Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Stunned for only a few moments when he heard the name blurted out of Travis Bowen’s mouth, Morgan reached immediately for a rifle from the wooden crate he had brought for trade. Fumbling in his excitement, he tried to calm his emotions long enough to pour a measure of powder down the barrel. Selecting a leather patch, he seated the lead ball and rammed the load home. There was no thought of consequences or injury to innocent parties. He was determined to shoot young Tracey down where he stood, bystanders be damned!

  As quietly as he could, he quickly pulled barrels and boxes aside to give him suitable room from which to shoot. Grabbing the edge of the heavy wagon sheet, he pulled it up enough to give him a hole to sight through. “Damn!” he exclaimed, for he was too late. Travis had already led Jim around to the back of his wagon. Almost choking on the bile generated by his intense hatred, he entertained thoughts of sending a rifle ball through the sheets of Bowen’s wagon in hopes of a lucky shot. He thought better of it when he spied Buck Ransom approaching from Longstreet’s wagon, his rifle cradled across his forearm. “Damn,” he uttered once more and sank back on his heels, a scalding mixture of anxiety and frustration churning within his gut.

  Though he strained to hear the conversation taking place on the other side of Bowen’s wagon, Morgan could not make out a word. After a few minutes, however, the visit was over, and Buck reappeared, the tall buckskin-clad figure walking beside him. I would never have recognized him, Morgan thought as he slowly eased the barrel of his rifle underneath the bottom of the wagon sheet. The cowardliness of shooting Trace in the back did not concern him. Morgan was a big man, and capable of extreme violence, but he had no thoughts of a fair fight. An execution, pure and simple, was what he had in mind. The problem, however, was that Trace walked on the far side of Buck, and Morgan could not get a clear shot. He couldn’t chance a miss. Then he heard Nettie Bowen call out the supper invitation, and he immediately drew his rifle back inside, knowing he would soon have another chance.

  * * *

  Back at their campsite, Buck and Trace packed up their plunder and prepared to move their horses and mules downriver with those of the wagon train. It was already getting late in the day by the time they drove their animals inside the circle of wagons. Trace noticed that the big freighter that belonged to Blunt Brothers was missing from the circle. All well and good, he thought. It’s best to avoid a confrontation. The paint was a bit skittish about being hobbled inside the circle of wagons, but he settled down when the pack mules were placed close at hand. After his horse was taken care of, Trace helped Buck set up their camp.

  No sooner had they settled themselves when Reverend Longstreet assembled the members of the train to meet their new guides. There were undisguised expressions of concern on the faces of the men, obviously wondering if these two wild figures could be trusted to lead them where they wanted to go, or if they were of the same ilk as the former guide who had taken their money and fled. They were somewhat relieved when Longstreet assured them that Bordeaux himself had vouched for their honesty and capability. The gathering became almost cordial when Longstreet informed them that Travis and Nettie Bowen were well acquainted with the tall young man as well.

  “I’d like to add my recommendation that you folks couldn’t have hired two better men to guide you,” a voice called out from the back of the gathering. Trace turned to see the crowd parting as Jordan Thrash made his way through to the front. “These two sure saved my bacon.” He stepped up, grinning, his hand extended. “Looks like I found my wagon train,” he said to Buck.

  It was not an easy time for Trace, uncomfortable as he was in crowds of women and children. But he stood patiently while Longstreet introduced them, and he endured the stares of the women and children as they openly gawked at his fringed buckskins and the otter skin bow case strapped across his back. The men eyed the Hawken rifle, cradled casually across his forearm. Glancing beyond Jordan Thrash, who was busy meeting his new neighbors himself, Trace spied Jamie standing quietly and watching him. When their eyes met, Jamie smiled broadly. He appreciated Trace’s discomfort.

  Buck, on the other hand, seemed to glory in the attention. He posed and preened in all his mountain wildness, duly impressing the homespun congregation. Trace wondered that the people didn’t mistake him for Moses himself, come to lead them to the Promised Land. His thick shock of snow-white hair that fell in tangled snarls joining a craggy beard of black and gray, might cause a person of imagination to be reminded of the snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Watching him as he performed for the farmers and merchants, Trace could not repress a smile. Reverend Longstreet had his guide all right, and the wagon train had their authenic mountain man.

