After reaching the Tongue River, Booth followed it toward its confluence with the Yellowstone. It seemed that every mile they rode toward the north, the weather got colder and colder. And with it, Charlie complained more and more.
“Quit your griping,” Booth told him. “Look at that kid there—he ain’t complainin.’”
Charlie snorted his displeasure. “He cain’t complain. If he complains, I’ll cut his tongue out.” Never passing up an opportunity to harass the boy, he said, “Maybe I’d eat his tongue. I et a woman’s tongue one time, smoked it over a hot fire till it was plumb black—tasted like buffalo tongue.”
White Eagle gave no indication that he had heard Charlie’s ramblings. He was determined to give the simpleminded half-breed no satisfaction. The boy was not afraid. He was disappointed that his attempt on Booth’s life had been unsuccessful, but if they decided to kill him, he would die like a Shoshoni warrior, with no crying and no pleading for mercy. Even at his young age, life was not so precious to him that he would choose an existence as a slave over death. His one regret at this point was that he had not fought to the death with the other Shoshoni warriors when the Sioux attacked Broken Arm’s camp.
As one day piled upon the next, and they made their way north, White Eagle spent the long day’s ride thinking about the people he might never see again, and his Shoshoni family who were now all dead. Plodding along behind Booth Dalton’s black army mount, he would allow a tiny bit of regret to creep into his thoughts, wondering if he should have gone with Trace. It was a decision he could not question, he reminded himself, as it was his duty to avenge the murders of his mother and grandfather.
Thoughts of escape never left his mind for very long, but Booth and Charlie kept such a close eye on him that there had been no opportunity. And at night, he was always tied securely. Near the end of his first day of captivity, he had tried to make a run for his life while crossing the Powder. Thinking the rope that bound his hands was looped loosely around Booth’s saddlehorn, White Eagle kicked his pony hard when he was in the middle of the current, yanking at the rope at the same time. The pony responded as he was bade, jerking away downstream. But the rope was tied more securely than White Eagle suspected. As a result, the boy was wrenched from his pony’s back and landed in the chilled waters of the river.
Instead of anger, Booth’s reaction to the attempted escape was amusement—especially when he saw the predicament in which the boy’s action had placed him. To teach White Eagle a lesson, Booth turned the big black stallion’s head upstream and plunged along in the shallow water, dragging the flailing, sputtering boy behind him. Charlie had joined in the fun, splashing along behind Booth, packhorses in tow, yelling and laughing. Before the two had satisfied their impulsive entertainment, White Eagle had been dragged, half-drowned, for over a quarter of a mile in the cold water. The boy had decided after that experience that he would bide his time, waiting for a more promising opportunity. Without knowing it, Booth had purchased some valuable time for himself with his own cruel amusement at White Eagle’s expense. The extended time spent in the shallow waters of the river effectively covered his trail.
A full day before reaching the mouth of the river, the morning clouds tumbled over the Bighorns, heavy and gray. Before noon, the first snowflakes began to fall. By evening, when the Yellowstone was first sighted, there was a half foot of snow on the ground and the storm had intensified, causing the travelers to seek shelter for the night.
* * *
A day and a half behind and to the east of the two renegades and their Shoshoni captive, Trace McCall looked up at the leaden skies, cursing the timing of the first real snow of the season. He had followed the trail left by five horses—one of which was shod—until it led to a crossing of the Powder River. There the trail ended. He scoured the banks of the river on both sides, looking for the point where they had left the water, but he could find no tracks for a hundred yards in either direction.
With no earthly notion as to the possible destination of the party he followed, he could not even hazard a guess on which way to search—upstream or down. For no particular reason, he decided to ride downstream, and after about two miles’ ride, he came upon a crossing where many horses had forded the river. Intermingled with the hundreds of other hoofprints, he found several prints from shod horses. It was obviously a frequently used crossing, and it was possible that White Eagle’s captors had crossed there, too. However, a few minutes’ study told him that the tracks were too old to be the horses he was looking for.
