“Well, when’s the wedding?” Buck wanted to know as soon as Trace returned. He was in the process of trying to spoon-feed some thin soup to Frank.
“What wedding?” Trace snorted, doing his best to appear nonchalant. “I gave her that ol’ horse because she did me a favor. I told you that.”
Buck laughed. “I know what you told me, but I can read sign.”
Seeking to change the subject before Buck got wound up, Trace didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he said, “The Injuns already knew about LaPorte when I went over there this morning. I reckon the girl told ’em.”
“Maybe,” Buck replied, “but I doubt if she wanted to let on to her pa that she snuck out last night. ’Course, you bringin’ her a horse sorta gave it away, I reckon.”
“What about the other trappers?” Trace asked again. “You think there’ll be something said . . . you know, about us having all of LaPorte’s plunder?”
Buck shook his head. “There won’t be nuthin’ said when somebody gits around to finding ol’ LaPorte over yonder. Bridger or Sublette might ask me about it. I’ll tell ’em the right of it and that’ll be the end of it.”
Feeling somewhat reassured, Trace decided to stop worrying about it. He helped Buck repair some of the packs, replacing worn straps with new hide. He didn’t notice their visitor until he heard Buck announce her arrival. “Company’s a’comin’,” Buck sang out softly in a mocking tone.
She rode the big sported gray along the riverbank, over the same hummocks she had walked the day before. She rode straight up to Trace, and stopped before him. He stood up to meet her, ignoring the grinning faces of his two partners. She held out her hands and offered something to him. He glanced down and at once recognized the otter skin she had been working on that morning. Speaking in a soft voice that was almost melodious in its lilting tone, she placed the fur in his hands.
Buck translated. “She says she saw that you carried a bow as well as a rifle, so she made you this here otter skin bow case and quiver.”
She watched Buck carefully while he spoke. When he finished, she looked back at Trace and nodded her head vigorously. “I make you,” she said, stumbling over the words.
Trace was speechless, staring down at the case, which was decorated with beads and porcupine quills. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Buck spoke to the girl for him, telling her that Trace was honored to receive it and would be proud to use it. She said something else, looking at Trace while she spoke, then she turned her horse and rode back the way she had come.
Trace was at once distressed. Why hadn’t he said something? He desperately wanted to tell her how much he hated to see her go. When he turned back, he was met with Buck’s slyly grinning face again. Damn! he thought, I’m gonna learn to speak that tongue. “What did she say?”
“Nuthin’ much,” Buck said, thoroughly enjoying the tormented expression on Trace’s face. “Oh, she did mention that she was aiming to water her new horse upstream by the willows around the bend, where the water is fresh and cool. About sundown, she said.”
* * *
Broken Arm called to his daughter when she returned to the lodge. “I see you have been riding your new horse. Is he a good horse?”
“Yes,” she replied, “he’s strong and much more gentle than I would have expected to have been ridden by such a man.”
Broken Arm nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad he is a strong horse.” The polite conversation out of the way, he approached the subject he was really intent on discussing. “Have you finished the bow case and quiver you were making?”
“Yes, I finished it.”
“I would like to see it. I looked in the tipi for it, but I couldn’t find it.” His eyes held hers as he spoke, and she knew he had probably guessed where the otter skin was.
“I gave it to the young white man. I noticed that he carries a bow, and I thought his gift of a horse was too much to give for no more than I had done.”
“Oh?” Broken Arm responded. “I think he feels that you saved his life. So I’m sure he thought the horse was an appropriate gift.” He searched her face intently, trying to read her feelings. Remembering the long, stolen glances she had taken when the white man sat with him, he feared that she had become infatuated with the young trapper. Broken Arm did not hate white men, but he did not trust them either. And for that reason, he did not want his daughter to become involved with one. He held nothing but contempt for the women of his tribe who had moved into the white man’s tipi, only to be left behind—usually with child—when the trappers moved on. He didn’t want that for Blue Water. This young man—Trace, he called himself—seemed to have a good heart, but even if he wanted to marry Blue Water, Broken Arm would not bless the union, for he believed the white man produced an evil seed. One had to look no further than the vile LaPorte to see that this was so.
