The Search for Soaring Hawk

by Terry O'Reilly

  Sam lay between the two men, under the canopy of stars, his arm draped over Todd’s chest. Garrett was snuggled against him with his arm over them both, his hand lightly resting on Sam’s forearm. Sam could feel their deep, even breathing. He knew they were sleeping, but he could not sleep. The confusion had returned.

  He thought of how the braves of the village had used Lean Bear, how Russell had happily allowed the men of the trading post to satisfy their needs, of the love he had shared with Nils. Where did what had transpired here, what he had felt for both of these men, fit into this?

  Surely what he, Todd and Garrett had done was in no way similar to Lean Bear’s humiliation. They had not taken turns using Todd, without regard to his needs or desires. Even though the attitudes of the men of the trading post toward Russell had been of respect and affection, there was still the aura of Russell’s participation being to please them. Whether or not he derived pleasure was irrelevant. No, what had just taken place was more akin to what he had shared with Nils. He had felt love for both men, had sensed that love flowed between them, and to him, from them.

  How could that be possible? Could you love more than one person at the same time? He had no answer for that. He let his mind go back to the moments of shared passion and drifted off to sleep.

  * * * Sam stood on the bank of the pond, staring into the water. On the other side, a family of loons searched for food among the reeds. A beaver swam toward its lodge carrying a branch. The young loons, some of them paddling in the water, some on the backs of the parents, seemed, to Sam, to be content: a feeling that was far from him at that moment.

  He reached down and scratched Wolf’s ear. The animal was watching the birds and the rodent.

  “You leave them be,” Sam said. “You got no cause to be hunting them. I feed you well enough.”

  Wolf looked up and whined, shifting his weight from paw to paw, as if to say, “Yeah, but the wolf part of me wants to hunt.”

  Wolf turned his head away from the pond. Sam followed his gaze. He heard a noise. Garrett was approaching from the direction of the thicket where, apparently, Todd still lay sleeping. He turned back to the pond. Garrett walked up behind him, encircling Sam’s waist with his strong arms, burying his face in his neck, caressing him. Sam leaned back into the embrace with a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Garrett’s deep voice resonated throughout Sam’s body.

  Sam sighed again. He turned without breaking the hold in which Garrett held him. He looked deeply up into the eyes of the man he could no longer deny he had feelings for.

  “I love you,” Sam said simply. When he said these words, however, he felt turmoil inside.

  Garrett smiled and kissed him. He looked at Sam with his head cocked to one side. He reminded Sam of Wolf, when his faithful companion was trying to understand the strange vocalizations his master was uttering.

  Garrett said, “But?”

  “But?” Sam repeated.

  “I love you, but—” Garrett said. “I know there’s a ‘but’ in there someplace. Not as cute as this butt, though.” He dropped his hands and gave Sam’s bottom a squeeze.

  “Garrett, I’m serious.” Sam broke the embrace and walked a few steps away.

  “I know you are,” said the wagon master. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re right,” Sam said. “There is a ‘but.’” Sam leaned his shoulder against a willow tree on the bank. Garrett walked up behind him once more and also leaned against a limb with one hand, waiting for Sam to continue.

  Sam took his time. Still staring at the family of loons, he said, “I love you, but…I love Todd, too.” He turned to Garrett. “I can see Todd loves you and yet he says he loves me. How can I love you and Todd? How can you love each other and me?”

  Garrett smiled and pulled Sam against his chest. Sam laid his head on the man’s broad shoulder, and, for an instant, felt as if he were one of the loon chicks secure on the strong back of his father.

  After a minute had passed, Garrett said. “You got the wrong idea about love, my man.”

  Sam raised his head and looked up into Garrett’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  Garrett pressed Sam’s head back down against his shoulder. “You think love has to be a permanent thing, that it’s exclusive between two people.”

  Sam wrinkled his brow against Garrett’s breast, trying to understand.

