Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  “I reckon,” Buck answered. “I’ll git the shovels, you wrap him in his blanket.”

  Trace was still puzzled by Buck’s seemingly detached attitude and he wondered if the old trapper was simply trying to deny the profound grief he must surely feel. “I can get the shovels, Buck. Maybe you might want to say a few private words to him.”

  “No,” Buck immediately snapped. “I’ll git the shovels, you git him ready.”

  Trace stood there for a long moment, searching Buck’s face for explanation. Finally he said, “Buck, what the hell’s wrong with you? Frank’s your friend. Don’t you want to say good-bye to him?”

  “He layed a curse on me,” Buck replied, his voice so low that Trace almost didn’t catch it.

  “He what?”

  “Put a curse on me with his dying breath,” Buck insisted.

  Astonished by Buck’s outrageous remark, Trace pressed him for an explanation. Buck then related the events of the previous night when Frank had risen from his blanket and said, “Buck, goddamn you.” Those were his dying words, Buck insisted, and everybody knew the potency of a deathbed curse. Trace, finding it difficult not to laugh at the simple old man, attempted to persuade him that Frank had no earthly idea what he was saying. And at that particular time, he was most likely already departing on his dark journey. After all, Frank had been babbling nonsense for days before. He didn’t know what was dropping from his mouth. Buck was not convinced, feeling that a curse on a dying man’s lips was not something to be taken lightly.

  Exasperated, Trace shook his head. “Buck, for God’s sake, what in the world would Frank wanna put a curse on you for? You were the only real friend he ever had.”

  “I don’t know,” Buck replied, thinking hard. “There was that time on the Little Missouri when I dropped his powder horn in the river.”

  Trace gave up. “Go get the shovels and let’s put him in the ground.” He went back to prepare the body while Buck trudged off to fetch the shovels that had once belonged to Trace’s father.

  They buried Frank under some cottonwoods close by the riverbank. There were no rocks handy to pile on the grave, so they dug it extra deep and smoothed it over with sand, hoping to disguise it sufficiently to protect it from scavengers. When Frank was finally in the ground, the reality of his death struck Buck for the first time, and he realized that he would have to make the rest of his life’s journey without the one man who had always been at his side. Trace was sure he detected a tear in the old-timer’s eye as he stood over the grave. So he discreetly stepped away to tend to the horses so as to give Buck a few moments to say a last good-bye. He could see the old trapper’s lips moving in a final farewell, although he was too far away to hear the words.

  Leaving the Green River rendezvous, Buck and Trace rode in a single file, each leading a pack animal. They would head toward the Yellowstone country for the fall trapping season, although both men sensed that this rendezvous might well be the last. Beaver was down. Even Buck no longer insisted that it would shine again, and without his longtime friend, he had very little enthusiasum for trapping. But they set out to make the fall hunt anyway, because there was nothing else to do. They were trappers, after all, and the mountains were where they belonged.

  CHAPTER 12

  Buck and Trace left the rendezvous on the Green River two somber and heavy-hearted trappers. Buck was starting out without Frank Brown at his side for the first time in many seasons. Following behind, Trace was deep in thought as well—thoughts of Frank, but also haunting memories of a smiling Indian maiden with smoky black hair and eyes as dark as night.

  They trapped the Yellowstone country in early fall, working their way over to the Musselshell, and back down to the Absarokas. Late December found them near the Wind River country when suddenly heavy clouds moved in, dumping more than a foot of snow in less time than it takes to skin a muskrat. It was not an unusual occurrence in the mountains this time of year. In fact, Buck had been predicting the heavy snowfall for several days, so they were as prepared as it was possible to be. The two of them had made their camp in an abandoned cabin, built by Bridger’s men some years before. Now there was little to do but settle in and wait out the winter.

