ACTION-PACKED FRONTIER TALES FROM CHARLES G. WEST. . .
Medicine Creek
Bitterroot
Wind River
The Jason Coles Series
Cheyenne Justice
Black Eagle
Stone Hand
The Trace McCall Series
Cry of the Hawk
Mountain Hawk
Trace did not move as the warrior passed the crevice where he sat. The Blackfoot was no more than twenty feet below him now, and Trace could plainly see the young brave’s face, his forehead and cheeks painted black with white stripes like lightning flashes at his temples. He was armed with bow, axe, and lance. Good, Trace thought, he passed right by. But it was not to be. In no more than a few seconds, the Indian reappeared at the opening in the rock.
Startled to see Trace calmly sitting there above him, the warrior hesitated, his eyes wide and wild. He raised his lance over his head, ready to attack—fearful that the man before him might suddenly turn into a hawk and fly—but still he did not release his weapon.
Seeing his hesitation, Trace did not move. His rifle lay on the rock beside him, the barrel pointed at the warrior, his hand resting on the trigger guard. When the warrior appeared to make up his mind to act, Trace spoke. “I am not your enemy. Why do you attack me?”
Taken aback, the Blackfoot continued to stand ready to strike. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Are you the Mountain Hawk?”
“I am a man, trying to live in peace,” Trace answered.
“You are the Mountain Hawk.” This time it was not a question. “The man who kills you takes your medicine. . . .”
The
Mountain Hawk
Charles G. West
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, January 2001
Copyright © Charles West, 2001
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-66288-5
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Ronda
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 1
How can this evil spirit be allowed to remain in these mountains? This was the question that bothered Two Horses. This country belonged to the Blackfeet, and no outsider had any right to be here—no matter if he was man or spirit. When Broken Wing’s crumpled body was found at the base of a cliff, Two Horses made up his mind. He would avenge his friend’s death.
No man in Little Bull’s camp was as powerful as Two Horses. He had killed eight enemies before reaching the age of twenty summers. Now he was at the age of twenty-five, and no warrior had counted as many coups as he. And no man among them hated the white man more than he. Two warriors had been killed already this summer by the white devil who had come to nest on the upper slopes; the most recent death had been that of his best friend. Two Horses clenched his fist in anger when he recalled the battered body of Broken Wing.
Knowing that he would be facing the most powerful enemy of his life, Two Horses began careful preparations for his quest. He fasted for three days, then rode into the hills to meditate and seek spiritual guidance. Satisfied that his medicine was strong, he then nourished his body to regain his strength. Next, he sought the advice of those who were respected in the village. Medicine Horse, one of the elders, talked at length about the white man the Blackfeet had given the name of Mountain Hawk. It had been his belief, when the stranger was sighted by members of a hunting party in early summer, that he was no more than a mortal white man—a trapper perhaps—who chose to live in the high country. Now he was not so sure. Little Bull himself had been with a later hunting party when he spotted the stranger, and it was Little Bull who had discovered the spiritual powers of the white man. “It is a brave quest you have chosen for yourself,” Medicine Horse said. “But you must be wary of his guile. If you kill this Mountain Hawk, you will take his power—and that would be a great thing.” Before they parted, Medicine Horse advised Two Horses to seek Little Bull’s counsel, since he was one who had witnessed Mountain Hawk’s transformation.
Little Bull was not surprised when told of the plan of Two Horses to avenge his friend’s death. Broken Wing and Two Horses had been the closest of friends since they were small boys. Like Medicine Horse, Little Bull advised Two Horses to exercise great caution in stalking the lone white man. “Shoot him if you can before he sees you. If you cannot, if you have to fight him hand to hand, you must hold on to him very tightly so he can’t turn into a hawk and escape.”
Two Horses listened carefully to his chief’s counsel. What he said was good advice—the safest thing to do would be to kill Mountain Hawk with a rifle ball from a distance. But there would be much greater honor in killing this white man with hand weapons. And Two Horses was confident that no man was a match for his own physical strength. Nevertheless, he thanked Little Bull for his words of advice. After all, the chief was one of only a few men who had witnessed the medicine of the Mountain Hawk. Although no one had seen the actual transformation as it was taking place, there was no reason to doubt it had happened. The white man was sighted on a rocky cliff above them. They immediately set out to capture him, but when they climbed up to the cliff, there was no sign that anyone had been there. Standing on the brow of the cliff, Little Bull looked up to see a hawk circling high above. Though they looked carefully around them, they could not discover any way the man could have escaped. This was sign enough for Little Bull to assume that the man they had seen was, in fact, a spirit who had turned into a hawk when he saw them approaching.
