Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Trace could not understand why she felt she should apologize until she explained as they walked back toward the cabin. “You are a good and decent man, Trace, but I’ve got sense enough to know that you belong to the mountains. There is really no room for a woman in your life, unless she could live like an Indian—and I can’t do that. Lieutenant Masters has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted. We’re going back to Fort Kearny in two months where he’s permanently stationed. We’ll be married there.” Reading the astonishment in his eyes, she pleaded, “You can understand why I can’t make love with him, can’t you? I want him to think more highly of me than you probably do right now.”

  Masters, so that was the young lieutenant’s name with whom Grace had been talking so intimately before. Trace wondered why he felt so dejected. He was certainly not in love with Grace Turner. Still, there was a definite feeling of despondency. He had an inclination to defend his character, to assert that he would make as good a husband as any man, even though deep down he knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he said, “No, ma’am, I’m not mad at you. You did me a great honor, and I’ll always appreciate it.”

  She smiled, relieved. “You’re a good man, Trace McCall, and I thank you for this day.”

  Thinking it more discreet, they said good-bye before they reached the clearing before the cabin. Trace climbed aboard the paint and wheeled him around, riding back along the creek. He didn’t look back to see her standing there watching him until he disappeared into the trees. He felt the need for a ride, and after a hundred yards or so along the creek, he crossed over and emerged on the open prairie.

  Urging the paint into a faster pace, he rode across the snow-covered grass, feeling the chilly wind on his face, clearing his mind and sharpening his senses. He did not deny that he might have needed the tryst with Grace more than she. He had lost touch with those feelings. He thought about her plans to marry the young lieutenant and the urgency to find his son suddenly returned. He desperately wanted some sense of family. Even a hawk had family.

  CHAPTER 13

  During the next month, patrols were sent out when weather permitted, most of the time merely to keep the men in some form of readiness. Trace went on every one—even those he was not scheduled for—on the lookout for the rare party of Pawnees or Poncas, on the wild chance they may have heard word of a white man with a Shoshoni boy. A mystery that white men never could explain was the transmitting of information among various Indian tribes. Even though he had been a Crow for four years of his early life, Trace could not explain it, either. But it was a fact that he did not question. So he continued to hope for information that might at least give him a point to start searching come spring.

  He saw very little of Grace Turner in the weeks that followed their meeting by the creek. It was his nature to keep to himself, so there was little opportunity for even a chance meeting. Luke and Annie had set up house in an army tent, waiting for better accomodations that would probably not be available before spring. Luke often extended invitations to join them for supper, but Trace never made it. He also avoided Lieutenant Ira Masters, never really having any desire to get to know the young man.

  Trace was on his way back from visiting a band of Pawnees that had made their winter camp about thirty-five miles down the Platte, near the mouth of Horse Creek, when he was met by Sergeant Turley.

  “Captain Benton’s lookin’ for you,” Turley said before Trace had a chance to dismount. “Woodcutting party that went out yesterday morning still ain’t back. Captain wants you to lead a party out to look for ’em—fifteen men, two wagons missing.”

  “Who took ’em out? Luke?”

  “No. Lieutenant Masters took ’em out.”

  “Masters, huh?” Trace considered that for a moment before pulling on the left rein and nudging his pony toward Captain Benton’s office.

  “Where the hell you been?” Captain Benton wanted to know as soon as Trace dismounted. “I’ve had people looking all over for you.”

  “You told me to take the day off,” Trace answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Benton, all set to castigate his new scout, had to bite his lip to keep from sputtering. “Damn, that’s right. I did at that. Well, I didn’t think you would be running off where nobody could find you.” Trace made no reply, but his eyes told the captain that he would go where he damn well pleased. Realizing this, Benton didn’t push it. “Never mind,” Benton quickly changed his attitude, “Lieutenant Austen is taking out a search party of thirty men. I want you to scout for him.”