He studied Blue Water’s face and pressed for an answer. “Do you have strong feelings for this white man?”
Blue Water flushed. Then she raised her gaze to meet that of her father. “I think he is a kind and beautiful man, but I don’t really know him. It would be foolish of me to have strong feelings about one I don’t really know.”
Broken Arm nodded and smiled at his daughter, satisfied that she was in no danger of behaving foolishly. Still, he could not be sure of the young man’s intentions, so he thought it best to take his family away from this place and return to the upper Wind River country.
As for Blue Water, she was well aware of her father’s mistrust of white men. But she could not deny the desire within her bosom to know this quiet young man who stood so straight and tall. For this reason, she had chosen her words carefully when Broken Arm asked her if she had feelings for Trace. She loved her father very much and did not like to deceive him. But she promised herself that she would see the young trapper just this once more. Feelings so strong could not be denied.
The shadows of the willows deepened in the fading light of dusk. A muskrat splashed noisily at the water’s edge, unaware of the young man sitting silently on the bank. A night bird scolded in a shrill whistle, startled by the furry rodent’s splash. Then all was quiet again. Unmoving, he waited, listening. He had sat there since the sun first dropped behind the hills, and he now thought that she might not come at all. He cocked an ear to one side, thinking he had heard something, but it was only his pony, swishing his tail at an insect. Several more long moments passed. It was then that he heard her. This time he was sure, as he heard the soft padding of a horse’s hooves on the sandy bank and then the low whinny of his pony’s greeting. She had come!
In a few moments, Trace saw Blue Water as she entered the grove of willows. Cloaked in the shadows, she led her horse directly toward him until she was almost upon him. When he rose to his feet, she was startled, but only for a moment.
“I did not see you,” she explained. Then, realizing that he could not understand her words, she made the words in sign.
He tried to think how to say he was sorry he had frightened her in sign, but he could not. So he simply nodded his head and smiled. She returned his smile, and the warmth of it was enough to melt his heart. She pulled a blanket from behind her saddle and spread it on the ground beneath the willows. Then she knelt down on her knees and beckoned for him to join her.
Facing her, their knees almost touching, he could feel the closeness of her body even before she took his hands in hers. Just from the gentle caress of her hands, he feared his head would start spinning, intoxicated by the faint scent of woodsmoke in her hair. He wished that he could tell her the feeling in his heart at that moment, but even if he had known the words, it would have been impossible. Somehow, he felt that she knew his heart anyway. Her eyes told him that she was experiencing the same passion.
She spoke softly in her native tongue while she explored his body with her hands, lightly caressing his face and neck, his shoulders and arms—wanting to know him. She smiled as he responded, exploring her body, lightly caressing her neck and
shoulders, her breasts and the soft curve of her thighs. Time stood still, and there was nothing else in the world, just the two of them in the soft night. They both seemed to know when it was time. Gentle blossoms of moonlight floated upon the ripples of the water, unaware of the raw violence of this wild country and the dangerous times for two young people in love. As the benevolent moon shone down on their naked skin, they came together in youthful, virginal passion.
When their passion was spent, they lay in each other’s arms until sleep closed their eyes. Finally knowing the secret of that great mystery that every young boy dreams about, Trace drifted off to sleep, content and yet finding it hard to realize that it had actually happened. When he awoke, she was gone.
He reached out for her, but no one was there. It was still dark, the moon hanging low on the far hills now. Soon it would be morning. Looking behind him, where she had tied her horse, he saw only his paint, nibbling on the tender willow bark. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking about what had happened that night. He had never dreamed that it would be so tender and passionate. Now he had some thinking to do. His whole world had suddenly changed. He was not sure he could leave her.