  The introductory meeting lasted for most of an hour before the gathering dispersed to return to their individual wagons for the evening meal. Buck had completely captured his audience with his descriptions of the trails ahead and the dangers that he would protect them from. It was with some reluctance that the folks retired to the cookfires, and Buck had to politely refuse several supper invitations, explaining that he had already accepted one from Mrs. Bowen.

  “How long has it been since you’ve had real cornbread, fried in a pan?” Travis Bowen asked when he noticed the rapt attention with which Trace watched Nettie preparing the food.

  Realizing that he had been caught staring, Trace laughed, embarrassed. “I didn’t realize how long it had been until I saw Mrs. Bowen mixing it—not since I saw my ma fix it that way, I guess.”

  Not wishing to open the conversation to any questions about Trace’s mother, Travis quickly changed the subject. “I reckon you know the mountains pretty good by now.”

  “I reckon. Not as good as Buck, though.” It did not escape him that Travis was still reluctant to talk about his mother. He guessed it was because she had married Hamilton Blunt and Travis probably thought the subject might make him uneasy. It made little difference to Trace. He certainly did not approve of his mother’s choice, but she had been firm in her decision. Maybe it was best for her that Blunt was there to care for her after the tragic death of his father. Trace had decided long before to accept it.

  While Nettie went about the preparation of the cornbread, Travis tunneled into the sacks and boxes in his wagon until he found a jug of corn whiskey. Passing it to Buck, he announced, “Here’s a little somethin’ to wake your appetite up. Brought it all the way from St. Louie—made it myself.” He grinned as Buck eagerly grabbed the jug and tilted it. Nettie shook her head in mock irritation as the men passed the jug around. Trace took a small swallow of the fiery liquid, closing his eyes tightly to hold the tears back. When Travis offered it again, he declined, the vivid picture of Buck’s drunken binges at rendezvous still fresh in his mind. He was thankful when Nettie Bowen announced that supper was ready and Travis replaced the cork in his jug and returned it to the wagon. Buck’s forlorn expression was lost on Travis, but Trace knew that it was painful for the old trapper to see the jug put to bed while still half full.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t fix you some fried chicken or something you’re not used to getting. I reckon you’ve had enough venison to last you your whole life.” Nettie apologized as she ladled generous portions from the stewpot. “But it’s a treat to us. Mr. Bordeaux had some fresh venison that one of his men killed this morning, and I thought it would be more pleasing than salt pork.”

  “Fresh meat is still fresh meat,” Buck countered. “Don’t make no difference what kind of critter it was carved off’n.”

  “Buck’s right,” Trace said. “We’ve been living off jerky and salt pork the past few days—the only fresh meat we’ve had was a tough old blacktail buck we carved up three nights ago. We appreciate a real cooked meal for a change.” He graciously accepted the plate offered and seated himself cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire.

  “Humph—jerky,” Nettie scolded. “A man can’t get much nourishment from nothing but jerky.”

  Buck, his hand outstretched to receive a plate,
commented, “Jerky’s better than nuthin’, I reckon—’course, nuthin’s easier to fix.”

  Nettie did a fine job cooking the fresh deer meat, making it into a stew spiced with some onions, also traded from Mr. Bordeaux. From a barrel in the back of the wagon, she dipped out a ladle full of molasses to sop up with cornbread. Accustomed to much simpler fare, Trace and Buck thought it a veritable feast.

  The talk turned to the rugged mountains to be faced in the weeks before autumn, since there was naturally a great concern about the unknown on the part of the settlers. After talking to Bordeaux, Buck had found that there had already been a few hardy souls passing through Laramie who had struck out for Oregon. Reverend Longstreet’s train would not be the first, but they would be among the first, and a lot of folks figured they wouldn’t be the last. Buck was interested to know if all the men in the company were prepared to fight Indians if it came to that. He had heard that some religions didn’t hold with fighting, and he wanted to make sure this bunch was not of that persuasion.

