Wings of the Hawk
Page 25
The warrior asked him again what he wanted. They made no move toward him, but Trace could see that they, too, were sizing up their opposition. Another silent moment passed before Trace spoke. “I give thanks to you for bringing my woman and my horse to me. I was afraid I had lost them.”
Their reaction was what he expected. The one who had first spoken jerked his head back in surprise, his eyes wide, not sure he understood what his ears had heard. Then he smiled—a mischievous grin—and said something to his companions in a voice too low for Trace to hear. Turning back to face Trace again, he said, “You make a mistake, white man. The horse and the woman belong to us, and you are blocking our path.”
Trace’s stoic expression remained unmoved. “I know you want to do the right thing. Release the woman and the horse, and I’ll let you go unharmed.”
The warriors laughed, and the leader replied, his voice taunting. “Big talk. I look around you and I don’t see anyone there with you. There are three of us, all brave warriors. I think we will keep the woman and the horse—and maybe that horse you are riding.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Trace said. “It’s a shame that three of you have to die over a horse and a woman. Now take my warning, and leave them and walk away, and I’ll spare your lives.”
Insulted by the white man’s quiet arrogance, the warrior screamed in defiance. “It is I who decides who lives and who dies. I will ride your pony back to my camp with your scalp on my lance!” He was through talking. The two on Tater slid to the ground and reached for their bows. The one leading Jamie dropped the thong and pulled the musket from his back.
“Get down, Jamie!” Trace yelled. There wasn’t time for a repeat warning. The Hawken spoke before the first warrior had both feet on the ground, knocking him sprawling into the stream behind them. In an eyewink, Trace dropped his rifle and pulled Frank’s rifle up. The second warrior doubled over before he could notch an arrow. Dropping Frank’s rifle, Trace pulled his bow from his back. While he calmly notched an arrow, he heard the discharge of the musket and the rattle of the lead ball as it whistled through the brush some three or four yards beside him. Taking his time, he aimed and released his arrow. It struck the Gros Ventre in the middle of his chest, and the warrior sat down heavily on the ground, mortally wounded.
Trace nudged the paint and rode forward at a walk until he was directly over the wounded Indian. Glancing first at Jamie, he asked, “You all right?” When she nodded dumbly, he turned his attention to the warrior dying at his pony’s feet. As he would for any animal that was suffering, he dismounted and, pulling his pistol from his belt, put the Gros Ventre out of his misery.
Jamie cried out in surprise when the pistol fired, and drew back for a moment. The sudden eruption of violence had completely unnerved her, even though her senses were already reeling from her treatment at the hands of her captors. Finally she could stand it no longer. She rushed into Trace’s arms, locking her arms around his neck and burying her face into his neck. “I thought he was going to shoot you,” she whimpered, pressing her body as tightly against his as she could.
“He missed,” was all Trace replied. He had purposely ignored the warrior with the musket until last. Recognizing the weapon as one of the unreliable old fusees that the Hudson’s Bay Company traded to the Indians, he figured the warrior’s aim would not be that accurate. He knew he was far more likely to catch an arrow from one of the other two.
* * *
“Forevermore. . .” Buck whispered to himself as he spotted the returning hunters. He got up from his place by Nettie Bowen’s cookfire to take a closer look, for at first he could not believe his eyes. He glanced at Nettie, seeing that she too was transfixed by the sight. Walking the paint slowly into the circle of wagons, Trace rode, holding Jamie in front of him. Jamie’s arms were wrapped around Trace’s neck, her head on his shoulder. He was leading Frank’s horse, which carried an antelope carcass, an old musket, and a couple of Indian bows.
“Damn my soul,” Buck exhaled. “‘Scuse me, Nettie.”
“No offense,” Nettie replied, unable to take her eyes off of the two approaching.
Buck walked out to meet them, trying to form a question, but unable to decide what it might be. “Trace,” was all he managed before Jordan Thrash came running up.
