Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Buck jerked his head back as if surprised. “What do I aim to do with him? Hell, he’s your son. What do you aim to do with him?”

  My son—the thought was almost too much to believe. Trace was not prepared to be anybody’s father. But what Buck said was true, he was the boy’s father, and he guessed that pretty much made him responsible for his welfare. He looked at the youngster, staring back at him with the dark eyes of his mother, and the image of Blue Water filled his mind once again. Quickly, before he began to dwell on it, Trace pushed it from his mind. He would think about it later, when he could be alone with his thoughts. Now was not the time. “I was planning on doing some trapping and hunting in the Bighorn country, but I suppose I could take him to find his mother’s people. He must have aunts or uncles in Washakie’s village. Even if he doesn’t, they’ll take him in.”

  Buck shrugged. “I reckon. That’s why I brung him after you. I’m gittin’ too damn old to go tearing off after a band of Snakes. I’ve been away from my place in Promise Valley too long already. I told Reverend Longstreet I’d be back before the end of summer, and here it is gittin’ close to winter.”

  Trace understood. His old friend’s blood was getting too thin for the cold winters in the high mountains. Buck’s aches and pains were multiplying every day, and his eyesight was fading. It was time to retire to settlement life. It was a sad thought, but a fact of life that no man could escape. It just seemed to Trace that old age settled upon those who chose to wade the icy mountain streams a lot sooner than the folks who stayed by the hearth.

  When Trace sought to assure White Eagle that he would see that he reached the camp of Chief Washakie, he was surprised by the boy’s reaction. “I do not wish to return to the land of the Shoshoni,” White Eagle stated calmly. He had been thinking hard about the white man who had murdered his mother and grandfather. Now that he had escaped the massacre, he had begun to feel the burden of his conscience and his obligation to avenge the deaths. After studying his new father closely while he talked with the older man, White Eagle was favorably impressed that this man’s medicine was indeed as powerful as his mother had told him. With such a man as the Mountain Hawk to ride with him, he might be able to seek out the murdering dogs that killed his mother. “I don’t want to return until I have taken the scalps of those who killed my mother and grandfather.”

  This statement was met with undisguised incredulity on the faces of both white trappers. Buck was the first to reply. “Well, now, that’s a mighty tall order for a pup your size. Just how do you plan to go about it?”

  White Eagle was not discouraged. He turned to Trace and asked, “Are you not the one the Blackfeet call the Mountain Hawk? My mother told me of your great medicine, that the Blackfeet could not kill you. If this is so, then you must go with me to avenge the death of my mother.”

  Trace shot an accusing glance at Buck. What in tarnation have you brought me? Already he was beginning to regret letting Buck catch up to him. He and Buck had just narrowly escaped having their hair lifted by Iron Pony’s band of warriors, leaving the Black Hills running for their lives. Now this young’un expected him to go back to fight the whole bunch. Trying his best to be patient and understanding of the youngster’s state of mind, Trace responded to White Eagle’s questions.

  “I think we’d better get a few things straight right away. First, the Blackfeet can kill me just like any other man that gets careless around ’em—same goes for the Sioux, the Snakes, the Cheyenne, anybody else. I don’t have any special medicine. I’m just careful. It’s true the Blackfeet call me the Mountain Hawk, but that’s their doing. I’m just a man—like Buck or your grandfather. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, I understand,” White Eagle answered, but there was a doubting gleam in his eye. His mother, Blue Water, was not one to exaggerate, and she had told him of Trace’s special medicine.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll start for the Green River, see if we can find Chief Washakie’s village and some of your kin.” To Buck he said, “We can ride together over South Pass as long as you’re set on going back to Promise Valley.”

  Buck grunted his approval, and they settled in for the night. White Eagle made no protests over Trace’s refusal to ride with him to wipe out Iron Pony’s warriors. The boy remained in the background, listening to the two men talk until it was time to turn in. But if they thought he was that easily dissuaded, they did not know White Eagle very well.

