Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Nettie was always cheerful, no matter the hardships of the trail. In fact, she was almost motherly. Travis Bowen was certainly cordial toward Trace. But sometimes, sitting at night by the fire, Trace would catch Travis staring at him with a far-off look in his eye. When he realized that Trace was meeting his gaze, he would abruptly look away, as if caught napping. If it had happened only once, Trace would have thought nothing of it, but it seemed that Travis was working something over in his mind that troubled him. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem inclined to come out with it, and Trace wasn’t curious enough to ask.

  Jordan Thrash seemed to be a contented man. He had been able to purchase a wagon at Laramie and evidently had enough money left to outfit it for the trip. He smiled and waved each time Trace and Buck rode by. Jamie sat up on the seat with Jordan, taking over the driving only occasionally. It appeared that Jordan didn’t trust the boy to handle the mules anytime it was hard going. There were other boys on the wagon train that looked to be close to Jamie’s age, but Jamie was pretty much a loner. Trace noticed that he kept to his father’s wagon most of the time. Whenever there was a steep climb or a muddy river crossing, Jamie pitched in with the other men and boys, working to keep the wagons rolling. But Jamie wasn’t very strong, and Trace felt a little sorry for him.

  “That boy is gonna have a hard time of it,” Buck stated one afternoon when the train had struggled most of the day to cross a steep ridge. They had to tie off the wagon wheels and sled them down the other side. “He looks plumb whipped. He better hunt, because it shore looks like he can’t work.”

  “He can’t hunt either,” Trace responded, then related the results of Jamie’s attempt to shoot a deer. “I swear, Jordan must have kept him chained to the front porch in Ohio.”

  “He shore as hell stares at you ever’ time we ride past their wagon,” Buck said, grinning widely. “I think he wishes you was his daddy.”

  “The hell he does,” Trace replied, then softened a bit. “It’s a shame. A boy his age ought to know how to shoot. I ought to take him with me next time I go hunting.”

  That was all that was said on the matter until two days later, after the wagons were circled and the pilgrims were starting their campfires. Trace took his customary ride around the perimeter of their camp, checking sign, making sure there was no party of hostile Indians waiting. When everything looked to be to his satisfaction, he swung by Jordan’s wagon. Jamie looked up as he rode up before them.

  “Come on, Jamie,” Trace called out cheerfully, “let’s go see if we can scare us up a deer or something. Maybe you’ll get another shot at one.”

  Jamie didn’t answer but looked anxiously at his father, who was mending a tear in the wagon sheet. Jordan stopped what he was doing and considered Trace’s invitation thoughtfully before finally speaking. “Sure, Jamie, go on along. A boy oughta learn to shoot. I can finish up here.”

  Trace held out his hand. “Here, jump up behind me and we’ll go saddle up Tater.”

  With Trace’s help, Jamie scrambled up behind him, and they loped off to the creek bank, where Buck had hobbled the horses. They were still carrying Frank’s old saddle on one of the pack mules, so Trace untied it and threw it on the ground before Jamie’s feet. “Throw that saddle on him, and I’ll get Frank’s rifle for you.” While he busied himself with fetching the rifle, Trace watched Jamie’s efforts out of the corner of his eye. What he saw told him that he might have taken on a bigger project than he had at first anticipated. The boy knew how to saddle a horse, but he had a helluva struggle doing it. Trace walked back with the rifle and stood looking at the horse, now saddled. “I expect you’d best tighten up on that girth. Tater likes to blow his belly up, and you’ll most likely wind up riding upside down.”

  “I pulled it up as tight as I could get it,” Jamie answered.

  Trace smiled. “Give it another pull.” He gave Tater a sharp rap in the belly and the horse exhaled, causing the strap to go slack. Jamie jerked it tight, grinning at Trace.

  They rode out of camp and followed the creek for a mile or so before coming to a beaver dam that had formed a little pond. The thought ran through Trace’s mind that, if they hadn’t been on the trail, he might have come back here the next morning to set his traps. Motioning for Jamie to dismount, he stepped down and tied the horses back out of sight. A quick scout around the beaver dam provided plenty of sign, and not all beaver. There was deer sign, coyote, even mountain lion—everything came there to drink. “I believe we’ve found us the horn of plenty, Jamie. We’ll just sit here real quiet and let ’em come to us.”

