Mountain Hawk

by Charles G. West

  Ox didn’t answer immediately. He swallowed hard and exhaled, then took a deep breath. “Yessir. That’s the reason Plum cut me—I tried to help her git away.”

  Trace was stunned for a moment. Jamie with Jack Plum—and Crown! This was devastating news. If anything could possibly be worse than being a prisoner of the Blackfeet, it was to be captured by those two murdering renegades. Trace was sick inside at the thought of it. “Is she . . .” he stumbled over his words. “Is she all right?”

  Ox was growing weary, but he tried his best to answer Trace’s questions. “Yessir,” he rasped, “she’s all right. She don’t wanna be Plum’s wife is all.” He looked up at Trace, an earnest look in his eye. “She told me so, so I untied her and helped her run, but Plum caught us.” He closed his eyes then and mumbled, “I’m hurt bad.”

  Trace remained there on one knee for a long time, a multitude of thoughts racing through his head. He was inclined to ride as fast as he could, right then, to find Jamie and save her from the hell she must be enduring. But he had to force himself to think rationally. If he went charging downriver now, he would just be like a dog chasing its own tail—he still had no trail to follow. Then his thoughts returned to the unfortunate wretch before him. He couldn’t just ride off and leave him like his “friends” had done. He should at least see what he could do for his wounds, and maybe ease his dying. After all, the man had suffered his wounds in attempting to help Jamie. Even if he was riding with Plum and Crown, Trace owed him for that.

  “Come on,” Trace finally said. “Let’s get you up on a horse and see if we can fix you up. We’ll go back to where I camped last night. There’s better cover there from the cold.”

  Ox tried, but he could not get to his feet. Even with Trace’s help, it was obvious that if Trace was able to get Ox on the horse’s back, the giant was still too weak to stay on. So Trace got his hand axe from his pack and cut a couple of poles for a travois. He took the buffalo hide he had taken from the Blackfoot warrior and cut slits along two sides. Then with strips of rawhide, he laced the hide to the poles. When he was done, he tied the travois onto the bay pony and with a great deal of effort managed to pull Ox onto it.

  It was almost dark by the time they made it back to the willow thicket by the stream. Trace hustled to make a fire and settle Ox close to it. “The first thing we gotta do is get you warm,” he said as he struggled to move the big man’s body. “Damned if you ain’t a big boy,” he groaned.

  After he had taken care of the horses, Trace took his axe again and went to work building a rough windscreen. Once that was finished, he boiled some of his precious coffee and ladled it slowly down his patient’s throat. Ox gulped the hot black liquid greedily. Trace then took a look at Ox’s wounds to see if anything could be done to help him.

  After the coffee was finished, Trace took his only pot and melted some snow over the fire. When the water had warmed enough, he began to soak the encrusted shirt away from the stomach wound. It was a painful process, but Ox did not complain, registering his discomfort only by a flutter of his heavy eyelids. When the wound was clean enough for Trace to estimate the seriousness of it, he wondered if he wasn’t just wasting his time. The gash was long and deep—he had seen men die from less serious wounds than this. Although there was little he could do for Ox, Trace hoped that at least he would feel better knowing it was cleaned up a little. The puncture wound in Ox’s side had almost closed, but it was still a blue hole in the center of a gray-green bruised area.

  “Well, I reckon that’s about the best I can do for you now. Maybe I’ll find some fresh meat in the morning, give you something to chew on besides that jerky.” He stepped out of the firelight to take another look at the horses. Looking back at the stricken man lying beside the fire, he did some heavy thinking. That poor bastard won’t make it till morning. He’s lost too much blood. He oughta been dead a long time ago. I guess the only reason he ain’t is because he’s half froze and it kept that wound from festering. Trace was anxious to go after Jamie, and he had already lost this entire day. But what else could he have done? Then he wondered if he had really done the poor devil any favors, for he might feel more pain when his wounds had thawed out. Hell, at least he’ll die warm.

  To Trace’s surprise, his oversized patient was still alive the next morning, which put Trace in somewhat of a dilemma. He had already counted on going after Jamie that morning, but the wounded man was still breathing. It would be unthinkable to abandon him, even if he was sure to die at any time. Trace made up his mind—he would wait a little longer. In the meantime, he would climb up in the mountains to see if he might run up on a deer or an elk.