  Garrett continued, “Love can be permanent and exclusive, but it don’t have to be. Love is a feelin’. You can’t control havin’ it, any more than you can control not havin’ it. If I love you, it don’t mean I shouldn’t or can’t love Todd, or Gus, or even a hundred other people. And to try not to feel it when it’s there, as plain as the nose on your face, it can make you miserable inside. Especially if you think it’s wrong to feel that way.”

  Garrett paused. Sam thought about what he had just heard. It made sense to him on some level. When he had been with Nils, though, he had felt love for none other and felt no desire for any other love. But there, he didn’t have others to love. There was just him and Nils. Would he have loved Garrett if he had been there as well?

  “Another thing about love,” Garrett was continuing. “It don’t have to last forever. If you feel it for someone for an hour, a day, or a week, and then it goes, that’s all right. It ain’t wrong to have it be for a short time. It’s a good feeling and should be shared and enjoyed. Not something to be ashamed of or regret if it don’t last. So, if you love someone, tell ’em. You’ll both feel good.”

  Sam raised his head once more.

  “I love you, Sam,” said Garrett.

  “I love you, too,” Sam replied. This time he felt better saying it, but he still thought something was missing, something he couldn’t quite understand.

  The two men walked back toward where Todd lay sleeping. Sam turned back to the pond.

  “Wolf,” he called, “you leave them loons alone!”

  Wolf reluctantly turned and walked back to his master, his head down and tail dragging.

  CHAPTER 8

  INDEPENDENCE

  Sam walked with Garrett down the busy street. They were on their way to see Cletus Weston, owner and organizer of the wagon train company. Garrett had sent Gus and Todd to locate their wagons and start procuring supplies for the journey. They had Wolf with them.

  The men had arrived in Independence at dusk the day before and after bedding down the horses at the livery went straight to the hotel where they spent the night. Todd and Sam shared a room with Wolf; Garrett and Gus were in another.

  Sam and Todd had made love. Sam was certain Garrett and Gus had done the same. Somewhere inside him, Sam wished Garrett had made other arrangements so they could have been together once more.

  As they made their way through the crowds of people— shopping, haggling over the prices—Sam got his first look at the settlers they would be taking across country: men and women, children, and several dogs. There were young couples and older families. Some looked to be too old to be thinking of resettling, let alone traveling two thousand miles to do so.

  As they rounded a corner, they had to step aside as a small herd of yoked oxen—led by the drovers—went by. It surprised Sam to see oxen being led by the rings in their noses, not like horses in harness.

  “God, Cletus’s gonna use ox again this year,” Garrett said, watching the animals lumber by. “That’ll add two weeks to the trip at least. And you gotta teach folks how to work with them. They already know how to handle horses.”

  “Are they taking them to the train now?” Sam asked “No, they’ll be delivered to the train later in the week. Be kept out of town for the time being.”

  “If it takes longer, why would you use them?”

  “Well, probably the main reason is so Cletus can make more money,” Garrett began as they let the beasts pass before the men continued on their way.

  Sam waited for Garrett to go on.

  “They’re a lot cheaper than horses or mu
les, but the old man charges the settlers horse prices cuz they don’t know no better.”

  Sam’s sense of fair play was ruffled. He decided he wasn’t going to like this Cletus.

  “But oxen got their good points, too. First off, they eat anything, not finicky like a horse. They’re stronger, can get through some tough spots better. And with these women wantin’ to take everything from home that ain’t nailed down, they pull bigger loads. They don’t stray off neither. Real good reason is that Indians ain’t as interested in stealin’ ’em, like they are horses.”

  Sam took slight offense at this last remark, but said nothing.

  “’Sides bein’ slower, a good argument against ox is that they get reckless when they’re hot and thirsty. Can cause stampedes in a rush to get to water. I remember a year or so back, we had a stampede during a dry spell. Took us a whole day to find ’em all and round ’em up.” Garrett shook his head at the memory.

  By the time Garrett had finished his tutorial on oxen, they had come upon a two-story building. On the glass window next to the door was painted “Cletus Weston: Wagoner and Guide.”