Disappointed and discouraged, he had crossed over to the other side of the river and turned back upstream, searching the bank carefully. Ignoring the feeling of urgency to catch up with the white man on the heavy army mount, he forced himself to take his time so as not to overlook any sign. It had seemed apparent to him that the man he followed had taken great pains to hide his trail. For what reason, Trace had no clue. He was certain the man could not be aware of Trace’s existence. The fact that he had slipped out of the Sioux camp unobserved might have indicated that he was possibly covering his trail so his Sioux friends couldn’t follow him. A renegade like that, maybe he was just in the habit of covering his trail—Trace could only guess. The fact of the matter was that the man was increasing the distance between them with every hour Trace spent searching these riverbanks.
He had worked his way back to the point where he had first lost the trail when darkness caught him and he was forced to make camp. He didn’t spend a great deal of time looking for a campsite, since he felt certain there was no one but him within miles. Settling for the first spot that offered plenty of grass for his horses, he made a fire beside a fallen tree, using the trunk to shelter him from a cold wind that had risen at sundown. After a supper of buffalo jerky and coffee—with plenty of wood to feed his fire—he settled in for the night.
The first sight that met his eyes when he awakened the next morning was his paint pony, gazing forlornly at him, a white frosting of snow covering the pony’s ears and mane. Dammit it to hell, he thought, as he threw back the heavy buffalo robe and peered up at the sky. Looking around him, he was dismayed to find a blanket of snow already covering the riverbank. He got to his feet and shook the snow from his hair, scanning the silent cottonwoods along the bank, their leaves still and muffled by huge wet flakes as big as silver dollars floating down from the gray ceiling.
A feeling of despair swept through him as he stood there contemplating the impossible task now presented to him. How could he hope to find the trail under the snow? At that moment, he was stung by a reality that he was reluctant to admit—he had been beaten. His heart filled with remorse. He sat down by the fire thinking about the boy and what it must be like for him. Those thoughts served to rekindle his intense passion to avenge the murder of the boy’s mother, causing a deep frustration such as he had never known.
With a morbid feeling that he was now reduced to stumbling around in a trackless world of white, hoping to chance upon the party he searched for, he nevertheless broke camp and started upstream. With no trail to follow, he had to rely on lucky guesses. And since any tracks that he might have found were now hidden under the snow, he found it difficult to feel lucky. With any direction as good as another at this point, he decided to follow the Powder north, hoping that the white man had done the same. Still determined, he urged his horses on. Looking back over the way he had come, he noticed that the falling snow was already beginning to cover his own trail.
* * *
“Damn, Booth, I told you snow was coming.” Charlie White Bull pulled his robe over his head as he hunched over in the saddle. “We’ll freeze our balls off if we don’t git outta this cold.”
“Well, where the hell are we gonna git outten it?” Booth shot back impatiently. He was as cold as Charlie and tired of hearing the half-breed complain about it. “We cain’t just flop down in the snow and wait for spring, dammit. We got to keep movin’ till we find someplace to hole up.” What Booth hoped to find was a
friendly tribe in winter camp, some group of Indians that wasn’t acquainted with his reputation.
CHAPTER 12
After four more weeks of wandering between the Powder, Little Powder, and Tongue rivers, slowly making his way through drifts sometimes as tall as the paint’s belly, Trace finally admitted his search was hopeless. After the first week the weather had cleared, still the storm had been so severe that the snow lay frozen on the ground. Crusted hard in the lower draws, sheltered from the sun, the snow scraped and tore at the horses’ shanks and fetlocks, making travel difficult. He had hoped to stumble upon the boy’s captors, but he was now resigned to the fact that it would take no less than a miracle to do so. With game scarce and supplies exhausted, he knew he would have to abandon his search for White Eagle and the white man who captured him. Reluctantly, he turned back to the south, headed for Fort Laramie. He had a few furs he could trade, and maybe Luke Austen had been able to authorize some scout’s pay for him—possibly enough to supply him with the basics again.
