Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  “What are they thinkin’ up there?” Frank wanted to know.

  “Right now they’re deciding whether or not they’re gonna rub us out or let us go,” Trace replied.

  “Us?” Buck asked. “Ain’t you ridin’ with them Crows?”

  “Was,” Trace said. “I reckon I had to make a choice, and I guess I found out I ain’t a Crow after all.”

  “So that’s how it is,” Frank said. “Well, welcome back, son, but you picked a helluva time to turn back white—just in time to go to your own funeral. You might be smart to ride on back up there and tell ’em you’re on their side. There’d be no hard feelings—would there, Buck?”

  “Well, I guess not,” Buck said, “but I’d shore admire havin’ that there Hawken on our side.”

  Trace smiled. “I’ve already made that decision. I reckon it’ll be the three of us.” That settled, the three partners dug in, and prepared to repel the attack they felt certain was coming.

  They weren’t kept waiting long. The sun was now below the hills and the creek was cloaked in shadow. It would be dark soon. Red Blanket split his band into three groups—one group broke off and rode upstream, another galloped off toward the lower bend of the creek. That left most of the warriors to mount a frontal attack.

  “He’ll wait until it gets darker and then try to slip in close,” Trace said. “That bunch will try for the horses when Red Blanket’s warriors attack us from the front.” He had ridden with Red Blanket’s war parties many times. He knew the chief would come in under the cover of darkness to reduce the risk of taking too many casualties. He also knew that Red Blanket respected the mountain men’s skill with their rifles and believed the darkness would work in his favor.

  “You gon’ be able to shoot at your Injun friends?” Frank asked Trace. “You spent a long time with ’em.”

  “I don’t know,” Trace answered honestly. “I wish I didn’t have to.” He hesitated before finishing. “But I reckon if they’re shooting at me, I won’t have much choice.”

  While the three trapped men watched, Red Blanket split his group yet again, sending half of the remaining warriors galloping off downstream after the first bunch. “I reckon that bunch’ll be crossing over to come up behind us,” Buck said. “They’re gonna be sneakin’ up on us from all sides.” He looked over at Trace. “I reckon it were your unlucky day, running up on us and endin’ up in this kettle of stew.” Trace didn’t reply. He was busy seeing to his rifle and bow.

  Frank was quietly studying the line of warriors left sitting their ponies, patiently waiting for the light to fade into total darkness. Red Blanket had divided his war party until there were only a dozen braves between them and the hills beyond. When he had made up his mind, Frank spoke. “I reckon it ’pears we’re caught down here in this crick. If we dig in here, we’ll make ’em pay, but we’ll end up with our scalps loose.” He got up and, staying in a crouch, moved over toward the horses. “I don’t cotton to waitin’ around here for them devils to come lift my hair. Let’s ride the hell outta here.”

  Buck saw the smaller force of warriors facing them and came to the same conclusion Frank had. “By God, you’re right. We can bust through that bunch and hightail it up in the hills. If we’re lucky, we can take out three or four of ’em.”

  No one took the time to evaluate the plan. It was better than sitting where they were. They scrambled to the horses and readied them to ride. There was a brief discussion of the wisdom of keeping the pack mules, but neither man was willing to part with his hard-earned plews.

  It was already dark in the willows by the creek as they led the horses as quietly as they could manage, stopping just below the edge of the bank. Behind them in the western sky, a long line of gold- and red-tipped clouds provided the only light. “See that cut in the hills yonder?” Frank asked. “We’ll head fer that. If I recollect, that leads up a draw that comes out on open prairie. When we ride—and I mean ride like hell—stay in a line. In this half-light, they won’t be shore what’s coming at ’em.”

  “I’ll go first,” Trace volunteered. “My pony is fast, and I don’t have to lead a mule.”

  “All right, then,” Frank quickly agreed. He would have suggested that anyway, but he was glad Trace volunteered to take the point. “So’s we don’t waste shot aiming at the same folks, I’ll look to my left. Buck, you shoot to the right. We’ll blow a hole right through them devils.”

