Buck snorted again and spat to show what he thought of Trace’s humor. “I thought you might wanna ride on back to Promise Valley with me. It’s been a while, and there’s folks there who’d like to see you.”
“How is Jamie?” Trace asked.
“Last I saw her, she was workin’ that little farm of her daddy’s like a man. I swear, she can outwork ol’ Jordan any day of the week. You mighta made a big mistake not marrying that gal.” He cocked an eye at Trace, his tone almost wistful. “I thought the two of you would end up together.”
“And do what?” Trace replied. “Settle down in Promise Valley and raise young’uns?”
Buck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while he studied his friend’s face for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “I reckon not. You’d hear the call of a hawk before the first year was out. Jamie’d turn around and you’d be gone.”
“I expect so,” Trace replied softly, his mind drifting back years ago to a young Shoshoni maiden on the banks of the Green River. She remained fresh in his mind even after all this time, and he wondered if he ever entered her thoughts. There was a time, years ago, when he was inclined to look for her. But things got in his way, and before he knew it, years had passed and he finally decided it was not in the cards for the two of them. He often reminded himself that it was she who slipped off in the night, leaving him no word of her whereabouts. Still the smoky fragrance of her raven-black hair lingered in his memory, to surface occasionally in moments like this.
CHAPTER 7
Sergeant Michael Barnes, sergeant of the guard on the night just past, walked out of the orderly room holding a cup of steaming black coffee. He stood on the wood stoop for a few moments, evaluating the coming day as he looked out toward the east to catch the first rays of light on the silent prairie. First light, it was his favorite time of day, while the post was still and peaceful, before the first blasts from the bugler. He glanced back toward the bakery and almost spilled his coffee when he discovered an Indian boy quietly sitting on his horse no more than fifty feet from him.
“Damn,” Barnes swore. Turning to the sentry standing by the orderly room door, he asked, “I swear I didn’t see that boy when I came out the door.” Looking back at the Indian boy, who remained silent as he stared at the door of the headquarters building, Barnes spoke again. “How long has he been settin’ there starin’ like that?”
“Can’t say for sure, Sergeant,” the, sentry replied. “It was awful dark out here. I didn’t see nothin’, didn’t hear nothin’. Then, first light, and there he was. Kinda spooky, ain’t he? Scared the shit outta me at first, I can tell you that—till I seen he was just a boy.”
“Well, what does he want?”
“I don’t know. I asked him what he wanted, but I reckon he don’t understand American. He just sets there starin’, so I just let him be.”
Barnes shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to the cup of coffee he was sipping. One of the privileges that came with guard duty was having the following day free from fatigue details, and the sergeant was taking his leisure to enjoy a morning cup before catching up on a little of the sleep he had lost the night before.
The sergeant stood outside the door until he had finished the bitter black brew, leaning against the wall, occasionally glancing at the stone-still Indian boy on the gray spotted pony. Finally his curiosity got the best of him. Tossing the last few swallows from his cup, he stepped off the stoop and walked toward the boy. The boy did not move as Barnes approached, but his eyes followed the sergeant’s every step until Barnes stopped two paces from his pony’s nose.
“Somethin’ I can do for you, son?”
“Buck,” the boy replied.
“Buck?” Barnes echoed. The boy nodded solemnly. “Whaddaya mean, Buck?”
“Buck,” the boy repeated.
Barnes shook his head, puzzled. “Do you speak any white-man talk?” He could see by the boy’s confused expression that he didn’t. “Well, now, that makes things a little harder, don’t it?” He pulled at his whiskers, thinking. “Buck, you say?”
“Buck,” was the quick response.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, boy.” He glanced up then to see Lamar Thomas walking to the sutler’s store. “Mr. Thomas,” he called, “you know an Injun word that sounds like Buck?”