The weather improved steadily as he rode south, and pretty soon he was able to make better time. When he reached the North Platte, the horses were moving easily through a six-inch covering of snow. Although the weather was brighter, his thoughts were troubled and heavy, for he felt he had failed White Eagle. His common sense told him that it was just bad luck—the early snowstorm—a man could not follow a trail hidden under a blanket of snow. That bit of wisdom did nothing to relieve his mind of its burden. He would find the boy, and he would avenge the death of Blue Water. These two things he solemnly promised himself—if he had to search forever. But for now, he had to wait out the weather.
* * *
Sergeant J. C. Turley stood passing the time of day with the sergeant of the guard near the post bakery. Turley was off duty, it being Saturday afternoon, and he had just come from visiting with Lamar Thomas. As the two sergeants stood there talking, Turley’s gaze was captured by a lone rider approaching in the distance. Not many travelers passed through Laramie this time of year, so Turley continued to watch the visitor with an ample measure of curiosity. The rider was leading a packhorse, and when he got within a few hundred yards, Turley recognized the paint he was riding.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” he interrupted the sergeant in midsentence, and abruptly turned and started walking across the parade ground, stopping in the middle to watch the rider approach.
Riding easily in the saddle, his rifle cradled across his forearms, Trace McCall passed the outer buildings and headed for the structure that housed the post commander’s office. Recognizing the sergeant standing in the center of the parade ground, he nodded. “Turley.”
“Trace McCall,” Turley returned in greeting. “We wondered if you would ever show up again. Did you finish that business you had to take care of?”
“Nope—trail got covered with snow.”
“I heard it snowed pretty heavy up in the mountains.” Turley fell in step with Trace and walked with him as Trace led his horses to a hitching rail. “There ain’t been much going on around here—the old man sends out a patrol once or twice a week, lookin’ for God knows what. The Injuns ain’t doin’ nothin’ but settin’ by the fire.” Trace offered no comment, so Turley went on. “Lieutenant Austen got you some pay for the part you had in that little shindig near the Belle Fourche. From the looks of them horses, I reckon you could use it.”
“I reckon,” was all Trace replied, but he was mighty pleased to hear it.
“You’re just in time for the social event of the season,” Turley continued, his face a broad smile. “We’re gonna have a weddin’ tomorrow. Lieutenant Austen and Annie Farrior is gittin’ hitched.”
“Do tell,” Trace replied and raised an eyebrow. “I thought those two might tie the knot—make a fine coupling.” It was good news. Trace had taken a liking to both of them. It helped take his mind off of White Eagle for a moment. “Where they gonna have the wedding?”
“In the post trader’s store—only place big enough. We’ve got a chaplain now—come up from Fort Kearny a month ago. He’ll tie the knot. Everybody’s invited.”
With Turley tagging along, Trace stepped up on the small wooden walkway and entered the sutler’s store. Lamar was in the back storeroom, mending a hole in a sack of grain, so he didn’t hear them come in until Turley called out, “Mr. Thomas, there’s a feller out here lookin’ to trade with you.” Trace glanced briefly at Turley, wondering if the sergeant intended to do all his talking for him. Turley met Trace’s glance with an open-faced grin. Trace couldn’t help but be amused.
After a moment, Lamar came from the storeroom, still holding a large needle and a ball of twine. “Damn rats,” he offered in explanation. “Mr. McCall,” he acknowledged when he saw who his customer was.
“Trace,” was the quick reply.
“Yessir, Trace,” Lamar countered. “What brings you back to these parts?” Lamar had always held a certain curiosity for this tall sandy-haired friend of Buck Ransom’s. To Lamar, Trace McCall was a strange one—a loner who just appeared, mostly in the summer, but at any other time of year as well. He always seemed dead serious, although Buck claimed McCall had a sense of humor about him—if you got to know him. As far as Lamar could tell, very few people got to know him that well. Buck said Trace was mostly raised by Crow Indians, lived four years with old Chief Red Blanket’s band. Maybe that explained why Trace never wore whiskers, even in the dead of winter—and he looked more Indian than white if there was such a thing as a sandy-haired Indian.