He looked down and rubbed his hand across the blanket she had spread, trying to hold the image of her soft body in his mind. He would have to return the blanket in the morning. She had not wanted to wake him when she stole away. Maybe he should wait to give her the blanket, as she might not want her father to know she had slipped out to see him. Of course she wouldn’t, he thought. She’s not sure I’ll do the honorable thing by her.
He untied his horse and rode back to camp, dismounting before riding in. There were still a couple of hours before daylight, and he didn’t want to wake his partners. After unsaddling and hobbling the paint, he took a moment to check on Frank. Finding that Frank was sleeping peacefully, he rolled up in Blue Water’s blanket and was soon asleep, dreaming dreams of a beautiful young Indian girl.
* * *
“Ain’t that a pretty sight,” Buck said, standing over the sleeping form of his young partner.
“Just like a babe in swaddling clothes,” Frank agreed weakly, doing his best to be cheerful.
“If I was a bettin’ man,” Buck went on, “I’d bet ten prime pelts that our young friend cut meat last night.” He laughed. “Look at the expression on that face. I swear, I wonder if I looked that happy after my first time.”
The object of their entertainment stirred, and in a moment, was wide awake. “What are you ol’ buzzards standing over me for?” he groaned.
“My Lord, boy, it’s most past sunup. We thought we was gonna have to load you on a pack mule,” Buck scolded, then, “Where’d you git that fancy red blanket?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Trace answered. He roused himself from his bed and started peeling off his buckskins while he walked to the water’s edge. Before Buck could protest, he plunged into the cold current. When he surfaced, it was to find the old trapper standing there with a look of consternation upon his face.
“I swear, Trace, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Buck complained. “You’re gonna find out one of these days that you’ve done come down with something. And it’ll be on account of them dang baths you take all the time.”
Trace grinned. He couldn’t explain to the two gruff old trappers how alive he felt on this morning—a morning that was different from all mornings that had passed before. He climbed up the bank, shaking the water from his long sandy hair. “I’d best see about taking that blanket back,” he said.
“That’ll take some doin’,” Buck said.
Trace didn’t understand. “Why?” he asked.
“’cause that whole band of Snakes packed up and left during the night,” Buck answered. “They’re long gone.”
“Gone?” Trace’s heart sank. “Whadaya mean, gone? Hell, they can’t be gone—not all of ’em.”
“Ever’ last tipi, horse, and dog,” Buck said.
Trace’s bright new world came crashing down around him. His immediate thought was to saddle his horse and ride out after them. Buck, being able to see the picture more clearly than the lovestruck young man, endeavored to put the issue into perspective for him. It took both men, and a lot of talking to convince Trace that it was useless to pursue the Indian girl.
“She knew her people were pullin’ out last night,” Buck said. “Hell, I knew it. They were packin’ up yesterday, gittin’ ready to leave—I figured today—but I reckon ol’ Broken Arm decided not to wait for daylight.”
“That’s a fact, Trace,” Frank offered, groaning with the effort to raise up to speak. “She didn’t have no notion of stayin’ behind. If she did, she’da brung her trappings with her. I suspect she left that red blanket just so’s you’d remember her.”
It took a while before Trace allowed himself to be convinced that what he thought was his first real love was, in actuality, no more than a roll in the hay for her. Still, he refused to accept that notion completely. One little corner of his brain would hang on to last night and remember the passion that had clearly been there in the young girl’s eyes. She had truly loved him then. No one would ever convince him otherwise.
Now, however, he had no choice but to accept the fact that she was gone. And later on when his bruised heart had recovered, he would understand that Blue Water’s place was with her people, and not with him. The young recover quickly from injury—physical as well as mental—so he soon forgot the pain it caused. But he would never forget the night he spent with the girl.