  They found a place in some tall brush downwind from the pond, where they could watch the water hole without being seen. While they waited, Trace gave Jamie some instructions on how best to sight and fire Frank’s rifle. “You’re sure you’re ready to get meat?” Trace asked. “’cause if you miss, we won’t get no supper. I’m not going to back your shot this time.”

  Jamie smiled, confident that this time it would be different. “I’m ready.”

  “You better be sure,” Trace teased, “’cause if you miss, you also have to walk back to camp.”

  They didn’t have to wait long before a group of four antelope walked cautiously down to the water’s edge. Trace smiled to himself—he could feel the boy trembling with the excitement of the moment. He had to grab Jamie’s arm to keep him from jerking the rifle up too abruptly. “Easy, Jamie, bring it up real slow—you don’t wanna scare ’em off. Now aim it like I showed you.” Jamie did as he was told. “Take a breath and hold it. Hold that stock tight against your shoulder. When you’re ready, squeeze that trigger like it’s a spoon in molasses.”

  The evening quiet was shattered by the report of the rifle and the thundering of hooves scattering in panic, followed by a joyous squeal of excitement from Jamie. One antelope lay dead on the edge of the pond.

  “I got him! I got him!” Jamie screamed.

  “You sure did,” Trace laughed. “Are you sure that was the one you were aiming at?”

  “Yes, it was. Damn right it was!” Jamie yelled back, a devilish gleam of joy in his eyes.

  Trace got to his feet and, pulling Jamie up by the back of his collar, said, “You killed him, now you go butcher him.”

  Jamie, the smile still spread across his face, looked at Trace and shook his head. “I don’t know how to butcher a deer.”

  “It ain’t a deer, it’s an antelope, and you’re gonna have to learn to butcher sometime. You might as well start now.”

  Jamie’s smile faded, and he suddenly looked very serious. “I don’t want to butcher him.”

  Trace snorted in disbelief. “You don’t? Well, you’re gonna.”

  “No, I’m not,” Jamie said defiantly. “The damn thing can just stay there, for all I care.”

  Trace was confused by the boy’s attitude. “You can’t just go killing something and let it go to waste. That just ain’t right.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. If I’d known you expected me to carve that thing up, I wouldn’t have shot him in the first place. I thought you’d do that part.”

  Trace was flabbergasted. “Well, if that don’t beat all.” He stared at Jamie for a few moments, not knowing what to make of the situation. Then the grin returned to his face. “You’re gonna skin that antelope or I’m gonna throw your ass in that pond.”

  “Oh, no,” Jamie cautioned. “Oh, no, you’re not!” He backed away. “Don’t, Trace, I can’t get wet.”

  “You can’t get wet? I swear, you’re worse than Buck.” Before Jamie could run, Trace grabbed him in a bear hug, picked him up and walked to the edge of the pond.

  “I’ll skin him! I’ll skin him!” Jamie screamed frantically.

  Trace, caught up in the moment of horseplay, just laughed. “It’s too late now.” With that, he threw Jamie sprawling into the dark pool of water. Then, for the pure hell of it, he quickly dropped his belt and powder horn and jumped in himself.

  Feeling in a playful mood for the first time
since he could remember, Trace came up, spitting water and laughing. It had seemed like a hundred years since he had been a boy with nothing on his mind but going for a swim. Jamie, however, did not seem to share Trace’s youthful enthusiasm. He was snorting and sputtering, already making his way toward the bank in the waist-deep water.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Trace called after him, splashing him with water. “A little water won’t hurt’cha.” When Jamie didn’t respond, and just kept struggling to climb out of the pond, Trace went after him. He caught him by the back of the shirt just as Jamie was about to scramble up the bank.

  “Don’t, Trace, you’ll tear my shirt!”