  Trace had a deeper reason for wanting to lead the breakout. He had made a choice as to which side he must fight on, but he had no desire to bring any harm to his Crow friends, especialy Black Wing and his father, Buffalo Shield. As he watched from the cover of the creek bank, he noticed that Black Wing and Buffalo Shield had positioned themselves at the far end of the line of twelve warriors, opposite Yellow Bear. Trace would lead Buck and Frank straight toward Yellow Bear.

  “All right, Trace,” Frank whispered, “let’s git the hell outta here.”

  Trace leaped upon his pony and charged up out of the creekbed. Frank and Buck, already mounted, sprang up behind him, and the sprint was on. They tore across the darkened flat before the bluffs, Trace leading, riding low on his pony’s neck. Buck followed close behind, with Frank bringing up the rear. Luck was with them, for the Crow warriors were taken by surprise. They had given no thought to the possibility that the cornered trappers would mount an attack. Total confusion spread among the waiting warriors. At first Red Blanket thought there was a single rider galloping toward them in the darkness. When he realized there were more than one, it was too late to alert his braves. He yelled to the others to shoot, but by that time, Trace was almost upon them, heading right at Yellow Bear.

  Yellow Bear, struggling to hold his startled pony, fought to bring his musket to bear on the charging rider that was suddenly bearing down on him. He fired the weapon, but the shot was yards wide of his target. He didn’t even see the war axe that bounced off his skull, knocking him off his horse and leaving him senseless on the ground as two more horses and two mules thundered by him. Behind him, Trace heard the reports of two rifles, followed by cries of pain, and he knew Buck and Frank had both found their marks. He felt a slight twinge of guilt when he heard the shots, but he didn’t have the time to worry about it.

  The initial breakout was successful, but now it became a question of pursuit. Although taken completely by surprise, Red Blanket quickly rallied his warriors to give chase. His band, having been split to surround the creek bank and too far away to be of any help now, was reduced to nine warriors. Two of these, Buffalo Shield and his son, Black Wing, were less than enthusiastic about overtaking Trace. Red Blanket was smart enough to realize that, and it weighed heavily on his mind as he raced headlong after the fleeing white men. In effect, he knew he had only seven braves against three sharp-shooting mountain men, odds that he did not relish. The three, only vague shadows bobbing up and down in the darkness now, were running toward a long draw that no doubt provided any number of likely ambush spots. He had lost two warriors for certain, and Yellow Bear might be dead as well. If he continued to follow these white men up that dark ravine, he would be lucky to lose only three more. The stakes were too high. After only about ten minutes’ chase, he called out to his warriors to let them go, even though they were clearly gaining on the three fleeing white men.

  When his braves gathered around him, Red Blanket spoke. “It is foolish to ride into the dark after them. Their guns are too strong. I could not be your chief if I led you into a slaughter. We’ll let them go for now. Maybe we can find their trail tomorrow.”

  Buffalo Shield said nothing, but when he turned to meet the gaze of his son, he saw the hint of a smile on Black Wing’s face.

  CHAPTER 10

  They didn’t stop once they reached the relative safety of the draw, but pushed their horses on up through the ravine toward the rolling hills beyond. Once they had cleared the ravine and realized they were no longer being chased, they slowed their tired horses. They continued on late into the n
ight as the moon climbed up over the eastern mountains, illuminating their path through a rolling plain of treeless mounds. Toward morning, they came back to the mountains.

  “Whadaya say, Frank? Rest ’em here before crossing over to strike the Green?” Buck nodded toward a collar of cottonwoods that indicated a stream of some kind.

  Frank was of like mind, as he usually was with Buck. The two of them had been together so long that Jim Bridger used to joke that if one of ’em farted, the other one said, “Excuse me.” “Yeah,” Frank said. “We can git the stock outta sight in them trees—maybe git a little rest ourselves.”

  With the horses safely out of sight, the three weary souls stretched out on the ground to catch a couple of hours’ sleep. They had ridden hard through the night and felt confident that they could afford the time to rest. At first light, Frank woke up and climbed up the hill behind the stream to take a look around. After studying the trail they had ridden the night before, he decided they had lost the Crows, for the time being at least. When he came back down, Trace and Buck were awake. Trace was busy building a fire, and Buck was applying grease to the wound in his mule’s neck.