  Trace found the detachment already assembled and waiting for him when he left the captain. He stopped briefly to tell Luke that he had to get a fresh horse—the paint had already done better than seventy miles in the past twenty-four hours. As he rode past the line of troopers waiting for the order to march, he could hear a lot of grumbling about starting out so late in the day. It would mean a cold night’s sleep on the trail. Trace grunted to himself, You boys have got too used to your warm beds. They were right, though, they should have gone out long before it got so late in the day, instead of waiting for him to come back. It didn’t take a scout to follow two wagons and thirteen mounted soldiers in the snow.

  As Trace had figured, the detachment was not on the trail for more than three hours when Luke halted the column to make camp. The place selected was a shallow draw that afforded some protection from the wind that had constantly swirled the snow around the horses’ hooves all afternoon. There had been no trouble in following the plainly marked trail up the Platte, so Trace spent his time out in front of the column to make sure Luke didn’t ride into an ambush.

  When Trace returned to the column, he found them already in the process of making camp, with the men busily clearing snow to set up their two-man tents. The grumbling started anew as the troopers spread their rubber mats and unrolled their blankets. Some of them already had on all the clothes they owned. As for Trace, when it was time to turn in, he wouldn’t bother to clear a space in the snow. He would spread the big buffalo robe on the ground and roll up in front of a fire, sleeping peacefully with one ear alert for any sounds that didn’t belong.

  Trace scooped up a coffeepot full of clean snow and set it on the fire to boil while he gave his horse a measure of grain, supplied by the army. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to find Luke approaching.

  “You know, I can get a tent issued to you if you want it,” Luke said, eyeing the huge buffalo hide.

  Trace smiled. “No thanks, Luke. I can make a tent outta this robe if I need to. Besides, this is a helluva lot warmer than a tent.”

  Luke stepped over closer to the fire. “I see you’ve got some coffee working.”

  Finished feeding his horse, Trace moved back to the fire beside his young friend. “I haven’t got anything but hot water right now, but I’ll have coffee directly.”

  The small talk over, Luke knelt down beside Trace, who was now solemnly grinding a sack of green coffee beans between two rocks. “I’ve told Sergeant Turley to post pickets. I don’t honestly know if there’s any danger from Indians or not. What do you think?”

  Trace reached into the coffee bean sack, took out a calculated handful and dumped them into the pot. Brushing the residue from his hands over the pot, he put the sack away and moved the pot closer to the fire again. “Well, Luke, I reckon it’s always a good idea to keep a watch out for trouble. Most of the time, there ain’t much chance of a war party in weather like this. An Injun ain’t any more likely to wanna freeze his butt than you are. But I’ve known Injuns to raid in the wintertime. I reckon it just depends on the situation—and the Injuns.”

  “What do you suppose happened to that woodcutting detail? What kind of trouble could they have gotten into? We haven’t seen any hostile activity, especially since the treaty.”

  Trace took the top from his coffeepot and peered into it, then replaced it. “It’s hard to say. I’ve been wondering about that myself. ’Course, you know there’s a heap of Injuns that didn’t c
ome in to sign that treaty, that don’t know nothing about any treaties.” He shrugged. “I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see what happened.”

  It was obvious that his answers did little to satisfy Luke’s curiosity, but Trace didn’t have a clue as to the trouble Masters might have gotten himself into. They might have simply gotten themselves lost, although even a damn fool could turn around and follow his wagon tracks back home. Masters was newly arrived from the east and still a good bit green in dealing with Indians. Hell, he might have gotten lost.

  The night passed without incident, and it was back on the march at first light, Trace having ridden out some thirty minutes before the column was in the saddle. They had not ridden two hours before rifle shots were heard in the distance. Luke immediately ordered his men to check their weapons and to remain alert. Turley rode back along the column, berating those who were slow in responding and waking those who were dozing in the saddle.

  “Where the hell is Trace?” Luke wondered aloud.

  In answer to his question, at just that moment, Trace appeared, riding along the bluffs on a line to intercept them. His horse was loping along at a good pace, but not running full out. Luke halted the column and waited for Trace to arrive.