  It was too late. With one mighty tug, Trace pulled the complaining boy back in the water and dunked him under a couple of times before letting him up for air. Jamie came up fighting mad and started flailing his fists at Trace. Surprised, and realizing that Jamie was actually angry, Trace backed away, laughing good-naturedly.

  “Hold on,” Trace yelled, between fits of laughter while he continued to back away from Jamie’s fists. But Jamie, fully incensed at this point, would not back off. Finally Trace had to put a stop to it when one of Jamie’s fists caught him beside the jaw. There wasn’t much force behind it, but it was enough to cause Trace to decide he’d better disable his attacker. Before Jamie knew what was happening, Trace ducked under the water and grabbed Jamie’s shirt by the tails. With one quick motion, he came up with the shirt, pulling it up over Jamie’s head so that his arms were immobilized straight up in the air.

  Jamie screamed in alarm, and Trace was almost struck dumb for a moment, confused by the strange garment beneath the homespun shirt. Jamie’s chest was tightly bound by a broad piece of cloth. That in itself would have been enough to puzzle him, but that was not the sight that shocked him to the point of staring stupidly. One side of the broad cloth had been pulled up under Jamie’s armpit, allowing a large, round nipple to protrude from underneath the binding.

  The realization of his discovery hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he backed away from Jamie as if she had the plague. “Damn!” was all he could utter for a few moments as he continued to stare from a safer distance.

  Jamie began to cry, more in frustration than from fear, as she struggled to cover herself. When she got her shirt back down, she waded toward the bank again. “Get away from me!” she yelled when Trace tried to help her up the bank. Ignoring his extended hand, she pulled herself out of the water, only to slip on the wet grass and slide right back in. “Get away!” she warned and crawled out again, this time on all fours.

  “Damn, Jamie. . .” Trace sputtered, climbing out after her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  She cut him off. “Now I guess everybody will know.” She was still plenty angry and she let him know it. “You had to have your little tomfoolery, didn’t you?” She fussed with her shirt, getting madder by the moment. “Now, dammit, I’m soaked, and this damn binding is chafing me. I’ve got to take it off.” She glared at him. “Turn around and don’t look until I tell you to.” When he had turned away, she quickly removed the wet shirt and began working away at the wet knot that held the binding.

  He could hear her muttering to herself, but he couldn’t make out the words. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, anyway. His mind was a clutter of confusion, not knowing what to think. “You know, I ain’t gonna say nothing to anybody about this, if that’s what you want.” She didn’t answer. He had said that he wouldn’t look, but the temptation was too overwhelming to resist one little peek out of the corner of his eye. What he saw sent a shiver down his spine, and he quickly looked away again. Jamie had been successfully concealing two well-formed breasts behind the tightly bound cloth.

  “All right,” Jamie said. “You can turn around now.” She wrung some of the water from her clothes and emptied her boots. Then she went to her horse and climbed up in the saddle. Trace stood dumbfounded, watching her but not knowing what to say. Eventually he deemed it best to say nothing. “I’m going back to camp,” she announced in a voice that dared him to protest.

  Still unsure as to what he should do or say, Trace just stood there and watched her as she left. For want of anything else to say, he said, “I’ll be along behind. I’m just gonna bleed this deer and take him back to camp to butcher.”

  “It’s not a deer, it’s an antelope,” she said, giving him a cold eye as she turned Tater back toward the wagons.

  “An antelope,” he repeated, his mind still stunned by the vision of her two lovely young breasts.

  He would have jumped on his horse and followed her, but there was little doubt in his mind that she preferred to ride back alone. It was a helluva thing, he thought, running it over in his mind, and he felt a little stupid for not suspecting it before. After all, she didn’t seem very strong for her age, and she sure as hell didn’t know how to do anything a boy should have known. He had a pretty good idea why she tried to pass herself off as a boy, traveling alone with her father. It would have been a hazardous journey for a girl in a land far from the civilized ways of the East. He glanced back at the antelope carcass. “Might as well carry the meat back to camp,” he mumbled aloud. He picked up Frank Brown’s Hawken rifle where Jamie had dropped it, strapped it beside his saddle, and hefted the carcass up onto the horse.