  Buck awoke the next morning to find Trace already up and saddling his horse. “You’re in kind of a rush this mornin, ain’tcha?” the old trapper muttered as he threw his blanket back and started rubbing some of the stiffness out of his legs. “I swear, one of these mornin’s these old bones are just gonna stove up solid.” Realizing then that Trace’s mind was fully occupied with readying his horses for travel, he looked around him for some sign of potential danger.

  “The boy’s gone,” Trace said, “lit out during the night.” He continued packing up his belongings.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Buck muttered, astonished. “What in hell would he wanna do that for?” When there was no immediate response from Trace, he continued to speculate. “I reckon he was in a bigger hurry than we were.”

  “He didn’t head out for South Pass,” Trace stated unemotionally. “He’s on his way back toward the Black Hills, judging from the trail he took out of here.”

  Buck detected a hint of irritation in Trace’s tone. “I reckon he’s still got a notion of revenge in his head.” He paused before adding, “A fool notion that’s gonna cost him his scalp.”

  “That’s exactly what he’s got on his mind—the damn little fool.” Trace turned to face Buck who was still sitting on his blanket, rubbing his legs. “The little coyote took my bow case and arrows with him.”

  Buck couldn’t help but smile. This was the main reason for Trace’s irritation. It wasn’t the fact that White Eagle had taken his quiver as much as it just naturally got Trace’s goat that the boy had been able to steal it without waking him. “Well, ain’t that something now? You aimin’ to go after him?”

  “I reckon—I sure as hell ain’t gonna let him run off with my bow.”

  Trace didn’t voice it, but Buck knew that the bow case and quiver that White Eagle had taken was a gift to Trace from the boy’s mother. Blue Water had made it from otter skins and decorated it with colored beads and porcupine quills. Trace would never admit it, but he’d probably just as soon lose his rifle as that quiver. Buck got up and poked around the ashes of the campfire, until he generated a spark of life. “I don’t reckon I’m gonna go with you, Trace. I need to be gittin’ on back to Promise. I ain’t as young as I used to be, and I don’t wanna git caught up in them mountains by an early snow. Hope there ain’t no hard feelin’s.”

  Trace looked at his old friend, a faint smile on his face. “Ah, hell no, Buck. Like you said, he’s my son. I’ll go after the young scamp, maybe warm the seat of his britches for him.” He laughed, the first sign that he had gotten over his initial irritation. “I’ll bet that’s something he’s never had before, growing up in a Snake village.”

  So the two friends parted—one toward South Pass, the other to the east, toward the Powder River. Buck had been away from Promise Valley all summer and he was ready to sleep on a bed for a change. He thought about his longtime friend as he skirted the Bighorns. There would come a day when Trace would be forced to give up his wild and free existence. Buck wondered if Trace would ever be prepared to face that day—a hawk didn’t thrive too well in captivity. Then he thought about the boy, probably on his way to getting killed. Buck suspected there was another reason for going after the boy—it wasn’t for the bow case alone. He had caught Trace intensely studying the boy a couple of times, no doubt seeking to find just how deeply his blood ran in White Eagle’s veins. Buck was convinced that the boy had exposed a new side of Trace McCall, a serious side that maybe Trace himself wasn’t aware of. But Buck had suspected a deep sense of decency and responsibility in hi
s longtime friend. In a way, Buck envied him. Thinking back over his past, when he was Trace’s age, there had been several periods when he was living with an Indian woman. He might be a father himself for all he knew—he never stayed around long enough to find out. And he was a little ashamed to admit that he might have run sooner if he had found out that he was. On the other hand, a conscience was a mighty hard thing for a man to live with—maybe he didn’t envy Trace so much after all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Luke Austen sat on his horse at the edge of the parade ground waiting for the formation to be assembled. In a few moments, the bugler sounded “Boots and Saddles” although most of the men already had their horses saddled and were standing around waiting. Sergeant J. C. Turley, a thirteen-year veteran, pulled his horse alongside Luke’s.

  “The captain,” Turley commented, “he sure loves to go by the book when he leads a patrol.”

