happened to him she would know.
Clasping the silver medallion at her breast with her hand, she felt its warmth against her beating heart. He would come home.
> Soon.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Peregrine. Ain't thet some kinda bird, er somethin'?” Kyle studied the wiggling boy seated on his mother's lap in the big kitchen.
Carrie flushed slightly. Strange that she should still feel shy about her relationship with Hawk around his best friend. “Yes, Kyle, it's a migratory falcon.”
“A Hawk, 'n other words?’
“Yes, a predatory hawk.”
“A huntin' hawk.” He nodded shrewdly, then reached over and tickled Perry's tummy.
The little boy giggled and grabbed Hunnicut's fingers. He would be a striking man one day. That much was already apparent from the thick, dark hair and glowing black eyes. Even the child's cheekbones and jawline, undefined as yet, gave promise of looking like his sire's.
Carrie shoved her coffee cup away and hefted the boy as she stood up, stretching from the cramped position she had been sitting in while holding the fidgety handful. “I think I need some exercise, Kyle. I'll take Perry with me and ride over toward the river.”
Grabbing several rolls off the heaping platter Feliz had placed before him, Kyle followed Carrie out of the kitchen, munching as he went. “Yew be careful,” he admonished her, knowing from long experience that it did no good to demand she take an armed escort along. Always an independent loner, Carrie had become even more restless with the arrival of spring. “They’d been hostiles seen over west always. Sioux, even some Cheyenne bucks with ‘me, stirring' up grief. Yew don't need ta cross th' river with thet young'un.”
Carrie turned, adjusting Perry on her hip, and replied with a sunny smile, “Don't fret, Kyle, I just need to do some thinking. I'll be back by late afternoon.”
He shook his head at her retreating form, waving at the bright-eyed boy who watched him over his mother's shoulder.