  Jamie Thrash was distraught to the point of panic. She spurred Tater to a gallop, intent on getting as far away from Trace McCall as she could for the moment. She felt ashamed for having her charade found out, and she was angry with him for forcing her hand, even though she knew he was not to blame. She could also not deny the strange fascination she felt for the tall young mountain man. From the first time she had seen him, appearing suddenly out of nowhere, she had felt a strong attraction to him. It was easy to be with him when he thought she was a boy. Now she only wanted to hide. What must he think of her?

  She was sick of this masquerade. It had been her father’s idea, anyway. He thought it much safer for her if she was a boy making the lonely trek to the West, avoiding the dangers a young girl might encounter when traveling with boatmen, trappers, and roughnecks. She also knew that her father was not a violent man and, though he would not admit it, would be hard-pressed to defend her honor. So she had gone along with it. Now she wished she could undo it all. Her mind was so clouded with this landslide of thoughts that she wasn’t aware of the danger she was riding into until she was suddenly slammed off her horse and landed on the ground.

  Stunned, unable to understand what had happened, she tried to get to her feet, but a hand grabbed her hair from behind and jerked her back onto the ground. In the next instant, she was looking up into the faces of two painted savages. When she screamed, they looked at each other, startled. They had assumed it was a boy they had ambushed. They exchanged some words she could not understand. Then, while she was held down by the unseen one behind her, one of the others reached down and ripped her shirt away, revealing her bare breasts. She started to scream again but was slapped hard across the mouth.

  The three warriors wasted no time. Binding her wrists with a rawhide thong, they jerked her to her feet while one of them went after her horse. This was a stroke of good fortune, a woman and a fine horse. They had hoped to steal horses from the wagon train, but determined it too well guarded by too many rifles. They were on their way back to their camp in the valley beyond the pass when she came riding across their path.

  There was some discussion among the three pertaining to who should have the woman and who should ride the horse. They were on foot because they had planned to raid the white men’s horses. Finally it was decided that the warrior who knocked the woman off her horse should rightly have the woman. He should walk and lead the woman. The other two would be allowed to ride the horse. That settled, they started out again.

  Terrified and approaching shock, Jamie cried out for Trace, but he was not there, and she was soundly walloped for her trouble. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she was dragged along the ground
until she managed to stagger to her feet, trying her best to keep up with her captors. She feared to speculate what her fate might be at the hands of these rough savages as each step took her farther away from her father and the wagon train.

  The three warriors seemed to be in a hurry, and it was all Jamie could do to stay on her feet. Already numb to her pain and resigned to her fate, she stumbled along as best she could, suffering the abuse of her captor whenever she tripped or lost her footing. Tales of horror and torture she had heard about the treatment of captives by the Indians raced through her mind, and she questioned her strength to withstand what might lie ahead.

  They were crossing a shallow stream that bisected a narrow ravine when the warrior leading her stopped so abruptly that she collided with his bare back. They uttered some brief, excited words, and she looked up to see what had startled them. At the mouth of the ravine, he sat calmly on the paint, directly in their path—tall and straight in the saddle, he cradled his rifle across his arms, watching them patiently.

  Her heart screamed out inside her, Trace! He had come for her! Then her fears returned. After all, there were three of them, and one of them carried a musket. What chance did he have? The warriors seemed puzzled by the sudden appearance of this silent white man. They eyed him carefully, taking in his strong physical bearing and the Hawken rifle he held so casually. After a long moment, the Indian riding Tater called out something to Trace, making sign with his hands as he did so.

  Trace recognized the three warriors as belonging to the Gros Ventres tribe, close allies with the dangerous Blackfeet—some said they were one and the same. His knowledge of their tongue was scant at best, but he knew enough to communicate. He didn’t respond at once when the warrior—obviously the leader of the three—asked why he stood in their path. His gaze steady and unemotional, he sized up the opposition he faced before showing his hand. There was something sorely disturbing about seeing two Gros Ventres perched atop Tater. He didn’t think Frank would appreciate it one bit.