The man had a way about him that Lamar found hard to define. Many so-called mountain men had passed through Lamar’s store—including Jim Bridger, Buck Ransom, and Frank Brown—but none to match the likes of Trace McCall. Looking at the towering, broad-shouldered trapper, whose eyes seemed to penetrate a man’s very thoughts, Lamar could understand why the Indians called him the Mountain Hawk.
In answer to Lamar’s question, Trace said, “I’m needing some supplies. I’ve got a few skins and four buffalo hides. It ain’t much, but I reckon I’ll take whatever you can give for ’em.”
“We can always use buffalo hides,” Lamar said, “and I’ll take a look at the other plews, maybe I can give you a little something for them. I reckon you know you’ve got a voucher for credit that Lieutenant Austen arranged for you.”
Luke had been as good as his word, a fact that didn’t surprise Trace. The young lieutenant had already established himself as a man of character in Trace’s book. “Good,” Trace said. “Maybe I’ll take a sack of that grain, then. My horses could use a good feed. They’ve been living off mostly cottonwood bark for the past couple of weeks.”
After Trace had completed his dealings with Lamar Thomas, Sergeant Turley walked along with him to the bachelor officers’ quarters. Trace wanted to express his thanks for the line of credit Luke had established for him, as well as offer his congratulations on Luke’s marriage to be performed the next day.
Luke Austen seemed every bit as happy to see Trace as Sergeant Turley had been. He came striding across the snow-covered parade ground in front of the bachelor officers’ quarters when he caught sight of his sergeant and the tall mountain man approaching. “Trace McCall,” he exclaimed when within hailing distance. “I should have known you’d show up. You always do when you’re needed. I damn sure need someone to stand up with me tomorrow when I surrender my freedom.”
Trace smiled. He was happy to see the young officer again. “I heard you’d gone a little crazy in the head,” he teased. “Turley here told me you’d decided to stick your head in the yoke.” He dismounted and extended his hand.
Luke shook Trace’s hand vigorously. “That’s a fact,” he said, beaming unabashed.
“Well, if I can put in my two cents’ worth, you couldn’t have got yourself a much better woman than Annie Farrior.”
Luke’s face remained awash in a grin that seemed permanently afixed, making no effort to hide his excitement. “I mean it, Trace, I want you to stand up
with me when I get hitched. I’d appreciate it.”
Trace hesitated. “I don’t know . . . ’course I will I guess. . . . What do I have to do?”
Luke couldn’t help but laugh. “Nothing, really, just stand up with me, and hold the ring, I guess. For a man who walked into the middle of a Sioux camp and killed the chief, you ought not be afraid to face a chaplain.”
Trace laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then, we’ll do her.”
Sergeant Turley, an amused witness to the exchange, laughed with him. “I don’t know, Trace, your job might be to make sure the groom don’t cut and run.”
When they had finished with the off-color jokes and asides that most males indulge in when teasing a prospective groom, Trace took a serious moment to thank Luke for the line of credit. Luke affirmed that Trace had certainly earned it, and Leach’s replacement, Captain Theodore Benton, heartily approved.
“Have you thought any more about what I said when we left you near the Belle Fourche? About hiring on as a scout?”
“Well,” Trace replied, “not really.” In truth, he hadn’t. His mind had been too heavily occupied with graver thoughts. But now the idea held more merit. There was no disputing the fact that he needed the income. And it was useless to try to find White Eagle until the snow had cleared the mountain passes. So why not? Although he was still uncertain what being a scout for the army involved, and how much it would infringe upon his freedom.
“We sure as hell need scouts who know the country as well as you do,” Luke prodded. “Why don’t we go talk to Captain Benton?”
Trace continued to hesitate, then said, “I ain’t saying I’m not interested, Luke. I reckon I could try it till spring. But when spring gets here, I’ve got something I’ve got to take care of, and I’m gonna take care of it, come hell or high water. I can’t tell you how long it’ll take—it just depends on how lucky I get.”
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