“Jamie!” Jordan cried out in a panic-stricken voice.
Trace stepped down, still holding Jamie in his arms, realizing it was a most peculiar sight to the growing gathering. He was not concerned with appearances. He would explain all in a few minutes. First he had to make sure Jamie was going to be all right.
“Jamie!” Jordan cried again, and looked from his daughter to the tall young man still holding her closely, pleading for an explanation.
“She’s gonna be all right,” Trace said. “She’s just had a pretty bad shock.” Jordan reached out for his daughter, but Trace gently stayed his arm. “I think it might be best if Mrs. Bowen took care of her.” Realizing the wisdom in Trace’s words, Jordan stepped back dutifully.
At first Nettie was sufficiently shocked herself, but she did not fail to notice Trace’s use of the feminine gender when referring to Jamie. One glance at the torn shirt was enough to confirm it. She didn’t hesitate when Trace suggested her help. “Here, darling, you come with me.” She reached out for the girl as Jamie reluctantly released her hold on Trace’s neck. She led Jamie to her wagon while Trace explained to Jordan and Buck what had taken place.
There was some concern among the people on the train when Trace’s accounting of the incident was relayed, especially on the part of Reverend Longstreet. Since he was the captain of the train and consequently responsible for the welfare of his flock, he expressed some misgivings about lingering in that vicinity if there might be a band of Gros Ventres close at hand. It was Trace’s opinion that there was little danger of an attack from that source. He was convinced that the three he had encountered were not part of a large war party, but more likely part of a small horse-stealing foray. He and Buck decided to go scout to see if they could locate the rest of the party.
They returned to the scene of Trace’s encounter. Buck, to satisfy his curiosity, dismounted to examine the three corpses lying near the stream. “They’s Gros Ventres, all right,” was his only observation before remounting. Since the Indians were obviously traveling toward the narrow mountain pass to the south, Buck and Trace started off in that direction.
The sun dropped behind the mountains before they cleared the pass. Even so, they continued until it began to get dark and they deemed it no longer prudent to go on. They made camp under a rocky ledge and dined on jerky. The next morning they found the abandoned camp of the Gros Ventres in a small meadow just beyond the pass. As Trace had suspected, it was a small raiding party, and they had already moved off to the south.
“They’ll be lookin’ for these three, if they ain’t already,” Buck said. “From the looks of that camp, they ain’t more’n a dozen of ’em, but I expect we’d best get the wagons moving anyhow.”
Buck and Trace returned to the train to find Longstreet nervously awaiting them. He had feared that his guides had been ambushed. As soon as the two mountain men were sighted, the cry was heard: “To wagon!” and the train was under way once more.
For the next couple of days, Trace stayed well ahead of the line of lumbering wagons. Things had changed since his discovery at the beaver pond, and for reasons he could not explain, he felt shy and embarrassed whenever he chanced upon Jamie, usually mumbling a brief hello and hurrying on his way. For her part, Jamie quickly recovered from her injuries at the hands of the Gros Ventres and now seemed relieved to be finished with the masquerade she had perpetuated. Having made a new friend in Nettie Bowen, she happily gave in to her feminine side and discarded all the trappings of a boy. In fact, it was quite disturbing to Trace McCall that she had transformed into a rather attractive young lady. He feared that she might cause him many sleepless nights if he allowed her into his mind too ofte
n.
CHAPTER 15
It had been an especially hard day’s travel for the folks on the wagon train. They had been caught in a thunderstorm while trying to ascend a long gulch that would lead them up onto a wide flat. The loose dirt of the gulch had turned into a muddy slide in the downpour, causing considerable strain on the mules, as well as on people’s nerves. As a result, they had only made four miles that day when Reverend Longstreet called for an early camp by the river.
Nettie declared it a special occasion and fried the last of her supply of dried apples in an effort to bring some cheer to her little family. It was while they were drinking their coffee afterward that Trace caught Travis looking at him with that vacant stare in his eyes. This time Travis did not shift his gaze when he realized Trace was looking him in the eye. He blinked a couple of times and shook his head as if apologizing.