Lamar stopped and turned around to look at the boy, who promptly uttered, “Buck.” Lamar thought for a minute trying to recall his limited Indian vocabulary. He couldn’t think of any word that sounded like that. “Maybe it ain’t Injun. Maybe he’s looking for somebody named Buck. Buck Ransom’s still here if he didn’t cut out this morning. At least Buck can talk his lingo.” He motioned for the boy to follow him. “Come on,” Lamar said and started walking. The boy appeared hesitant, but when Lamar didn’t turn around again and just kept walking, he nudged his pony and followed.
Lamar found Buck behind the stables, where the old trapper had spread his blankets the night before. Now he was busy packing up in preparation for the trip back to his cabin in Promise Valley. He looked up to see Lamar approaching on foot followed by the Indian boy on a pony. As soon as he came close enough, Buck recognized the boy.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Buck muttered. He looked beyond the two, expecting to see the boy’s mother. “What are you doin’ back here all by yourself? Where’s your mama?” From the quizzical expression on the young boy’s face, Buck realized he didn’t understand English, so he repeated the questions in Shoshoni.
There was immediate change in the boy’s expression. His face lit up at the familiar sound of his own tongue. Without further hesitation, he told Buck of the massacre of Broken Arm’s band and the death of his mother. Buck’s heart went out to the boy. What a shame, he thought, that pretty little Snake woman. For a brief moment, he pictured the young Indian maiden who had captivated Trace McCall’s adolescent heart—then left as quickly as she had appeared. That brief encounter had resulted in this precocious young boy standing before him now—looking for his daddy, and Trace didn’t even know he existed. The news would most likely hit Trace McCall pretty hard. He never mentioned it, but Buck suspected that Trace still carried a special memory of the young girl called Blue Water.
“Are you called Buck?” White Eagle asked when he had related the details of the tragedy that befell his people. “My mother told me to come here and find Buck.”
“Yeah, I’m Buck. I’m the one your mother sent you to find.” He paused to nod to Lamar Thomas who excused himself, saying he had to open the store, leaving the two talking. Buck was puzzled at first as to why Blue Water had sent her son to find him instead of making his way back to the Snake village. But after thinking on it for a few minutes, he figured that the main band of Snakes must have been too far ahead of Broken Arm’s band. And rather than have the lad ride alone through Sioux and Arapaho territory, she knew it was closer for him to run back to Laramie. It was Trace she wanted the boy to find, but she had no idea where Trace might be—so she sent him to Buck, hoping Trace’s friend could find him.
White Eagle was studying the old mountain man intensely, wondering if this old graybeard could possibly be the Mountain Hawk his mother had talked about. He had pictured a younger man. “Are you my father?” he finally asked.
Buck smiled. So she did tell you about your daddy, did she? In the boy’s tongue, he said, “No, your father left here yesterday, heading for the Big Horn country.”
There was a discernible change of expression on White Eagle’s face, a mixture of relief and disappointment—relief that the grizzled old trapper was not the legendary Mountain Hawk he had been told of—disappointment that he had missed seeing his real father by one day. He was now at a loss as to what he should do. He couldn’t stay there in a strange land, a land where there were many enemies of the Shoshoni. His only possessions were the pony he rode, a knife, and a bow with no arrows. He was not without the courage to fight, but he knew he was in no position to defend himself if it came
to that.
Reading the concern now etched in the boy’s face, Buck made a quick decision to change his plans to return to Promise Valley. After all, this was Trace McCall’s son, even if Trace had no notion of the boy’s existence. He knew Trace well enough to know that he would feel responsible for the boy—at least responsible enough to see White Eagle safely back to Chief Washakie’s village.
“Your mother told you the right thing,” Buck said. “I’ll take you to find your father. He’s not but a day ahead of us and he’s not in any particular hurry.” Again, he read relief in the boy’s face. “We’ll catch him,” Buck assured him.