The sun was barely peeking through the tall pines that ringed the slopes to the east when Two Horses rode out of the village. His face was painted with his favored designs of jagged lightning bolts, as was his war pony. Medicine Horse stood before his lodge and nodded solemnly to the young warrior as he rode b
y. Two Horses, confident in his mission, returned the greeting with a single nod of his head, gently kicked his pony into a canter, and headed toward the mountains.
* * *
Trace McCall sat quietly watching the progress of the lone warrior making his way cautiously up through the boulders and random patches of bear grass. He was a powerfully built young brave, scaling the steep slope with apparent ease after leaving his pony in a grassy meadow below. As Trace watched, the warrior paused and listened, then seemed to be testing the wind, like a coyote sniffing, searching for prey. The warrior started climbing again, through the stunted pines that had been formed into twisted shapes by the strong winds that swept the higher ridges. Blackfoot, he thought, the third one this month, coming to make a name for himself.
Trace had a notion what had started it all, but he still found it puzzling that it had developed into such a big deal to the Blackfoot tribe. Some folks, Buck Ransom for one, would say Trace was crazy to make his summer camp in the middle of Blackfoot country. Trace did not discount the danger there, but he had confidence in his ability to hang on to his scalp. To further ensure his safety, he made his camps high up in the mountains, coming down only occasionally to hunt.
He was sure that he had been seen on one of his trips to the lower elevations, alerting the Blackfeet to his presence in their land. While following an elk down through a mountain meadow, he happened upon a small hunting party working their way up to the higher elevations. He was not aware of their presence until he walked out onto a rocky ledge, trying to spot the elk. He and the Indians saw each other at the same time, too late to hide, so they stood gazing at each other for several long moments before the Blackfeet sprang into action and rushed to give chase. Trace was forced to give up his elk and disappear into the rocky cliffs above. Even though his presence in their country was now known, he was still reluctant to leave these mountain heights that filled his soul with awe and reverence for the hand that made them. At this point in his young life, Trace desperately needed the pure solitude that the mountains offered. And he intended to stay until the coming winter dictated a move to warmer climes.
What he could not know was that he had been spotted at a distance several times by the sharp-eyed Blackfoot hunters. Yet when they tried to track him they could find no trail. It was as if he had taken wings and flown away. Being a highly superstitious people, they soon created a legend about the man who dwelled high up in the mountains.
Trace had no notion that he was known to the Blackfoot tribe as the Mountain Hawk. What he was aware of, however, was that there seemed to be some big medicine to be gained by the warrior who was successful in finding him and bringing back his scalp—a thought that brought his focus back to the warrior now picking his way slowly across an open area of loose shale and gravel. Trace hoped the warrior would not discover the narrow slash in the rocks where he sat watching. He had no desire to take another young warrior’s life. The first two had given him no choice. If the Blackfoot did find him, perhaps he could talk some sense into this one.
Trace did not move as the warrior passed the crevice where he sat. He was no more than twenty feet below him now, and Trace could plainly see the young brave’s face, his forehead and cheeks painted black with white stripes like lightning flashes at his temples. He was armed with bow, axe, and lance. Good, Trace thought, he passed right by. But it was not to be. In no more than a few seconds, the Indian reappeared at the opening in the rock.
Startled to see Trace calmly sitting there above him, the warrior hesitated, his eyes wide and wild. He raised his lance over his head, ready to attack—fearful that the man before him might suddenly turn into a hawk and fly off—but still he did not release it.
Seeing his hesitation, Trace did not move. His rifle lay on the rock beside him, the barrel pointed at the warrior, his hand resting on the trigger guard. When the warrior appeared to make up his mind to act, Trace spoke. “I am not your enemy. Why do you attack me?”
Taken aback, the Blackfoot stood ready to strike. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Are you the Mountain Hawk?”
“I am a man, trying to live in peace,” Trace answered.
“You are the Mountain Hawk.” This time it was not a question. “The man who kills you takes your medicine.”
Their gazes locked, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Trace was about to try once more to reason with the warrior when the Blackfoot suddenly cast the lance. Trace’s reaction was lightning-fast, but his aim was thrown off. The Hawken barked, sending a lead ball whistling past the charging warrior’s head. In an instant, the Blackfoot was upon him, and it was all Trace could do to avoid the war axe as it crashed down, bouncing off the boulder behind his head and dropping into a crevice in the rocks. Unfazed, the Brave unsheathed a hunting knife. The battle was joined as each man strained to overpower the other. It took all of Trace’s strength to hold Two Horses’ knife hand, but gradually he forced the warrior’s arm back until he was able to shove him backward toward the narrow ledge. As the Blackfoot regained his balance and braced to charge again, Trace was able to draw his own knife and set himself to meet the assault.