Over the next few days, the rendezvous sputtered out, with most of the trappers already on their way toward the fall hunting grounds. Buck could not deny a feeling of impatience, born from many years of the same routine, but he knew it was out of the question for Frank to travel. His partner was so torn up inside that he awoke each morning with traces of blood around his mouth and in his beard—from only the slight movements he might have made during the night. Though they didn’t talk about it anymore, all three men knew it was just a matter of time. Frank tried to persuade Buck and Trace to leave him there by the river and go on toward the Yellowstone country, as they had planned. But Buck and Trace refused to leave him.
It was hard for Buck to watch Frank’s deterioration. He knew Frank needed nourishment to recover, but Frank became violently ill each time he tried to put anything in his stomach. Consequently, he wasted away, day by day, until it got to the point where he barely moved, lying in his blanket and mumbling about old trails and people long gone. It totally unnerved Buck, and he would sit for hours just watching him. Near the end of the week, Frank took another turn for the worse.
He had begun babbling, talking wildly about Indians robbing their traps and stealing their horses. When Buck tried to hold a cool rag on his forehead, Frank pushed it away, calling Buck a murdering horse thief. When Buck persisted in laying the rag upon his forehead, Frank suddenly pulled his pistol out of his belt and pointed it at Buck’s head.
“Now, by God,” he said, holding the pistol surprisingly steady for one so weak.
A quick move by Trace was the only thing that saved Buck’s life. He knocked Frank’s arm up just as he pulled the trigger, and the ball sailed harmlessly over Buck’s head. The sharp report of the pistol seemed to jolt Frank back to his senses, although it was plain to see he didn’t understand what had happened. “Buck,” he said, his voice weak again, “what the hell are you doing?”
Buck, thoroughly shaken by the incident, nonetheless answered him calmly. “Nuthin’, Frank. I was just trying to lay a cool cloth on your head.”
Frank didn’t resist when Trace gently removed the pistol from his hand and tossed it toward his saddle. Looking at Buck, Trace shook his head sadly, and together they eased Frank down on his blanket. Both men knew their companion was dying. It could not be long now. They made him as comfortable as possible, hoping he would rest quietly through the night.
“It looks mighty bad,” Buck whispered when it appeared that Frank had drift
ed off to sleep. He shoved his hat back and scratched his thick white hair, troubling over what they should do. Unable to think of anything more they could do that might ease Frank’s dying, they prepared to turn in. They decided to take turns keeping watch over Frank in case he got wild again during the night.
“You get some sleep,” Trace said. “I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours.”
Frank seemed peaceful enough, although his raspy breathing sounded labored and painful. Trace shook Buck awake sometime after midnight, and Buck took over the vigil. Satisfied that Frank was resting peacefully, Buck poked up the campfire a little and propped himself against a cottonwood. A few hours before first light, Frank suddenly sat upright and blurted out in a loud and distinct voice, “Buck! Goddamn you!” Those were his last words. He sank back on his blanket and was gone.
Frank’s outburst awakened him and Trace sat up to find a shaken Buck Ransom. “What is it?” Trace blurted.
“It’s Frank. He’s dead . . . I swear . . . he’s dead.” Buck shook his head from side to side, unable to believe his own words.
Trace got up and walked over to kneel beside the still form of the old trapper. He pulled the blanket away and gazed thoughtfully at Frank’s wasted body, now too small for the buckskins that draped him—a body always lean and hard, now pitifully frail from his illness. He felt Frank’s neck for a pulse and was startled by the coolness of the old man’s skin, a clammy, terminal chill that told him Frank had indeed departed. His death mask was one of anger, unlike the living version of the man. “I’m afraid he’s gone, all right,” Trace said, turning to Buck.
Buck seemed strangely wary of the body, as if he wanted to keep a safe distance between him and his late friend. His reluctance to approach Frank in death struck Trace as especially odd, since the two had been so close for so many years—so odd, in fact, that Trace started to question him about it, but then decided the old man was just stunned by Frank’s passing. “I reckon we’d best get him in the ground.”
Wings of the Hawk Page 19