White Eagle nodded and expressed his thanks, trying hard to disguise the concern that had worried him moments before. Buck could not help but marvel at the resemblance to Trace. The spittin’ image of Trace McCall, he thought. I could have picked him outta a crowd to be Trace’s son. He thought back to the time when he first met Trace. Trace wasn’t a great deal older than this half-Shoshoni boy before him now when Buck caught him stealing beaver from his traps. Buck almost laughed when he thought about it. Trace, left on his own in the mountains, was robbing Buck and Frank Brown’s beaver traps for food. Buck shook his head and chuckled, He was a damn sight ways from a Mountain Hawk back then.
* * *
Annie was sitting on a long cottonwood log by the water’s edge, a place she came to when she needed a few moments alone. It was approaching evening and she would have to go back to the cabin soon to help Rose Thomas with supper. There was a chill in the air, but the old log still felt warm from the sun it had absorbed during the afternoon. It made a pleasant seat for her, hard by the water’s edge, and away from Grace Turner’s sorrowful countenance for a while. Most of that first day back at Fort Laramie had been spent consoling Grace. Grace and Ned had been childhood sweethearts, and had been married for four years when he and Tom first started talking about the expedition to the Black Hills. The news of Ned’s death was devastating to Grace, making Annie feel even more guilt for her own lack of grief.
Annie didn’t mean to avoid Grace. It was just that she needed some time for herself to think private thoughts. So after they had finished the wash, and Grace felt the need for a short nap, Annie slipped quietly out the door and headed for the creek.
After checking both sides to make sure there was nothing crawling under it, she parked herself on the warm old log and let her mind flow with the rapid current that tickled the sandy stream bottom.
Gazing around her, up and down the streambank, she realized how much she enjoyed the privacy of this little spot. She could hear the sounds from the Thomases’ cabin, but she could not see the house through the cottonwoods and willows that bordered the stream. This was her spot, well upstream from the cabin. She learned soon after coming to stay with Rose and Lamar to avoid the trees directly behind the cabin. For this was Lamar’s favorite spot to relieve himself, disdaining the privy he had built for his wife.
Grace was taking Ned’s death extremely hard, still weepy and feeling faint after three days of mourning. Annie had known about Tom’s death several days before Grace learned of Ned’s. It was natural that she should be thinking about getting on with her life while Grace was still deep in sorrow.
Grace was going to have to pull herself together pretty soon, though. There were decisions to be made. Annie feared that the Thomases might be wondering when their guests were going to depart. A few times Grace had mentioned a desire to return to her father’s place in Ohio. Annie knew Grace assumed that she would accompany her, but Annie was not sure she wanted to go back east. There was a little money left, an emergency fund that Tom had left with her when he rode off in search of gold. She was glad now that he had insisted upon it. More and more lately, she had entertained the notion of using the money to continue the journey to Oregon as originally planned. Seated upon her cottonwood log, she thought about Oregon and what wonderful country it must be. A woman alone couldn’t think of taking the trip, but she might be able to pay her way on one of the wagon trains that would come through in the spring. Grace might be upset if she decided to go on to Oregon; Annie would have to give it serious thought.
“Annie . . .” Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her name. It was a man’s voice. Annie could not identify it at first—it was not Lamar’s nasal twang. When she heard it again, this time several yards closer, she recognized the voice as that of Luke Austen. At the same time, she felt a definite quickening of her pulse, a sensation that almost made her blush in embarrassment. She had not seen Lieutenant Austen but once since their return to Fort Laramie, and that was only a brief exchange of greetings. Though he had been removed from her sight for a while, she had to admit to herself that he was seldom gone from her thoughts for large portions of the day.
“I’m here,” she called out, getting to her feet and quickly shaking the wrinkles from her skirt, after a cursory effort to smooth her hair back from her face. A moment later, the tall slender figure of Luke Austen emerged from the trees.
“Evening, Annie . . . Mrs. Farrior . . .” he stumbled. “Mrs. Thomas said I’d find you down here.”
“Annie,” she corrected. “Yes, I guess my special spot wasn’t so secret after all.” She smiled warmly and extended her hand. “What brings you over here from the fort?”