  “Lieutenant,” Trace called out when he reached them, “maybe you’d better come take a look.”

  “What is it?” Luke wanted to know. “Is it Masters?”

  “Oh, I found ’em, all right. I just ain’t sure what they’re doing. Why don’t you and Turley come with me to look things over before you bring the troop up.”

  Puzzled and wanting answers, Luke nevertheless did as Trace suggested. Turning to Turley, he said, “Sergeant.” While Turley gave the men orders to stand down, Luke turned back to Trace. “What the hell’s going on? Who’s shooting?”

  “Soldiers,” was Trace’s simple reply.

  Before Luke could ask who they were shooting at, Trace wheeled his horse around and moved off toward the bluffs again. Not waiting for Turley, Luke galloped after his scout. He caught up with him on a low ridge overlooking a bend in the river. Trace motioned for him to leave his horse and come up beside him. Following Trace’s pointed finger, Luke saw the source of the occasional rifle shot. Bunched in a narrow gully, their backs to the river, were what appeared to be all of the fifteen-man wood detail plus Lieutenant Masters. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Luke looked at Trace who was now pointing at the two wagons, lying on their sides halfway down the bluffs. Just above the wagons, Luke counted a sizable party of Indians scattered in a half circle. They seemed to be merely watching the trapped wood detail, for the shots fired at random intervals came from the soldiers huddled in the gully.

  “We’d better get the troop up here fast,” Luke gasped, and turned to pass the order to Turley, who had just then caught up.

  “Hold on a minute, Luke,” Trace said, catching his young friend by the elbow. “Let’s don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “Hold on?” Luke blurted. “Every second we delay might cost a soldier’s life! That’s probably the same bunch of Sioux that ambushed us in the Black Hills.”

  “They ain’t Sioux,” Trace explained calmly, “they’re Crow.”

  Luke failed to see the significance. “Crow? They’re a long way from home, aren’t they? Are you sure they’re Crow?”

  “They’re Crow,” Trace answered flatly, not bothering to tell Luke that he had once lived with a band of Crows, so he could damn sure recognize them. “And you’re right, they are a long way from home.”

  Luke was getting antsy. “Crow, Sioux—what’s the difference? They’ve got Masters in a pocket.”

  “That’s just it,” Trace patiently pointed out. “Masters has got himself in a pocket. The Crows are just watching him.” Taking Luke by the arm, he pulled the lieutenant along after him, moving to a closer point on the ridge. “Look. Those warriors aren’t firing a shot at them. All the firing is coming from that gully. Hell, the Crows have been friendly to the army.”

  Gradually, Luke came to see that what Trace was telling him was true. The Crows seemed to be intent only upon watching the soldiers crammed into the small gully. Safely behind cover, and in no danger of the rifles below them, they appeared to be no more than interested spectators. Amazed, Luke shook his head and said, “What do you wanna do?”

  “Let me go down and talk to ’em. Might be a good idea to keep your boys behind the ridge till I can find out what’s going on. They might think we’re trying to ambush ’em if they see a bunch of soldiers behind ’em—and then we might have a real fight.” Luke agreed. He and Turley stayed back while Trace got on his horse and started down the bluffs toward the Crows.

  * * *

  “Where did he come from?” Big Turtle said, alarmed to discover a solitary rider making his way down the bluffs toward them.

  Black Wing jerked his head around quickly, searching the ridge behind the rider. “Be alert!” he cautioned. “There may be more.” The small band of Crow warriors moved to better situate themselves to counter an attack from above. Black Wing made his way farther up the bluff to a position where he could watch the rider more closely.

  “Be careful,” Big Turtle warned, “he may be as crazy as the soldiers in the gully.”

