Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Lame Fox certainly desired the guns and powder, but the fire that burned in him now was for his seven dead warriors lying between the bluffs and the creek bank. They must be avenged. He would wait for darkness, when his warriors could surround the two white men and slip into their camp under the mantle of night. Upon LaPorte’s suggestion, however, he sent warriors out right away to station themselves upstream and down, as well as behind the trappers on the other side of the creek.

  Frank lowered his head a bit when he heard the solid thump of another arrow embedding itself in the trunk of the tree above him. “There’s one of ’em down there somewhere near the bend of the crick. If he shows his pretty head, I’ll light up his ass for him.”

  “Well, they’re on both sides of us now. Keep your eye peeled ’cause there’ll be some more workin’ around behind us.” He took his knife and worked a little more dirt away from the shallow trench he had fashioned, in which he planned to lay his rifle. “I’m sorta surprised they didn’t git a little discouraged when we thinned ’em out like that. Somebody must want our scalps pretty bad.”

  Frank agreed. “They must. Too bad we’re gonna have to disappoint ’em.”

  They settled back and waited. Both men knew they were pretty much painted in a corner with little chance of slipping out with their horses and mules. If it was the horses the Blackfeet were after, the two might be able to slip out on foot. But then it would be only a matter of time before the Indians tracked them down. Without admitting the possibility to each other, both men resigned themselves to meet the fatal end that many trappers came to in this wild country. At least they were prepared to make it a costly victory for the savages.

  The afternoon wore on, and the shadows began to lengthen. The two trappers lay quietly behind their dirt fortifications, one on either side of the creek. The still of the afternoon was broken only occasionally by a grunt or a whispered comment by one of the men—or the urgent whine of an arrow passing overhead. When the sun started its descent behind the mountains, the silence was broken by the singsong chant of Lame Fox’s warriors on the far side of the bluffs.

  “Sounds like they’s gittin’ wound up to go,” Buck said.

  “I reckon,” Frank replied. “You wanna stick it out here or make a run fer it?”

  “I’d just as soon stick it out here as long as there’s light to shoot by. When it gits too dark to see, maybe we can slip out while they’re slippin’ in.”

  They waited, fully aware that their chances of slipping by the Blackfeet in the darkness were not very good.

  The singing that had continued uninterrupted during the late afternoon suddenly stopped. Moments later, the crack of rifles and shrill war cries split the air. Frank and Buck bolted up, ready to repel the attack, each man frantically searching the bluffs before him, trying to find a target. But there was no sign of anyone. Still the shooting and yelling continued behind the bluffs, as if a major battle was taking place. Baffled, Buck crossed back over to Frank’s side of the creek. “What in tarnation are they doin’?” In only a few moments his question was answered.

  Suddenly a handful of Blackfeet came charging over the bluffs. Frank and Buck readied their rifles. “Hold on a minute!” Frank yelled, for the Indians were not making a charge toward them. They were running for their lives.

  “What the hell?” Buck said. The trappers wasted no more time talking but opened fire on the fleeing Blackfeet and managed to reduce their number by two more before they were out of range. There was no time to rejoice, however, for a party of fifty or more Indians appeared at the top of the bluff, racing down after the routed Blackfeet.

  “Crow!” Frank announced. “No wonder they’re running.” Both men had the same thought—just when things looked as bad as it could get, they suddenly got worse. Though they were spared by the Crows’ onslaught, their lives were equally in danger from the very same band of warriors that continued to thunder after the Blackfeet. There were more than twice as many Crows as there had been Blackfeet, and Crows were not overly friendly toward white men at the present time, either. The trappers rapidly reloaded their rifles.

  “Maybe we can sneak out of here before they see us—they’ll be so busy chasin’ their old enemies they ain’t gonna pay no attention to us,” Buck suggested.

  “I don’t know,” Frank replied. “If they ain’t seen us, it might be smart to just lay low here till they’re gone.” He crawled up to the top of the bank to get a better look at the running battle between the two Indian forces. In little more than a moment, he eased himself back down behind the bank. “It’s too late. This stew’s still cookin’.”