He took her hand eagerly, making an effort to be gentle. “I just wanted to check on you—to see if you were getting along all right.” Still holding her hand, he fumbled in his brain for a legitimate reason to explain his visit, unable to tell her that he had come because he had been unsuccessful in ridding her from his thoughts. “I mean, that was quite an ordeal you went through. I just wanted to make sure you were all right—if there was anything I could do . . .”
“How very thoughtful,” she said. “I’m fine . . . I mean, under the circumstances, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed, just then realizing that he was still holding her hand. Embarrassed, he released it. “Mrs. Turner—is she all right?” He thought it polite to ask, even though he had to admit that he had given Grace Turner’s loss very little thought.
She invited him to sit on the cottonwood log beside her. Then he fashioned his most attentive expression while Annie told him of Grace’s difficulty in adjusting to the loss of her husband. Hearing her words, but not really listening, he instead filled his mind with the image before him. Though wearing a simple cotton dress, with a knitted wrap to ward off the evening chill, in Luke’s mind she might have as well have been wearing a ballroom gown. He was smitten by the angelic image facing him. He fully realized it, at the same time feeling a portion of shame, knowing the woman should be in mourning for her late husband. What kind of crass dog are you, Luke Austen? he asked himself, fully realizing that deep down he didn’t really care.
“I guess you’ll be thinking about heading back east,” he said, trying hard to hide his concern.
In spite of his efforts to conceal his feelings for her, she was certain that she detected an interest deeper than a polite concern for her well-being—and the thought caused a flutter of excitement in her heart. She didn’t express it, but her decision was made at that moment to remain at Fort Laramie, at least until spring. She said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I think Grace will definitely go back. And of course, she would expect me to go with her.”
“Oh . . . I expected as much,” he replied.
She was pleased to see the disappointment in his face, and she quickly added, “As I said, though, I really haven’t made up my mind. I guess there’s really nothing to keep me out here.”
“Why, sure there is,” he blurted, almost forgetting discretion. “I mean, there are lots of reasons to stay out here.” He tried to think of some but could not at the moment.
Forgetting her own discretion, she said, “I guess I only need one good one.”
Glancing up quickly, he found her eyes gazing deeply into his, and he suddenly lost all composure. “I don’t want you to go back.” As soon as
he said it, he knew he had taken liberties that were outside the boundaries of common etiquette. At once, he started to apologize, but she quickly pressed a finger to his lips to silence him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered softly, “I don’t want to go back, either.” She continued to gaze warmly into his eyes, transmitting a message that could not be conveyed with words.
Luke Austen was treading on unfamiliar ground when it came to the uncertain terrain of emotion and affairs of the heart. But as an officer of mounted dragoons, he had never been lacking in courage under any circumstance, and he was never reluctant to charge into the breech when it was necessary to save the day. Now he was sure Annie had provided the opening with her eyes. So throwing all caution to the wind, he charged in to exploit it.
Taking her hand again, he said his piece. “Annie, I don’t want you to leave . . . ever. I know I’m being a little bold—and I don’t mean to show any disrespect to your late husband—but I just wish you’d stay out here a while—long enough to get to know me a little better.” The incredulous look on her face caused him to pause, but he was determined to finish what he had started. “I apologize if I’m being insensitive. I don’t mean to be, but there isn’t time for propriety. If you even feel half of what I feel for you, then it’s a solid basis for giving it a chance.”
He paused, waiting for her response, but she was not sure how to answer him. “Luke, I don’t know if I understand what you are saying. Are you proposing to me?”
Totally confused by his own emotions, Luke stopped to consider, then said, “Well, yes, I guess I am.” This seemed to stun her, and when she did not respond right away, he began to retreat. “I’m sorry if I stepped out of line. If I’ve insulted you, I’ll go now, and you won’t ever be bothered by me again.” He fumbled for words to repair the damage he felt he might have done. “I don’t know what got into my head. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. It’s just that I’ll be going out on patrol in a couple of days, and I was afraid you might be gone when I got back. Please, won’t you consider staying a while?”
Son of the Hawk Page 12