“Jim,” he said, calling Trace by his boyhood name, “I reckon I owe you an apology—something I reckon you had a right to know a long time ago. And I’m ashamed to say I was too damned scared to tell you.” Trace said nothing but gazed steadily at his father’s old friend, waiting. Travis sighed deeply and continued. “It weren’t no accident that killed your brother. Tyler Blunt caved Cameron’s head in with an axe. They told your mama he got run over by a runaway team.” Trace tensed, but he remained silent, his gaze steady, for he could see in Travis’s eyes that there was more to tell. “Tyler told me to go unhitch a team of mules—there wasn’t nobody else in the yard. When I came back, I seen Tyler and Morgan standing over Cameron. It stopped me cold in my tracks. They didn’t know I was standing by the harness shed and I could hear them talking. I heard Morgan say, ‘Well, that takes care of all of ’em. LaPorte took care of his daddy and the young’un. I reckon Hamilton can go after his little sweetpea now.’”
There was no sound other than Nettie Bowen’s gasp. Buck’s eyes were riveted on his young friend, his coffee cup still poised before his lips. Travis hung his head, deeply ashamed. Though Trace did not blink, his eyes were unseeing, as his head rumbled into a dark spin. All feeling had left his body, and he was suspended in a numbing state of disbelief and shock, the impact of Travis’s words striking him like a thunderbolt. The Blackfoot attack was no chance encounter. His father and Henry Brown Bear had been sought out and murdered—poor Henry having been mistaken for him. All at the bidding of Hamilton Blunt. He felt sick deep in his gut as he remembered the image of his father’s body, half-sitting against a tree trunk, the skin of his face sagging as a result of his brutal scalping. Then the picture of Hamilton Blunt came to his mind’s eye, standing with his arm around Trace’s mother, that gloating smile etched across his face. Trace felt every muscle in his body tense.
He could sit still no longer. He almost staggered when he suddenly got to his feet, desperately needing to walk. No one said anything or made a move toward him as he stormed away from the fire and toward the river. He tried to think, to stabilize his reeling mind as he walked along the water’s edge, still recoiling from the shock. When at last he felt control returning to his senses, he turned back toward his friends waiting anxiously at the campfire. His brain, having been in such a state of shock seconds before, was now clarified by a single burning hatred for Hamilton Blunt. What kind of monster could orchestrate the slaughter of an entire family over the lust for one woman? His mother! He cried out in agony, unaware that he had even made a sound. He forced himself to take control of his emotions. When he was sure of himself, he returned to the campfire.
Travis was trying to explain to Nettie why he had kept his silence for so long, not daring to tell even his own wife. His words abruptly halted when Trace reappeared and he turned to him to plead his case. “Jim, I’m sorry . . . I swear. . .” he sputtered, searching for words sufficient enough to explain his feelings. “I was just plumb afraid of what Morgan Blunt might do—to Nettie or to me. I couldn’t stay there and work for them after what I had heard. And I think Morgan suspected I knew too much. I know that’s why he drove his wagon out here with us—so he could make sure I didn’t say nothing till we was to hell and gone from St. Louis.” He looked up at Trace with sorrowful, pleading eyes. “There wasn’t nothing I could do to stop the killings—you know I would have—but I only found out after it was too late to stop it. And you were just a boy—you mighta got yourself killed if I’da told you then.”
Trace held up his hand to silence Travis. “I ain’t blaming you, Mr. Bowen. I reckon I can understand the fix you were in.” He turned to his partner. “Buck, I’m going back.”
Buck, silent up to that point, slowly nodded his head. “I expect so,” was all he said.
“You sure as hell don’t need me to help you find Oregon.” He glanced at Nettie, who was wringing her hands in anguish. “You’re in the best hands I know of with Buck, and maybe I’ll see you later on. I’ll be riding out at first light.”