  Buck crawled up to have a look for himself. There, on a low rise overlooking the bluffs, half a dozen Crow warriors sat on their ponies, the rest of their party having disappeared over the rise after the retreating Blackfeet. The Crows were involved in an animated discussion, with one of them periodically pointing toward the two white men. Buck had a pretty good guess what the conversation was about. He slid back down the bank. “Well, partner, I thought we was in the clear, but I reckon we’re gonna be here a while yet.”

  * * *

  “There are only two of them,” Yellow Bear insisted. “I say we go down and kill them.”

  Buffalo Shield glanced at Trace briefly before turning back to see how their chief would answer Yellow Bear. He had thought about the possibility of this confrontation with white men ever since he had taken Trace to live in his tipi. It had been a concern of his that the boy, though almost thoroughly embracing the Indian way of life, would have a difficult decision to make when this time came. Trace was now fully accepted by the band of Crows as one of them. But would his white blood dominate when it came to the question of fighting his own kind? He watched Trace closely as the boy walked his pony close up beside his adopted father.

  Red Blanket was not as eager as Yellow Bear. He looked around him at the bodies of dead Blackfoot warriors. After a moment he spoke. “I see the bodies of nine of our enemies lying on the ground. I think we’d better think some more before we charge those two white men, or our own dead will be lying with the Blackfeet.”

  Yellow Bear was beside himself. Two of the cursed hair-faces were boldly making a stand in the heart of Crow hunting grounds. “Are you saying that we should ride off and leave the evil dogs in peace?”

  Red Blanket was patient with his fiery warrior. “I didn’t say we should leave them in peace. I only said that we should think before we fight them. I think we must wait until the others return. Then we can surround them. What do you say, Buffalo Shield?”

  “I say we should join the others who are chasing the Blackfeet and leave these two in peace. After all, they have killed many of our enemies, and they have killed none of our people.”

  Yellow Bear became enraged. “Buffalo Shield speaks like a woman because of his white son.” His face was dark with anger as he stared defiantly at Buffalo Shield. “I will not leave these dogs in peace. They are our enemies. I, Yellow Bear, will ride against them alone if none of my brothers have stomach for the fight.”

  “These white men have committed no crime against us,” Buffalo Shield insisted. “If they kill our enemies, are they not our friends?”

  Before Red Blanket could answer, Yellow Bear shot back, “The white man is no friend to any of our people! He is in our land, killing our game. They must die! If we let them live, more will come.”

  Red Blanket listened patiently to the argument between the two warriors, knowing in his mind that he would not be swayed by either. What Buffalo Shield said was true—the two white men had done them no harm. But who could say that tomorrow these same two men would not aim their rifles at Crows? It was better not to trust the whites. “I think it is best to kill the white trappers. We need their horses and guns. We will wait until the rest of our warriors have returned.”

  Trace backed his pony up a few paces. More than an interested spectator, he had listened intently to the discussion between the chief and his warriors
. A hailstorm of thoughts was swirling inside his brain as he realized the significance of these moments in his life. For now he must choose—Indian or white? He had had recurring thoughts of this possibility during the last four years, but he had shunted them away in the back recesses of his mind, not wanting to think about it—hoping the moment would never come. He had had no contact with whites these past years, except on those occasions when the village traveled to Fort Cass to trade their pelts for supplies and ammunition. Even then, he had remained in the background, and the traders never suspected that he was not a Crow. He had hunted with his friend Black Wing, and he had fought with him against the Blackfeet and the Gros Ventres. He had found peace within himself while living with the Crows. But something inside told him that the blood he felt racing through his veins was white blood.

  Now, listening to talk of killing two trappers, his mind was in turmoil, creating confusion. Thoughts of his father filled his mind now—and the vivid image of that time, four years ago, when he had found his father and Henry Brown Bear slaughtered by the Blackfeet. He knew right then that he could not participate in the killing of these white trappers. For a brief summer, he had been a trapper himself. And, but for the unfortunate meeting on the Platte that had taken Rufus Dees’s life, he would be trapping now.