  “Damned if I don’t believe we lost them Crows,” Frank announced. “There ain’t no sign of nuthin’ clear to the other end of this valley.”

  Trace looked up from the solitary flame he was nourishing with dried grass and a few small twigs. “I don’t think they’ll bother chasing us anymore. Red Blanket was already gettin’ nervous about being so far away from our village when we ran up on those Blackfeet shooting at you and Buck.”

  “What was he doin’ down this way, anyhow?” Buck asked. “I didn’t expect to see no Crows in this part of the mountains.”

  “We were looking for a Snake war party that stole some of our horses,” Trace replied. “We heard those Blackfeet shooting at you and thought we had caught the Snakes.”

  “Well, we’ll just cross over the mountains and follow the Green on down to the rendezvous, and let them Crows and Snakes and Blackfoot chase each other. I’m damn tired of being the one they wanna play tag with.”

  After they had breakfasted on some jerked venison, they got under way again—this time at a somewhat more leisurely pace. The sun was high in the sky, and there was still no sign of anyone following them. That night they made camp on the Green River.

  Frank stretched out beside the fire, his head resting on his saddle. He watched with interest as the tall young man, still dressed in leggings and breechclout sat opposite him cleaning his rifle. Full grown now, Trace was a hell of a sight removed from the boy who had left them after the rendezvous in ’35. He and Buck had often talked about that boy, wondering what had become of him, especially after LaPorte and that Blunt fellow had come asking about him. That was mighty peculiar, and Frank would have liked to hear the story. But it was a common rule among mountain men that a fellow’s business was his own, and what Trace had done back East was nobody’s concern.

  As always, the same thoughts Frank had ran through Buck’s mind, too. And Buck, being less concerned about the mountain man’s code of ethics, blurted out the question. “What in tarnation would a skunk like Joe LaPorte be lookin’ fer you fer?”

  Trace was surprised. “Joe LaPorte? Who’s Joe LaPorte?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Frank jumped in, since Buck had bluntly provided an opening. “Like Buck said, he’s a lowdown, back-shootin’ polecat, and he was askin’ all around about you a few years back.”

  Trace slowly shook his head, trying to remember if he had run across anyone by that name. “I don’t know him.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “Was anyone else asking about me?”

  “Feller by the name of Blunt,” Buck replied.

  Trace stiffened. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious to Buck that he had hit a nerve. There was a long moment of silence while both trappers fixed their attention on him, waiting for his reply. “When?” Trace finally asked.

  “Hell, every year, I reckon. This Blunt feller, he shows up at Laramie every summer with a string of mules packed with trade goods, most of it whiskey, from what I been told. He don’t trade at the fort, though—turns his goods over to LaPorte and LaPorte traipses off with ’em up-country somewhere. Blackfoot country, I expect. But this Blunt feller, he always asks around if anybody seen that young boy that trapped with us, summer of ’35.” Buck paused to scratch his whiskers. Looking at Frank, he said, “Come to think of it, though, I don’t believe he asked about the boy this past summer, did he, Frank? Maybe he give up lookin’ fer you.”

  Still, Trace offered no illumination on the puzzle, but it was plain to see he was giving it plenty of thought. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Buck continued to press. “This here Blunt feller, he’s kin of your’n?”

  “Hell, no,” Trace quickly replied.

  Buck’s patience gave in to his curiosity. “Well, what’s he lookin’ fer you fer?”

  “I killed his brother.”

  “Oh,” was all Buck said—one of the rare times when Frank could ever remember his longtime partner being at a loss for words. Trace then related the story of his unfortunate encounter with Tyler Blunt, and his mother’s marriage to Tyler’s older brother.

  “You mean this Blunt feller that comes out to Laramie every year is your stepdaddy?” Frank asked.

  “Hell no!” Trace spat. The sound of the term reviled him. He had never given any thought to the idea that Hamilton Blunt was now, in fact, kin. “I imagine that if one of the Blunts comes out in this part of the country, it would be Morgan. His brother, Hamilton Blunt, he’s the one who married my ma. He wouldn’t dirty his fancy britches riding a horse all the way out here.”

  “So that’s why you sorta disappeared for so long,” Buck said, “hidin’ out with a band of Crows.”