  Luke only smiled in response, but he had been thinking the same thing. Most officers on frontier duty relaxed garrison regulations when in the field. Luke supposed Leach didn’t feel he received the respect he deserved from the men, and that probably accounted for his passion for military courtesy. At the command, “To horse”, Luke and Turley moved to their assigned places in the formation while each trooper stood at the head of his horse. When Leach was satisfied that all were standing ready, the commands, “Prepare to mount”, followed almost immediately by, “Mount”, were given. Leach paused for a long moment to make sure no one anticipated his next commands, then he instructed Luke to have Sergeant Turley put the detail in motion. Turley sang out, “Right by twos,” and the column was underway. This was not going to be a pleasant patrol. Luke was sure of that. Ordinarily, he would have led the detail himself, but Leach decided to lead this one, apparently to demonstrate to Luke that the captain did not have confidence in his ability to lead—Leach’s form of punishment for the loss of the patrol in the Black Hills. Since it had been decided not to publicize the massacre, it prevented Leach from court-martialing Luke. Deprived of that pleasure, Leach obviously sought to punish his lieutenant through a constant campaign of demeaning orders and comments.

  The patrol was strictly a search mission, an effort to find Iron Pony’s band and punish them for the massacre in the Black Hills. Leach had ordered grain and rations for fifteen days, and the line of march was to be north to intercept the Belle Fourche River, where the trapper Trace McCall had reported Iron Pony’s last known camp. In Luke’s opinion, this was a useless patrol. It was highly unlikely that Iron Pony was still camped on the Belle Fourche. More than likely, he would have grazed off most of the feed for his ponies, depleted the game, and moved his village to a new site. Even if they were lucky enough to find Iron Pony, he might not choose to fight a force of sixty soldiers armed better than his braves. If that was the case, he would simply disappear into the prairie, leaving the patrol to scout endless gullies and coulees, and in constant fear of ambush.

  Luke dropped back to ride beside Sergeant Turley. Turley said nothing, but his expression was enough to tell Luke what he was thinking. Luke smiled and shook his head. He wondered himself when Leach would give the command to march at ease. The fort was a good two miles behind them already, and the men were still in a close formation. Finally Leach decided discipline was firmly established, flankers were sent out, and the Indian scouts were sent on ahead.

  “Looks like the captain learned something from your last patrol, sir,” Turley remarked, a wry smile on his ruddy face, “not to send Sioux out to find Sioux.”

  “Looks that way,” Luke agreed. Leach had taken six Pawnee scouts to search for Iron Pony. They were bitter enemies of the Sioux. In fact, one of the major problems Leach had been faced with when he arrived at Laramie was to keep the Pawnee scouts away from the Sioux scouts in order to keep them from killing each other.

  Captain Leach called a halt after making thirty miles the first day. Due to a late start from Fort Laramie, the customary short march on the first day of a campaign—usually about fifteen miles—was extended. The troop went into camp by a small stream that cut through a wide grassy draw. A picket line was set, guards were detailed, and individual cookfires allowed. There being no readily available wood for the fires, the men were sent out to collect buffalo chips.

  After a tour of the perimeter to check on the pickets, Luke returned to prepare his dinner of salt pork and hardtack. In a show of relaxed discipline, Leach invited Luke and Sergeant Turley to eat with him. Luke and Turley shared the fire with Leach’s orderly while the three of them fried the salty meat.

  Leach smoked a cigar while he waited for the orderly to prepare his meal.

  “I want to make the fork of the Cheyenne River by tomorrow night,” Leach informed them.

  “I expect the Cheyenne’s a good fifty miles from here,” Luke answered, exchanging quick glances with Turley.

  “I know how far it is, Lieutenant,” Leach snapped.

  “Yessir, of course you do. I was just pointing out that it was a long day’s march.”

  A thin smile etched Leach’s face as his eyes riveted on Luke’s face. “It only seems long to you, Lieutenant. That’s one of the things I intend to correct about this outfit. There’s been too much mollycoddling of the men in this troop. They’ve gotten too complacent, too soft. That’s one of the reasons for the loss of thirty-four men under your command, sir. I intend to return to Fort Laramie with sixty hardened fighting men.”