“I’ll be lookin’ fer you, partner,” Buck said.
Still wound too tight to sleep, Trace decided to take a turn around the perimeter of the camp to make sure all was quiet. He was saddling his horse when he heard his name called and he turned to see Jamie standing there. Instead of her usual attire of boy’s trousers and shirt, she was wearing a dress that Nettie Bowen had helped her make. “Jamie,” Trace acknowledged.
“Nettie said you were leaving in the morning,” Jamie said.
“Reckon so. There’s something I have to do.”
“Are you coming back? I mean, out to Oregon territory?”
“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I reckon . . . sometime.”
She came closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave. I never really thanked you for saving my life, and I want you to know I’m grateful.” She gazed steadily into his eyes, and when he could find no words to reply, she stepped forward and quickly kissed him on the cheek. “You take care of yourself, Trace McCall.” Then she turned and walked off into the darkness.
* * *
Trace was long gone when Buck rolled out of his blanket the next morning. “More Injun than a durn Injun,” he muttered to himself as he tied up his bedroll. Although his young partner had slept no more than six feet from him, Buck never heard a sound when Trace saddled his horse and left. He would never admit it, but Buck knew he was going to miss Trace. He’d become mighty comfortable knowing the tall mountain man was watching his back. He’ll be back, he thought. The mountains is in his blood.
Already seven miles behind them and moving fast, Trace held the paint to a pace the horse could maintain while still covering a lot of ground. One thought burned like a hot coal in his brain, and no other thought held any importance, not even thoughts of the young girl whose kiss he could still feel on his cheek. As he rode, he promised his dead father and brother that he would punish the man responsible for their deaths. He had to force himself not to let images of Hamilton Blunt with his mother enter his mind. The thought reviled him so that it physically sickened him. He was not sure he could endure the weeks it would take to reach St. Louis.
Stopping only to rest his horse, Trace drove himself relentlessly, spending long days in the saddle, then starting out again each day in the early light. Approaching the Laramie Mountains, he spotted a party of Sioux and was forced to lay low until they had passed. Then it was back in the saddle and on to Fort Laramie, where he paused but half a day before pushing on east.
Retracing his earlier route from St. Louis, he struck the Missouri at Council Bluffs in time to buy passage on a riverboat bound for St. Louis. He decided to leave his horse in Council Bluffs, so he rode back to the stables where he had first purchased the paint. Gus Kitchel did not recognize the tall young man dressed in buckskins who rode up to his corral, but he remembered the paint. Gus never forgot a horse. He looked Trace over with an eye sharp as flint. Then it suddenly came to him that Trace was the same boy who rode out so long ago.
“Well, I’ll be. . .” Gus expelled. “You’re that boy that was gonna shoot me over that blue roan.”
Gus looked up at the young man, who now stood a full head taller than him, and gulped, “Yessir, you and I understand each other, too. Don’t worry, I’ll take mighty good care of him.”
* * *
Trace made no attempt to get to know the boatmen who worked the flatboat downriver, preferring to keep to himself, deep in his own thoughts. For their part, the crew was curious about the silent young man dressed in animal skins, rifle in hand and Indian bow on his back. When spoken to, he responded politely but offered no encouragement for casual conversation. Several times during the trip downriver, when they had made camp for the night, Trace disappeared into the prairie, always returning with game of some variety, which he generously shared with the crew. Since he seemed to want no thanks for his contribution to the camp’s mess, they accepted the meat without a show of gratitude. Soon it became expected that he would provide fresh meat, though no one among them thought it wise to approach him on the evenings that he did not.
The boat reached the wharf in St. Louis on a pleasant afternoon in early September. Before it was tied off at the dock, Trace was ashore and on his way toward Milltown. “There goes a passel of trouble for somebody, I’m thinking,” one of the boatmen said as they watched the tall buckskin-clad figure disappear into the small crowd that had gathered to watch the boat dock.