  The hard work required to stock their cabin with firewood and build a shelter for their horses served to occupy Buck’s mind much of the time. But Trace could readily see that the old-timer missed his longtime partner a great deal, even though Buck was still convinced that Frank had left him with a bad-luck curse. As evidence of this, he pointed out the scarcity of beaver and the unusually hard winter. He never spoke of it to Trace, but he felt a heavy burden of guilt for having been over at Broadhurst’s tent drinking while Frank and Trace were engaged in that desperate fight with LaPorte. Buck would sit watching the fire for long periods, deep in thought. Trace had never seen him like this. To the contrary, Buck had never been one to tolerate a void in the conversation, and if he could not recall a colorful incident to relate, he would make one up. Trace began to worry that Buck was never going to get over the loss of his partner.

  As for Trace, the winter did not pose a hardship for the strapping young man. He found that he loved the solitude of the silent white mountain peaks surrounding the little cabin, and he often spent several days at a time away from camp while hunting. Buck soon became accustomed to his young friend’s hunting trips, and he was content to stay near the fire and let Trace provide the fresh meat.

  Trace found it relatively easy to track elk or deer in the deep snow, and using the skills he had learned from old Buffalo Shield, he was almost always able to get close enough for a shot with his bow. He fashioned some snowshoes out of the pliant limbs of the willows by the stream and tramped high up into the towering mountains, making his camp at night in the snow. Warm in his heavy fur skins, he would build his fire in the snow. As the fire kept sinking, he would keep relighting it, until it would finally settle on solid ground. When it had bottomed out, he had a cozy hole in the snow for his camp. In Trace’s mind, there could be no better existence for a man.

  The next few years were lean years for the two mountain men. They continued to trap for the small harvest that remained in beaver, as well as for fox, otter, and buffalo. They traded their furs each summer at trading posts like Fort Laramie and Fort Union, and any other place they could swap their plews for powder, lead, caps—Dupont and Galena, a mountain man’s lifeline. As they had sensed, there were no more rendezvous after the one on the Green in ’39. They wintered at the headwaters of the Yellowstone, at Forks of the Snake, and Pierre’s Hole—sometimes with Bridger’s men, sometimes alone. Because of the hostile nature of some of the warring tribes during that time, particularly the Sioux, the Cheyenne, and the Blackfeet, they had to move often, constantly watching for war parties. It was rough going. They were among the few surviving free trappers—most had given it up a year or two back. It was a harsh existence, and it molded hard men.

  After that first winter, Buck seemed to have put Frank’s death behind him, and returned to his more familiar nature—that of a rip-roaring, fun-loving companion. And Trace was happy to see the transformation. Buck even uprooted himself from the fireplace once in a while to accompany Trace on his winter hunts. Although trapping was the life both men preferred, the day finally came when even they had to admit that it was time to try something else. So when spring came that year, they decided to ride down to Fort Laramie, hoping to discover other possible pursuits.

  Rocking along in the saddle, his body in perfect tune with his horse’s rhythm. Buck allowed his thoughts to wander back to earlier times, when he and Frank first came upon Trace. Looking at the broad shoulders and straight back of the young man ahead of him, he marveled at the changes that had transformed the boy they had taken in. There was nothing reminiscent of the rangy, skinny youngster he had found raiding his beaver traps so long ago. If it were not for the long shock of sandy hair, one might mistake him for an Indian in the way he sat his pony, seeming to see everything around him
at once. This quality was the primary reason Trace always led the way now, his eye as sharp as that of any hawk circling high above them in the mountain pass.

  By the time they reached South Pass, there were not many additional plews packed on the mules, though they had spent the better part of a month working their way down. The last few weeks had seen little sign of Indian activity, but now, on this last morning, Trace spotted smoke on the horizon to the north of their trail. The two of them paused to consider it, speculating on its origin.

  “Looks like somebody ain’t havin’ a good morning,” Buck commented dryly. “I just knowed there was Sioux war parties raidin’ around here—I could feel it in my bones.”

  “Maybe,” Trace replied, continuing to study the thin column of smoke rising high in the morning air. “Smoke’s too dark to be a campfire and too thin to be a brushfire. Looks like it might be from kerosene or something.”