  “I don’t wanna worry you, Missus,” he said to Nettie, “but them Sioux have been ornery all summer. And when the shootin’ starts, I don’t wanna look around and find that it ain’t nobody but me and Trace with a rifle.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Travis said. “Some of the folks is close to their Bibles, but all of us believe in an eye for an eye. We’re ready enough to defend what’s ours.”

  “Well, that shines right enough,” Buck replied. “I’m hoping it ain’t gonna be necessary to have to fight. Most of the tribes we might run into have been pretty peaceful. Long as we stay clear of them Sioux war parties—and the Blackfoot and the Gros Ventres—we’ll most likely be all right. We ain’t gonna be goin’ through their usual territory, but you cain’t never tell where you might run into a raidin’ party.”

  “All this talk about Indians makes me nervous,” Nettie declared as she pulled the coffeepot from the fire. “Have some more coffee.”

  She had taken no more than a step toward Trace’s outstretched cup when the rifle ball snapped past her face. She saw the fringe fly on Trace’s buckskin shirt when the ball passed through it, barely missing his shoulder. The crack of the rifle, following an instant later, startled her, causing her to drop the pot of coffee on the ground. Trace was up before the echo of the shot had died away, dragging Nettie out of the firelight and roughly depositing her close to the wagon. “Stay down!” he commanded.

  “Thar!” Buck shouted, pointing toward a stand of cottonwoods near the river where he had seen the muzzle flash. He crawled toward the back of the wagon, peering at the darkened trees in hopes of seeing a target.

  Someone in the circle of wagons screamed out, “Injuns!” and there was a wild scramble for cover. Women called to their children frantically as men ran for their guns.

  “Hold on!” Buck called out. “Ever’body just settle down. It ain’t no Injuns.” He knew the single shot was meant for one person, and that person was Trace. Trace, with the same thought, was already making his way through the darkness toward the river. “Don’t nobody shoot,” Buck called out again. He was afraid one of the settlers might accidentally hit Trace. He wasn’t sure himself where his young partner was.

  There was no doubt in Trace’s mind who had fired the shot. Somehow Morgan Blunt had found out he was there from Bordeaux, or someone in the wagon train—it didn’t matter which. He had always known that this day of reckoning was bound to come. He moved silently through the scrub brush near the river, stopping every few yards to listen and watch the shadows. Buck had pointed toward a small stand of cottonwoods that stood taller than the skimpy willow whips he was now passing through. Trace circled around the trees, figuring that if Blunt decided to run, he would probably head upstream, away from the wagons. Moving swiftly, hardly disturbing the thick brush near the riverbank, he drew upon lessons learned as a Crow warrior to guide him.

  Laying his rifle aside, he took his bow from its case and strung it. Holding the bow and three arrows in his hand, he made his way to the riverbank, where he stopped to listen, his ear close to the ground. He heard the soft pad of footsteps on the hard, sandy bank of the river minutes before he could make out a dark form running toward him. He had guessed correctly that the would-be assassin was coming his way. He notched an arrow and waited. He had to be sure of his target.

  Trace had reacted so quickly after the rifle shot that Morgan was still trying to reload his rifle while on the run. It was an unaccustomed role for Morgan, and he was finding it difficult to run and measure powder at the same time. Finally he stopped to complete the reloading. Panting for breath, he fumbled with his bullet pouch to find a lead ball. Damn, he cursed himself. I had a clear shot and missed! In spite of the coolness of the evening, he found it necessary to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

  Kneeling in the darkness some fifty feet away, Trace could see the dark form standing still now, but he could not be certain it was Blunt. It could be Buck, or one of the men of the train. To be sure of his target, he called out, “Blunt!”

  The sudden sound of his name caused Morgan to pull the trigger of his rifle before it was reloaded, resulting in a harmless flash of powder. He flung the useless weapon away, pulled his pistol from his belt, and fired in the direction of the voice. There was no further hesitation on Trace’s part. He let fly the first arrow and quickly notched a second.

  Morgan staggered backward and started to scream, but the arrow slicing through his throat turned his cry of distress into a frantic gurgle. Dropping to his knees, he clawed at the protruding shaft with both hands, trying to dislodge it—until the second arrow slammed into his chest with a dull thud. Falling over on his side, feeling his life drain from him on the sandy riverbank, he made no more than a whimper when the dark shadow appeared over him.