  After assuring Ox that he would return, Trace set out to find meat. When he had covered most of the western slope of a long ridge and found no sign of a living thing, he began to wonder if he might have to resort to eating wolf—if the scavengers hadn’t found the carcasses yet. He was about to give up the hunt when he caught sight of three elk nibbling on the bark of some berry bushes in a thicket some fifty yards below him. Not waiting to be selective, he raised his Hawken and brought down the animal nearest to him. The other two elk jumped but did not bolt, staring in wonder at their fallen brother. Only when Trace appeared on his horse did the animals bound off through the snow. Trace bled and gutted the carcass where it had fallen, then tied a rope around it and dragged it back to his camp to butcher.

  He cut some strips of meat, and placed them over the fire to roast as soon as he got back to camp. The aroma of the cooking meat was enough to entice his patient to open his eyes. Trace cut him a piece of the liver to chew on while the meat was roasting. Seeing Ox’s ravenous appetite for the liver, Trace was amazed by the huge man’s will to live. “Damned if you ain’t tough as an ox,” he commented.

  Ox managed a feeble smile, and replied, “That’s my name . . . Ox.”

  “Ox?” Trace replied. “Is that how you’re called? Ox?”

  Ox grinned and nodded. It was a fitting name, Trace decided. When the strips of flesh were done, he divided them equally and the two men ate. After Trace completed his butchering, he rolled up the elk hide and tied it onto the bay. When Ox had eaten his fill, he promptly fell asleep. Trace stoked the fire, then rode out to dispose of the remains of the elk away from his camp, so as not to attract any wolves that might still be lingering.

  Trace sat on the paint high up on a ridge, looking out toward the west at snowy mountain peaks as far as he could see. He looked back at the river below him, following its course until it vanished in the hills. Somewhere out in that wilderness, five, six, maybe seven days ahead, Jamie was waiting. He hoped to God that she was still sane after enduring harsh treatment he did not dare to imagine. He felt the urgent need to go after her, and he thought of the stubborn giant who refused to die back in his camp. His emotions were in turmoil as he decided what he must do. After laboring over the quandary for several minutes, he decided his first responsibility was to Jamie. That decided, he turned the paint back toward his camp.

  Trace stood over the big man for a long minute, studying his face. There was no sign of life as he lay there, his eyes closed, his body still. Trace was about to kneel down to make sure he wasn’t breathing when Ox’s eyes opened, and seeing Trace standing over him, he smiled. Damn! Trace thought. What in the hell am I gonna do? He returned Ox’s smile. Saying nothing, he turned and went to cut more cottonwood limbs to peel for horse feed.

  As each hour passed, Trace became more and more anxious. He could not rid his mind of Jamie’s desperate situation. Telling himself that she was still alive and that the worst of her treatment was probably over now didn’t help. Though her situation might not be any worse today than it was a week ago, it still had to be a living hell. He had to go to her.

  His mind made up, Trace started getting Ox set up as best he could. He gathered a huge stack of firewood and placed it within easy reach of the prone man. When he had piled up enough to last for several days, he then stored a generous supply of el
k meat in the snow near the end of the windbreak. Ox watched him, only his eyes moving as Trace moved back and forth before him, busy with the preparations. When Trace was all done, he sat down beside the fire and ate some of the roasted elk.

  “Am I gonna die?” Ox suddenly asked, his voice clear and strong this time.

  Trace wished that he could encourage the poor simple brute, but he could not. “I don’t rightly know, Ox. I reckon that’s somebody else’s call.”

  Ox’s deep-blue eyes searched Trace’s, pleading like an injured animal for some assurance. “Are you gittin’ ready to leave me?” he asked, childlike and innocent.

  The earnest question made Trace uncomfortable. He didn’t want to lie to a dying man, but he hated to tell him the truth, too. “Hell, Ox, I don’t know . . . maybe . . .” he struggled. “I might have to leave for a bit.” He hastened to add, “But I got you all fixed up here so you can take care of yourself till I get back.”