  Trace reined his pony back a few more paces, separating himself from the Crow warriors. He looked toward Buffalo Shield, who was even then searching the boy’s eyes, then back at Red Blanket. “I cannot do this thing,” he said. “These trappers are the same blood as my father and mother. If they were evil men—if they had committed a wrong against the Crow people—then I would not hesitate to fight them. But these men have not harmed us. I won’t raise my hand against them.”

  Yellow Bear scoffed openly at the young white man. “It is as I said from the first day Buffalo Shield brought this whelp into our village. He could never be a Crow. He is white, like the two curs down there.”

  Ignoring the insults of Yellow Bear, Buffalo Shield moved up beside Trace. Placing a reassuring hand on Trace’s arm, he said, “I understand what is in your heart. It’s all right. You don’t have to join in the fight.”

  “If he does not, then he must be driven from the village,” Yellow Bear said, his voice filled with venom, “or killed along with his white friends.”

  Red Blanket raised his arm, demanding silence. “Long Rifle will not be harmed. He is a friend. It is his decision to make if he fights the white trappers or not.” He was about to say more when he was distracted by movement near the creek bank.

  “The white men are trying to sneak away!” The shouted warning came from a young warrior behind Red Blanket. All eyes turned immediately to the creek. One of the trappers was leading his horse through the willows on the other side of the creek. The other was not far behind him. They had not reached the end of the willows when the rest of Red Blanket’s Crows suddenly appeared before them, returning from their pursuit of the Blackfeet. Their escape cut off, the two trappers had no choice but to return to their positions on the creek bank.

  Trace’s heart caught in his throat. During the brief moments when the trappers were scrambling back to cover, he got a glimpse of them out in the open. He recognized them immediately—it was Buck and Frank! Confusion swirled his emotions for only an instant. Now it became crystal clear what his choice must be. It was no longer a simple decision not to join in an attack on two white trappers, for now the trappers were no longer nameless, faceless trespassers. Buck Ransom and Frank Brown were his friends. There was no choice before him.

  He pulled his pony even further back and his eyes sought those of Buffalo Shield. The man had been a father to him for the past four years. He shifted his gaze to the open, honest face of his friend Black Wing. His gaze was met with one of equal intensity, questioning the steely determination he now saw in Trace’s eyes. There was a long moment of silence as his Crow brothers waited for him to speak. When he finally spoke, it came from his heart.

  “I know those men,” Trace began. “They are my friends. They once helped me when I was alone and desperate.” He looked directly into Red Blanket’s eyes. “I ask that you leave them in peace.”

  “Ha!” Yellow Bear grunted, and would have added scathing words to his contempt, but Red Blanket silenced him with a raised hand.

  “The white men do not belong in our land. They have no right to take our game. If we let these men go, then more will come. We cannot permit this.” Red Blanket turned to Buffalo Shield, knowing the old warrior’s affection for the tall young man. “I think your white son has a decision to make.”

  Trace had thought at first to make a plea to let Buck and Frank go. But he realized it was not as simple as that. For now it was plain where his allegiance stood, and it would only be a matter of time before another such situation presented itself, requiring him to choose again. He was a white man. He could not fight white men. He turned to Buffalo Shield.

  “The time has come for me to go back to the white man’s world. I feel a deep sorrow in my heart to leave you, my father, but I hope you will understand. I cannot kill my friends.”

  Buffalo Shield sadly shook his head. “It is for you to decide. You must go where your heart tells you.”

  “Take his weapons!” Yellow Bear said and pulled his pony around as if to block Trace’s path. “He will use them to shoot Crow warriors.”

  Trace’s feeling of remorse was overcome by a sudden anger. Yellow Bear had antagonized him since his first day among the Crow, and he truly despised the fiery warrior. “You might take my rifle, but I promise you, you’ll get a lead ball first,” he said, his voice low and even as he raised the Hawken to aim at Yellow Bear’s belly.