  Luke said nothing in his defense, biting his tongue until it almost bled. No matter what Buck Ransom and Trace McCall had reported to the contrary, Leach was still intent upon placing the entire blame for the massacre squarely on Luke’s shoulders. Sergeant Turley fixed his gaze steadily upon the coffee cup he held in his hands, embarrassed for the lieutenant being chastised before an enlisted man. The balance of the meal was finished in stony silence until Luke excused himself to check on the guards again. Turley took the opportunity to withdraw also, saying it was time to see to the men. Leach smiled to himself as he watched the two men depart, confident that he was instilling long-needed discipline.

  Thoughts of Annie Farrior occupied Luke’s mind when the column was underway again early the next morning, driving out the unpleasantness of Leach’s cutting remarks. The captain’s attitude toward him had caused Luke to wonder if it was an opinion shared by the rest of the personnel at Fort Laramie. Was he now branded as an officer the men were reluctant to serve under? The thought worried him as he had made his rounds of the pickets the night before. But if the men shared the captain’s feelings toward him, they showed no evidence of it, each picket offering a polite greeting as he passed—some even pausing to pass a few words of conversation.

  But now, in the early-morning light, when a soft mist lay on the dark ribbon of water that parted the knee-high buffalo grass, Luke thought of her. She would still be sleeping, or maybe not—maybe she rose early to start breakfast for the Thomases. He decided not. He’d rather picture her sleeping, her dark hair laying touseled around her face, her lips full and soft—lips like a heady wine, sweet and intoxicating. Damn! he suddenly thought. This patrol will seem like eternity. What if she’s not there when we return? But she said she would stay, dammit! He shook his head to rid it of such thoughts lest he drive himself mad before the patrol was over.

  “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” Sergeant Turley was suddenly at his side.

  “Nothing, just a little chill, I guess—made me shudder,” he lied. You’d best keep your mind on your business, mister, he scolded himself.

  “Yessir, it is gettin’ a little chilly. I expect we’ll see some snow before much longer. At least, that’s what Mr. Thomas back at Laramie says.” Like Luke, Turley was new to this part of the country. He had campaigned in Mexico in ’48, but had no experience with the Sioux or Cheyenne. Actually very few of the troopers assigned to Fort Laramie had been blooded. Luke thought of thirty-four dragoons who had been blooded—and didn’t live to tell it. Well, with Pawnee scouts, we
won’t have to worry about being led into a Sioux ambush.

  It was almost dark when the scouts rode back to report the Cheyenne River ahead. Leach had made his fifty miles, but not without a grueling strain on horses and men. Like it or not, he was going to be forced to shorten the next day’s march—he could drive the men till they dropped, but the horses had to be rested. Otherwise they would be useless in the event the hostile Sioux were sighted. The larger, grain-fed horses the army rode were no match for the faster Indian ponies when the soldiers’ mounts were well rested. Fatigued and footsore, they were in no condition to flee or pursue.

  Even Leach was not immune to the irritable mood of his men. Realizing that morale was an extremely important factor in the performance of a fighting unit, he endeavored to instill a sense of pride in the detachment. “My compliments,” he began in a hastily called formation. “You men have shown what a highly motivated unit of dragoons can do when conditions demand. You should be proud of yourselves. We’ll rest here until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Then I intend to find this murdering band of savages and teach them what it’s like to face a real fighting unit.” Expecting a rousing cheer for his remarks, Leach was disappointed when he was met with stony silence. He ordered Luke to dismiss the formation and set the picket line.

  The following morning, the Pawnees were sent out to scout the river up ahead while the troop cooked their breakfast. After making his rounds of the men, Sergeant Turley dropped down beside Luke, who was intent upon removing the worms from a piece of salt pork he was about to cook.

  “It’s just more meat, Lieutenant,” Turley said with a chuckle.

  “You’re welcome to add ’em to your breakfast. I’m afraid they might not mix with the bugs in the hardtack,” Luke returned. Some of the men didn’t bother to pick the worms out of the salty meat, but Luke couldn’t stomach them.