  “Could be, I reckon. But it ain’t on our trail,” Buck quickly pointed out.

  “No, but maybe we ought to go take a look. I ain’t seen many Sioux with kerosene cans. Somebody might need some help.”

  “Dammit, Trace, it ain’t no business of our’n. We’d best git ourselves on into Laramie.”

  Trace smiled. He knew Buck would not ordinarily hesitate to give assistance to any poor soul caught in a bind. But he was within a day’s ride of a drink of whiskey, and that exerted a powerful influence upon any decision he had to make. “I’m gonna take a look. You can head on into Laramie if you want to. I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Ah, hell,” Buck fussed. “I’ll go with you, if you’re so all-fired nosy. We’re more’n likely to run up on a Sioux war party, though.” He followed Trace’s lead out toward the hills to the north, grumbling to himself as he rode. “Dammit, Frank, I know it’s you bringin’ us hard luck.”

  When they got within a mile of the smoke, they slowed their pace and proceeded with more caution. The source of the smoke appeared to be beyond a series of rugged hills that were slashed with many deep gulches. Progress became difficult as they pushed their horses through gullies and over sharp ridges until reaching one last ridge. There they dismounted and, leaving the horses below the ridge, crawled up to the crest.

  Below them, they saw the last smoking boards of a wagon bed resting on a broken front axle, the rear axle having been hardly touched by the fire. There was no one in sight, but there was plenty of sign to tell them what had happened. Several pieces of smashed and half-charred furniture were scattered about. A couple of large chests lay opened, their contents scattered over the grass of the ravine floor. There were no bodies to be seen, so the possibility that the owner of the wagon had been taken captive seemed the logical conclusion.

  They waited a long time before bringing up their horses and descending the ridge to take a closer look, certain that the raiding party had long since departed. There were a great many tracks around the wagon, but they surmised there were probably no more than a dozen Indians in the war party.

  “Well, whoever the poor soul was, looks like they rode off with him,” Buck said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “What in the world was he doin’ out here with a wagon, anyway?”

  Trace didn’t answer. He was studying the broken axle and the way it was wedged against a rock. He picked up a piece of smoking leather, a part of the traces, and examined it closely. There was no indication that they had been cut. Glancing around, he saw other pieces of the harness. The team had been unhitched. An Indian would have simply cut the traces with his knife.

  Buck, impatient to leave, summed it up. “Looks like Injuns chased the poor devil till he run up this here gully and broke his axle. Now they’re long gone.”

  “Maybe,” Trace answered, “but I don’t think so. My guess is he saw the Injuns before they saw him. I think he drove up this ravine to hide and ran up on that rock. The axle broke, so he unhitched the team and hightailed it. I don’t think he was here when the war party found his wagon.”

  “Yeah, there’s that possibility,” Buck admitted. “I was just about to point that out.”

  As if to confirm Trace’s speculation, first one, then a second mule appeared at the foot of the ravine. Free of harness, the mules walked slowly toward the men, stopping every few yards to pull up a muzzle full of the tough grass that covered the floor of the ravine.

  “Forevermore. . .” Buck uttered. “Look what’s coming here. Well, I reckon we can use a couple more mules.”

  “Let’s leave ’em alone for a while,” Trace said. “We might find this fellow before the Injuns do.”

  “If they ain’t already,” Buck snorted.

  Trace had a notion that if the mules had been working as a team for any length of time, the loose mules might eventually follow along after the others. Envisioning the scene right after the man drove his wagon up on the rock, he figured that the driver probably unhitched his team and chased them off to keep the Indians from getting them. No doubt he jumped on one of them and made his escape.

  Buck wasn’t so sure Trace was right. “I don’t know trout them mules. Now, if the man had a’been driving a team of hound dogs, maybe so.”