  Ox’s gaze, steady and unblinking now, locked on Trace. He had watched Trace’s preparations to leave, and he knew the tall mountain man was not coming back. He would be alone again. He thought about the days after he had dragged himself away from the place Plum had left him to die—days of terrifying cold and gut-wrenching pain. He thought of the frigid nights when he had lain under a creekbank, covering himself with dead leaves, trying to keep warm. And he thought of the wolves. He was frightened, and he didn’t want to be left alone to die in the freezing mountains. But he did not give voice to his fears. Instead he looked away and said simply, “Thank you fer doin’ fer me.”

  The huge man’s simple offering of his thanks hit Trace’s conscience dead center, and he felt like a dog for leaving him to die. Dammit, he thought, I’ve got Jamie to worry about now. There’s nothing I can do to keep you from dying. He made no reply to Ox’s thanks, other than a curt nod of his head. Every man who challenged the mountains knew the odds were better than even that he would most likely die a cruel and lonely death—even a man as simpleminded as Ox knew that. It was a hard fact of life, but it was fair. Trace had always accepted this, now it was time for Ox to accept it.

  It was barely sunup, another cold, gray day like the day before. Trace had already saddled the paint, and he was struggling with the decision as to whether or not he should leave the bay in case Ox pulled through. If he didn’t leave the horse, it was a surefire signal to Ox that Trace didn’t expect him to make it. The other side of it was that it made little sense to leave a dead man a horse to ride. I might need that horse for Jamie, he thought. He stood there for a few moments, the lead rope in his hand, deliberating. Damn you for a softhearted fool, he cursed himself and tied the rope to a willow.

  When he was ready to go, he knelt down to examine Ox’s wounds. Ox gazed up at him silently, but the pain was evident in his eyes. The puncture wound in Ox’s side appeared to be healing, but there was no improvement in the more serious stomach wound.

  “You rest up,” Trace said. “There’s food and firewood within easy reach, and I’m leaving you a horse in case you feel well enough to ride before I get back.” The wounded man’s eyes told Trace that Ox knew the score.

  Ox gazed intently into Trace’s face, a serene expression replacing his mask of pain. “Are you the one the Injuns call the Mountain Hawk?” he asked.

  Trace shrugged. “I reckon,” he answered, then quickly added, “but I ain’t no hawk. My name’s Trace McCall.”

  Ox smiled and nodded, then said, “Plum and Crown aim to set up camp at Three Forks.”

  Trace had considered that possibility, for Three Forks had been a frequently used camping area for trappers for years. He himself had wintered there with Buck Ransom before the beaver trade went dead. Years before that, Buck had wintered there when he and Frank Brown were in the employ of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Now that Ox had confirmed his suspicions, Trace was ready to ride. One glance at the doleful face of the huge man lying almost helpless before him brought his thoughts back to the decision he had already made. Best to get on with it, he told himself and rose to his feet, avoiding the melancholy eyes that now followed his every move.

  Without another glance at the man lying by the fire, Trace guided the paint across the little stream and followed the river south. He wasn’t comfortable with his feelings, which refused to dissipate even though his rational mind kept trying to tell him that there was nothing he could do to stop Ox from dying. He forced himself to concentrate on the task ahead. To rescue Jamie, he was going to have to deal with two of the meanest snakes in the Rocky Mountains. He would have to keep his wits about him as well, for Plum was known to be as cunning as an otter. The third man—Ox had called him Sowers—was unknown to Trace, but if he was riding with Plum and Crown, Trace had to consider him just as dangerous.

  A light snow began to fall as Trace approached the gully where he had found Ox fighting off the wolves. He paused a moment to consider the two carcasses still lying in the snow, as yet untouched by scavengers. That surprised him, for he would have expected the other four wolves to have returned. Maybe they’re already stalking some other helpless prey, he thought, and the picture of Ox lying before the rough windbreak returned to his mind. That’s what comes with riding with the likes of Plum and Crown, he told himself. He shoulda known better than to throw in with varmints like them. But the picture of the pathetically simple man-child refused to leave his mind. “Dammit to hell!” he exclaimed and turned the paint around.