  Black Wing didn’t answer right away. He was busy studying the lone figure approaching them. Something about the way the man sat his horse seemed familiar to him, yet he couldn’t identify the man. He was not a soldier. He could even be an Indian, but Black Wing was unable to identify the tribe if he was. As the stranger approached, he held up his hands in a sign of peace. Black Wing made no sign of recognition and continued to scan the ridge behind the rider, watching for any sign of deception. Black Wing and his warriors were deep inside Sioux country. He could not afford to be careless. Still the man kept coming, and was now within fifty yards of the Crows.

  “I come in peace,” the man called out in the Crow dialect. “Let’s talk.”

  Black Wing and Big Turtle exchanged puzzled glances, still uncertain. Finally Big Turtle shrugged and Black Wing nodded in silent agreement. He stood up and returned the peace sign, saying, “If you come in peace, you are in no danger from my warriors.”

  Dismounting some twenty yards away, he stepped down into the thin layer of snow and led his horse the rest of the way. Trace and Black Wing recognized each other at the same time. For a brief moment, both men were stunned, not believing what their eyes were telling them. Trace was the first to break the silence.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he uttered in English, then in Crow, “Black Wing?”

  Black Wing’s stern face was transformed into a smile of delighted discovery. “Trace. It has been a long time.”

  The two boyhood friends stood there staring at each other, each one amazed to find the other still alive. Then, as if on signal, they suddenly broke into laughter and clasped hands, patting each other on the shoulder. Amazed, Big Turtle came forward to join the reunion.

  “Do you know this white man?” Black Wing asked Big Turtle when his friend was obviously doing his best to recognize the tall stranger dressed in buckskins. When it dawned upon Big Turtle that this was the boy who had been taken in by his people years ago, the joyous reunion erupted again with more laughing and back slapping. The reunion continued as a few more warriors in the party came forward to greet Trace. Most of the others were too young to remember him.

  The celebration was cut short by the crack of a rifle from down below in the gully, the ball imbedding itself high up in a cottonwood. Remembering the situation at hand then, Trace remarked, “They ain’t exactly good shots, are they?” Turning serious then, “What’s going on here, Black Wing?”

  Black Wing then told Trace how they came to find themselves watching the soldiers in the river bottom. “We came to this country to avenge one of our people who was killed by a Sioux raiding party. We encountered a Sioux hunting party of six men and killed them.” He indicated two fresh scalps on his lance. “We started back to our vill
age when we saw the soldiers with the wagons. We thought, maybe the wagons are filled with coffee and beans, maybe flour, and we might trade some pelts for them. But the soldiers went crazy.” He turned to Big Turtle for confirmation and Big Turtle nodded.

  “I made the sign of peace when I rode up to them, and one of the soldiers shot at me. I wanted to tell them that we were peaceful, but they ran away, riding their horses hard toward the river. The wagons turned over and the soldiers cut the horses loose. Then they all jumped into that small hole on the riverbank. We tried to talk to them, but they shoot at us when we come near. We were going to leave when you came.” He shrugged. “There was nothing in the wagons but wood, anyway.”

  Astonished, Trace could only shake his head, and he thought, Grace, you’re gonna be a widow again if that damn fool greenhorn doesn’t get some sense about Indians. To Black Wing, he said, “I’ll see if I can talk to them.”

  He got on his horse and started down the bluffs, waving his arm back and forth and calling out, “Hold your fire!” Stopping halfway down, he called out again, “Hold your fire! You boys can come out now.”

  His answer was a volley of half a dozen rifles from the terrified soldiers in the gully. The shots were wild, and far from the mark—all except one—and that one struck his horse in the chest. The animal screamed and dropped immediately. If Trace had been a fraction of a second slower, he might have been pinned under the beast. Trace hit the ground rolling. Shocked at first, then angry as hell, he crawled back to the stricken animal to retrieve his rifle. “Damn fools!” he roared as he pulled his pistol out to put the unfortunate horse out of its misery. A shot behind the ear quieted the animal’s thrashing legs. The frightened soldiers by the water’s edge mistook the shot as one aimed at them, and another round of shots were sent his way. “Damn fools!” Trace repeated and scurried back up the bluff to safety.