  “I reckon,” Trace replied. “It just sorta worked out that way. When I left St. Louis, I was on the run, but I reckon I really had in mind finding you and Frank.”

  “Well, I’ll swear. . .” Buck started, letting the thought trail off. “But if it all happened the way you say, you was just defending yourself. You ought not have no worry about the law.”

  Trace shook his head slowly. He had thought this over many times, wondering what his fate might have been had he gone to the sheriff and told his side of the story. He always came to the same conclusion—that he did the right thing when he ran. “Who’s the sheriff gonna believe? Me or Hamilton Blunt? I’m sure Hamilton Blunt wishes I was dead. He damn sure looked disappointed when I showed up alive back in St. Louis.”

  Frank shifted his chew of tobacco to the other side of his mouth and spat into the fire. After waiting to hear it sizzle, he said, “I believe you’re right, Jim. I don’t think this Blunt feller is sending the likes of Joe LaPorte lookin’ fer ya just to tell ya all’s forgiven and to come on home.”

  “I reckon you ought to know I don’t go by Jim Tracey no more. I’m going by Trace McCall now,” Trace told them.

  There was a brief moment of silence while Buck and Frank considered this. Then Frank said, “All right, Trace it is. You stick with Buck and me and you’ll be all right. ’Sides, I don’t figure anybody’d recognize you now. You’ve sure changed a helluva lot.”

  * * *

  The three partners started out to find the rendezvous the next morning, following the river until they came upon the meeting place of the annual event. They found it just about two miles north of the mouth of Horse Creek. Trace recalled the rendezvous he had been to four years before. This camp seemed far less rowdy. Indians—Snakes, Nez Perces, and Flatheads—were still there to trade for powder and balls, blankets and trinkets. Their tipis were set up on one side of the river, spreading out for about a mile on the grassy bottom.

  As they rode through the sprawling camp looking for a place to unroll their packs of beaver plews, Buck and Frank were met with shouts of welcome here and there from old trappers dressed in buckskins worn shiny and black from long seasons in the mountains. Afte
r promising to come back later to visit and swap lies, they rode on. “Mighty poor-lookin’ plews,” Frank commented to Buck. “I thought our lot was skimpy, but I swear, this is the worst-lookin’ harvest I’ve ever seen.”

  Buck didn’t answer for a moment, distracted by two Nez Perce women riding by on their ponies, dressed in their finest fringed buckskin dresses, with bright silk handkerchiefs tied in their hair. Their friendly smiles held him captive until, laughing shyly, they suddenly bolted toward the lower end of the camp. Tearing his gaze away from the two departing beauties, Buck turned back to Frank. “Yessir, they’s poor-lookin’, all right. I reckon you could say we done pretty good compared to most. There’s too dang many of us going after the same few beaver that’s left. But beaver’ll shine agin.”

  After a few days in camp, Buck would wonder about his hopeful prediction. The price of beaver was down from the year before, and the price of goods that the beaver would buy was as high as ever. Buck and Frank were able to trade their plews, but the money was pitifully shy of what they had hoped for. As a result, there was very little left over for fun and frolic after essentials were bought. It was the same for the entire encampment. Trace was disappointed to find that the horse racing, and gambling, the drinking and wild celebration of the first rendezvous he had attended were almost nonexistent now. There was some drinking, however, and some friendly Indian girls—and the opportunity to relax and sleep without one eye open for possible attack.

  Trace was little more than a spectator in this camp, having no pelts to trade. He was in need of some things—his supply of ammunition was critically low, even though he had used his rifle as sparingly as possible since his last visit to Fort Cass with Buffalo Shield and Black Wing. For most of his hunting, he had relied on the horn bow that Buffalo Shield had made for him. Now that Trace had returned to the white man’s world, Buck insisted that he needed some britches and a shirt, so he arranged for a Snake woman to make them. Trace didn’t like the idea of having to accept charity, but Buck assured him he would take payment for the buckskins in some way later on. Uncomfortable with owing any debt for any period of time, Trace rode out from camp to hunt. In two days’ time he had replaced the hides that had been used for his clothes as well as providing fresh deer meat for the camp.