  “Let him go!” Red Blanket roared.

  Yellow Bear, aware of the rifle’s firepower, reluctantly backed away and let Trace pass. When the two of them were shoulder to shoulder, the sneering warrior uttered a low warning. “Before this night is over, I will have your scalp on my lance, white dog.”

  As the first of the returning Crow warriors galloped up the rise, Trace slowly walked the paint down toward the creek below the bluffs, past Buffalo Shield, knowing that the old warrior would probably watch his back in case Yellow Bear decided to put an arrow between his shoulder blades. As he passed his Crow father, they exchanged glances and Buffalo Shield nodded sadly. The pain Trace saw in the old man’s eyes was but a reflection of his own reluctance to leave a way of life that had taught him to live as one with the mountains. Black Wing turned away, refusing to look into the eyes of his friend. As Trace descended the bluff, he could hear some of the returning warriors asking where Long Rifle was going. Back to the white man’s world, he thought, and probably to my own funeral.

  “Now what?” Buck asked when he spotted the lone rider descending the bluff.

  Frank, following Buck’s line of sight, stared at the Crow warrior approaching them at a walk. “I don’t know. He ain’t carrying no white flag. Maybe he’s just showing the rest of ’em how brave he is.”

  Buck snorted in reply. “Well, I reckon I can hang a little medal on him for his bravery.” He raised his rifle and sighted down on him.

  “Hold on a minute,” Frank said, his curiosity aroused. “He don’t act like he’s fixing to try to count coup or nuthin’. Maybe he’s wantin’ to talk.”

  “Probably wants us to surrender right peaceful-like so’s they can scalp us without losing any warriors.” He continued to hold the rider in his sights. “First queer move he makes, he’s a dead Injun.”

  “Hold on, Buck.” Frank stared hard at the rider. There was something familiar about the way he sat his pony. Then he noticed the long shock of sandy-brown hair. “That ain’t no Injun!” he blurted out.

  Their curiosity fully taking over, both men squinted in the late afternoon shadows in an effort to identify the approaching rider. As the rider neared the creek, he made the sign of peace. When he was within earshot, he spoke.

  “How did you two old buzzards ge
t yourselves in a fix like this?” It had been a while since Trace had spoken English, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

  Still puzzling over who was addressing them, Buck replied, “It were easy.” His rifle still trained on the rider, he asked, “And who might you be?” He was suspicious of any white man who rode with a band of Indians.

  “I swear, Buck, your memory ain’t no better than your manners. Hold your fire, I’m coming in.”

  “Well, you just come on then, but you’d be advised to keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.” Buck had seen his share of tricks played by Indians, and by white men who rode with them. He wasn’t about to be taken in by this sassy young buck.

  While Buck had been doing all the talking, Frank had been studying the young stranger intently. When the young man guided his horse over the bank and down into the creek bottom, Frank muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . . is that who I think it is?”

  Trace grinned and nodded. “Yep,” he said as he slid off his pony and stood before them.

  “Jim! Well I’ll be go to hell,” Buck chimed in, his eyes wide in amazement. “Boy, we been lookin’ fer you fer four years. We ’bout decided you’d gone under.”

  Even under the precarious conditions, Trace couldn’t help grinning. The two old trappers forgot the band of Crows above the bluffs for a moment and stared in disbelief at the tall young man standing before them. Dressed in moccasins, leggings, and breechclout, he was a far cry from the skinny fourteen-year-old they had stumbled upon back at Pierre’s Hole. Standing face to face with him, Frank had to look up to meet the young man’s eyes.

  “Damn, what they been feedin’ you? Last time I seen you, you weren’t no higher than this.” He held his hand up to his chest. “Was he, Buck?”

  Buck just stood there, grinning and shaking his head back and forth in bewilderment. Then both men descended upon Trace, laughing and pounding him on the back. The celebration was short-lived, however, broken up by the shrill sound of a war whoop. The three of them turned to see the Crow warriors amassed along the edge of the bluffs. The reunion would have to wait as the reality of their peril was thrust back upon them.