  “There was no need for this,” Trace stated evenly. “I didn’t murder your brother. He tried to kill me. I had no choice.”

  Morgan was past caring. His throat clogged with blood, he was fighting a losing battle for breath. In his pain-addled brain, the figure hovering over him was the angel of death and he knew he was finished. Trace stepped back and waited until Morgan’s last tortured breath escaped his lungs. Two of the three Blunt brothers had now died at his hand. It was a sobering thought for a man as young in years as Trace. But he had been given no choice in either killing. Moments later, Buck, carrying a flaming torch, arrived ahead of a group of men from the wagon train.

  “By God, it’s Morgan Blunt, all right,” Travis Bowen said, peering over Buck’s shoulder.

  Buck looked at Trace, standing quietly by, gazing down at the still body of the man who had hunted him for so long. “You all right, son?” Trace nodded. “I reckon you’re lucky he warn’t no better shot. Hell, he come closer to hittin’ Mrs. Bowen than he did you.”

  Travis Bowen stepped back from the corpse of the man he had feared for so long. There was something more he could tell Trace at this moment, but he wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t be best to let Morgan’s death be the end of it. He decided to hold his tongue.

  CHAPTER 14

  Reverend Longstreet proved to be an efficient wagonmaster, organizing his flock of settlers for the journey ahead of them in an orderly fashion early the next morning. No one grieved terribly over the sudden passing of Morgan Blunt, for no one in the train except the Bowens knew the man. Though Morgan had traveled with them from St. Louis, he had always remained distant from the others. His wagonload of trade goods was left with Bordeaux at Fort Laramie to be claimed by his brother at such time as the news of Morgan’s death reached St. Louis.

  As for Trace McCall, he felt at last free of a nagging thought that had dwelt in the back of his mind ever since he had fled St. Louis. With LaPorte gone, and now Morgan, he felt sure that was the end of his having to constantly look over his shoulder. True, Hamilton Blunt was still to be reckoned with. But Hamilton was not the type of individual who would risk the danger and discomforts of the frontier himself
. Maybe this would be the end of his troubles with his mother’s husband. Even the thought of his mother happily married to Hamilton Blunt was not enough to dampen his spirits on this bright morning, with the Wind River Mountains to the north, and the Wasatch Range on the horizon. This was the kind of country that enlivened a young man’s soul. Trace easily understood Buck’s eagerness to do any job that would take him back to the mountains. He glanced up at the cry of a hawk circling high above, allowing his mind to wander to thoughts of a little Snake maiden somewhere in that vast land called Oregon. Maybe he would set out to find her when they reached the Bitterroot country.

  After discussing the possible trails where wagons might travel, and the disposition of the various Indian tribes known to frequent the country, Buck and Trace had decided to follow the Sweetwater through South Pass, then turn south and strike the Green. They agreed that it would be necessary to turn back north again to skirt the Wasatch Mountains, and perhaps follow the Snake past the Bitterroots. They had trapped most of that country, and Buck knew every place to ford a river and every pass that a team of mules pulling a wagon might cross.

  Guiding a train of settlers turned out to be a better occupation than Trace had anticipated. He and Buck rode out ahead each day to scout the day’s planned route and select the night’s camping site. In addition, Trace hunted almost every day to provide fresh meat for the folks in the train. When there was concern about alerting any hostiles in the vicinity, Trace was as good with a bow as he was with his rifle, so he could hunt without making a noise. Of course, the Hawken allowed him to bring down a deer at a far greater distance, but the skills taught him by old Buffalo Shield enabled him to stalk most animals until he was within easy range of his bow.

  After the first night on the trail, Nettie Bowen insisted that the two guides should camp with her and Travis. She was adamant in that it was no trouble for her to cook for the four of them. It was a good tradeoff for Nettie, since Trace always kept them supplied with fresh meat. So from that night forward, Trace spread his bedroll under the Bowens’ wagon and Buck slept next to him although he sometimes accepted supper invitations from several other members of the reverend’s flock. It was the closest thing Trace had found to being a part of a family since he had chosen to leave the Crow village.