  Although food was within his reach, the stricken man had had no desire to eat. For the second time in a matter of days, he had been abandoned—and this time, he was sure to die. His simple mind had sensed a decency in the tall mountain man that he had not seen in other men he had encountered. And like a stray dog, he had longed to follow at Trace’s heels. Ox had not expressed his fears when Trace prepared to leave, but he had no hopes of ever riding out of there on the horse Trace had left for him.

  Lying before the fire, looking up at the cheerless gray sky, Ox tried to think back over his brief life. There was not a great deal he could remember about his early childhood—in fact, he found it hard to concentrate on anything for long periods of time. His mind seemed to want to flit about from one thought to another, like a butterfly in a field of summer flowers. He did recall his brothers, and his father, but when he tried to remember his mother, he drew a blank. He couldn’t really recall a woman living in his pa’s shack near the river.

  One memory that endured in Ox’s mind was that there was never enough to eat in his house—and he, being the youngest, was left with the scraps. He remembered the beatings, administered by his pa as well as his older brothers. Sometimes he would wonder why everyone resented his presence. He never tried to cause trouble. He couldn’t help it if thinking came hard for him, and he never could understand why that inability caused his family to ridicule him.

  One day stood out in his sketchy memory, however; the day his pa took him to work with him. Ox was placed on a stump near the loading dock and threatened with a severe beating if he moved from it while his pa helped some other men load a large riverboat. It was near dark when the job was finished and the boat was ready to depart the following morning. After the other men had left to go home for supper, his pa took his young son aboard the boat. Telling Ox that he was going to play a game with the captain of the boat, he untied a canvas flap on one of the cargo boxes and placed the frightened child inside. Ox could still remember his pa’s words: “You stay put in this box and don’t make a sound. ’Cause if you do, the captain’ll whup you good. You be quiet and you’ll be all right. There’ll be somebody waiting for you at the other end.” He gave the boy a piece of cornbread wrapped in a paper sack and tied the flap back down over the box. The last words he heard from his father were, “You go on to sleep. You’ll be all right.”

  He cried—he remembered that—but he soon fell asleep, and he didn’t wake up until he felt the boat moving away from the dock the next morning. Terrified that if he made a sound, he wo
uld be yanked out of the box and beaten, Ox tried to keep as quiet as he could. All that first day he lay quietly in his wooden cage, listening to the sounds of the men working the boat as they constantly walked their poles to the stern, then tromped back to the bow again. Ox had no idea how long he remained in the cargo box before he was discovered. One day one of the boatmen discovered a spreading stain with the distinct odor of urine at the corner of the box. Suspecting that some varmint, possibly a raccoon, had managed to get aboard, the crew untied the canvas and, to their bewilderment, pulled out a half-starved, thoroughly terrified boy.

  His pa had been right about one thing—the captain was infuriated to find Ox stowed away in his cargo. His first thought was to throw the unwelcome passenger overboard, but at the intervention of some of the more benevolent members of the crew, he reluctantly agreed to permit the boy to remain on board until they reached Fort Union, above the mouth of the Yellowstone. The condition was that Ox was to stay out of the crew’s way.

  Upon arriving at their destination some six weeks later, Ox was unceremoniously parked on the dock at Fort Union, and he was still sitting there when the boat had been unloaded and pulled away again. It was at this juncture in his young life that Mr. Henry Clyde entered the scene. Much like the boat captain, Mr. Clyde was equally bewildered to find the abandoned youngster on his dock.

  Possessing a somewhat kinder disposition than the captain, however, Henry Clyde took the boy home with him, where he presented the waif to Mrs. Clyde. Being of a Christian spirit, Louella Clyde embraced the undernourished orphan and took him into her fold. It was not to last, however. For just when it appeared that Ox had at last found a welcoming haven, Mrs. Clyde discovered the boy’s lack of wit, and her enthusiasm for raising another child waned almost immediately. When there was no doubt that the stray youngster was decidedly slow in things cerebral, Louella Clyde made it plain to Henry that she had no intention of playing nursemaid to a half-wit. All Ox knew was that he had somehow displeased another grownup and was no longer welcome in the house. By this time it was not an unfamiliar feeling for him, so he was not surprised—he was only at a loss as to what he had done to earn Mrs. Clyde’s displeasure.