Once again they clashed, slamming their bodies together like two mountain rams, struggling to wrench a hand free for a fatal thrust. Face-to-face, each man looked deep into the other’s eyes, measuring the courage there. And Two Horses, reading the stony gaze of the mountain man, suddenly experienced his first misgivings that he might have underestimated the power of his enemy. In a desperate lunge, he managed to free himself and step back, swinging wildly in an attempt to slash Trace’s ribs. Trace easily stepped to the side, at the same time coming up under Two Horses’ arm with his long Green River knife. The Blackfoot grunted as the blade of Trace’s knife sank deep under his breastplate. A look of shock and startled disbelief glazed Two Horses’ eyes as he tried to back away from the knife. Trace stepped with him, forcing the knife in as deep as it would go.
Suddenly the strength left Two Horses’ knees and he began to sag. Still, he courageously tried to strike out again with his knife. Trace easily blocked the thrust, trapping Two Horses’ wrist in his powerful grip, and held the Blackfoot until the remaining strength drained from him. Then, supporting the Indian’s body with the knife in his gut, he backed him to the ledge and with one sudden shove hurled his body down the mountainside. Tumbling over and over down the steep slope, Two Horses came to rest some fifty yards below, against a stunted pine.
“A damn waste,” Trace said. He stood there for several minutes longer, looking at the corpse lodged below him on the scrub pine. This one had gotten too close. Trace’s camp and his horses were only a quarter of a mile below, on the other side of the mountain. Perhaps it was time to move on anyway, for the cold weather would soon be here. He admired the beauty of this place, but it was difficult to decide if he would come back in the spring, since the Blackfeet had made him a legend. He had no desire to be a Blackfoot legend.
There were no further encounters with ambitious Blackfoot warriors over the next few weeks, but it was because the Indians who came in search of the Mountain Hawk did not venture near his camp. However, they still searched for him—he sighted at least one every day or two—so Trace finally decided to leave his camp high up in the ridges and head down past the Absarokas, to the Wind River Range, maybe go on down to Fort Laramie if the notion struck him. He had some plews to trade, and he could use some powder and lead for his Hawken rifle. Then, too, his supply of coffee beans had long since been depleted. Having spent four years of his life living with a band of Crow Indians, he got along just fine without flour, baking soda, sugar, and other staples that most trappers craved. But he did miss his coffee. If it was necessary, however, Trace could be content living without most civilized conveniences. With his bow and knife—along with a flint and steel—he could not only survive but prosper, using only what nature provided.
After three days of following an old hunting trail, he put the Absarokas behind him and struck t
he Wind River, constantly alert for signs of Indian hunting parties. This time of year there was generally a great deal of activity among the tribes. It was the end of summer, and the Sioux and Cheyenne were at war with almost every tribe in the area. A white man was smart to stay out of the way of all of them—even the Crows, whom Trace had lived with. He wasn’t quite sure what his reception might be if he paid a visit to his old village, since he had chosen to leave the Crows and throw in with the likes of trappers Buck Ransom and Frank Brown. He often thought of his boyhood friend Black Wing and his father, Buffalo Shield. The years Trace spent with them were not unhappy years, and he hoped that he was still considered a friend in Red Blanket’s village.
Following the river, he made his way in a leisurely fashion toward South Pass, stopping to hunt when he felt the need, resting the horses frequently. He crossed a wide coulee that was now dry and was about to climb the other side when his eye caught a movement on the horizon. Trace immediately pulled his Indian pony up short and strained to identify the travelers. Because of the distance between them, however, it was difficult to determine if it was a hunting party or a war party—but whichever, it was not a large group.
Turning the paint, he rode down toward the river, using the side of the coulee as cover until he reached the trees that lined the river. Then he continued on a course that would intercept the party. When he was close enough to get a better look at what manner of travelers he had discovered, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was not an Indian party at all. It was a wagon, pulled by a team of six mules, flanked by two riders. “What in hell are they doing up this way?” he muttered. Pilgrims, he thought, and as lost as a pilgrim can get.
It made little sense to Trace for a wagon even to be trying to cross this country. They were almost to the confluence of the Wind River and the Big Horn. If they were looking for South Pass and the trail to California, they had sure as hell missed it. And if they continued in the direction they were heading, they would end up staring at a mountain they couldn’t get over.
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