  A search around the area told them where the wagon had entered the ravine, where the war party had approached, and in which direction they had left. But it was impossible to determine where a man on a single mule might have left the ravine. Trace saw two possible outlets that led over rock outcroppings where no tracks would be left. So, in spite of Buck’s protests, Trace made himself comfortable while he waited to see what the mules would do.

  After about thirty minutes, the two abandoned mules grazed their way up to Trace and Buck’s animals. Cautious at first, one of the mules approached the paint and was immediately warned off by the horse. Rebuked, the two orphans backed off about twenty yards and continued to graze for a while. After a second attempt to approach the horses and another, stronger rejection, the mules broke off and headed up a rocky draw at a trot.

  “Well, that ain’t the way I woulda picked,” Trace sighed as he stepped up in the saddle and started out after the mules.

  “Waste of time,” Buck grumbled, but he followed along behind, leading their pack mules and Frank’s horse.

  The mules took them on a slow, meandering trail through a gulch and across an open stretch of flat prairie. The general direction seemed to be toward a line of low-lying hills with sparse patches of trees near the base. When the mules stopped to graze again, Trace went on ahead and started to search for a trail. After a scout of no more than half an hour, he found what he was looking for—tracks of two shod animals. From the indentations in the hard earth, he figured they were carrying riders. He waited for Buck to catch up to him.

  “Well, I reckon you was right,” Buck allowed. “Two fellers rode out on mules—but what are you fixin’ to do about it? Tears like they got away from the Injuns. Now I expect you and me ought to do the same.”

  “Aren’t you curious at all?” Trace asked. After all, this wasn’t exactly the place you’d expect to find somebody driving a wagon. He had a feeling that whoever it was, they were probably lost and maybe desperate.

  “Hell, no,” Buck snorted. “They oughta had better sense than to be out here in the first place.” Although he felt the need to register his objections, he knew that once Trace made up his mind, it was as good as done.

  It was a good thing they had picked that rocky gulch out of the ravine, Trace thought, because the men they followed made no efforts to cover their trail after they got on the flat. He could imagine their reckless sprint for the hills that he and Buck were fast approaching. By the time they entered the trees at the bottom of the first hill, it was well past noon. From the tracks that led up through a narrow draw, Trace guessed the men had been forced to slow down to rest their mules, and when he found fresh droppings, he decided it was time to proceed with caution. He studied the slope before them and the lay of the land on both sides. Noting the pattern of the trees beyond, he speculated, “The
re might be a stream on the other side of this hill.”

  Buck dropped back with the animals while Trace scouted ahead to the top of the slope. There was a stream on the far side all right, and sitting beside it, looking tired and confused, were the two they had been following. Trace motioned for Buck to come on up. “Well, there sets your two homespuns, all right,” he said as Buck settled beside him.

  As they had figured, there were two of them—a man and a boy. And from what Trace could see, it appeared they had nothing but the two mules they had ridden—no weapons, no bedrolls, no supplies. They sat huddled together, apparently lost and confused.

  Trace looked at Buck, but before he could speak, Buck said, “I know—greenhorns,” his face a mask of fake disgust. “You go on down and I’ll stay here with the horses till you say come on in.”

  Trace made his way silently down the slope. The two sat talking, unaware of his presence until he spoke. “You fellers have some trouble?”

  They reacted as if he had thrown a handful of gunpowder into a fire. They bolted upright, the man falling against the boy, knocking him into the stream. Trace stood there, amazed by their frantic gyrations, which made them look like two frightened pigeons. “I don’t mean you no harm,” he said. “I would have given you some warning, but I couldn’t be sure you didn’t have a gun hid somewhere.” He could see that neither had recovered from the initial fright. At least they didn’t run. The boy was still staggering around in the stream, trying to keep from winding up on his seat in the chilly water. “Name’s Trace McCall,” he offered.

  The man finally found his voice. “Mr. McCall, I reckon I don’t have to tell you, you gave us a start.” He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, sopping up the cold perspiration that had suddenly formed there. “I’m Jordan Thrash. This here’s Jamie. We’ve just escaped from wild Indians.”