  “Humph,” Garrett said, pointing at the sign. “He ain’t never been farther west than this here town. Wagoner and guide, my ass.”

  Sam’s preconceived dislike of Cletus deepened, although the mention of Garrett’s firm, muscular, hair-covered butt made him smile.

  The men entered the building.

  A man Sam assumed to be Cletus was seated behind his desk. Even sitting, Sam could tell he wasn’t very tall. He was bald. He had a thick moustache that flowed down the sides of his mouth. It connected with a narrow beard that outlined his jaw, joining the fringe of hair that began over his ears and went around the back of his head. He looked up when he heard the door.

  “Taylor,” he said without rising. “We got sixteen signed up already, and I’m expectin’—”

  “Nice to see you, too, Cletus, and how was your winter?” Garrett interrupted, as if to point out the man’s rude lack of greeting. “This here’s Sa—”

  Cletus, oblivious to Garrett’s attempt at observing the civil niceties, interrupted back. “I’m expecting more in the next few days. Thought we’d hold off leavin’ for another week in case there’s a few stragglers that want to sign on.”

  “Well, Cletus, you’re plannin’ on using oxen again this year? That’s gonna add some time as it is,” Garrett returned.

  “Posh. One week isn’t gonna make that much difference, man!” Cletus said, looking at Garrett with a scowl as he rose and walked around the desk.

  Sam could tell from the expression on Garrett’s face that a week’s delay in departure did make a difference, but before he could voice any objection, the door opened again. A very tall, thin man dressed in a suit and dark shirt with a white collar entered the office. A small, plump, mousy looking woman followed him. As he closed the door, he looked over the three men assembled before him.

  “I’m looking for Cletus Weston,” the man said.

  Sam caught an air of pretentiousness in his voice.

  There was an immediate transformation in Cletus’ manner. He walked forward with an ingratiating smile on his face. “I’m Cletus Weston,” he said. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Same ole Cletus,” Garrett whispered, leaning slightly toward Sam.

  “I am the Reverend Ezekiel Rayburn,” the man announced pompously. “And this,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder without turning, “is my wife, Mrs. Rayburn.”

  “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance Reverend Rayburn,” said Cletus, rushing forward and grabbing the man’s hand. “Mrs. Rayburn,” he added, nodding in the woman’s direction. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  The Reverend Rayburn took Cletus’ hand and shook it, inclining his head and placing his other hand on his chest. Mrs. Rayburn peeked out from behind her husband and performed a slight curtsey.

  “Let me introduce you to our wagon master, Garrett Taylor,” Cletus said, looking in Garrett and Sam’s direction. “He’ll be guiding the train to California.”

  “Since you introduced him as the wagon master, I assumed as much,” the Reverend said disdainfully. He extended his hand to Garrett.

  Garrett took his hand. “Nice to meet you, Reverend.”

  Garrett turned to Mrs. Rayburn, touched the brim of his hat and nodded. “Ma’am.”

  She smiled slightly at the acknowledgement and curtsied again.

  “And this?” the Reverend said looking at Sam.

  “Ah, this is, ah…” Cletus stammered, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

  Garrett let him flounder for a while, then came to his rescue. “This is Samuel Hawkins. He’s our Indian scout.”

  The Reverend Rayburn stood up imperiously and raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Hawkins,” he said without offering his hand, “you don’t look like an Indian.”

  The man’s arrogance awakened something in Sam. He wanted to speak the truth about his heritage. He squared his shoulders and stood up erect and tall, but, at the last moment, he changed his mind. He reverted to the story he had told since leaving his people. Mrs. Rayburn gasped.

  “How awful for your poor mother,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “No,” Sam said. “River Runs Deep was a good husband. He was like a father to me. He’s a brave and honorable man.”

  “Still, being raised by savages in a heathen environment must have been an ordeal for you,” the Reverend Rayburn intoned piously.

  Sam looked Rayburn in the eye and spoke with strength and pride. “You would be surprised, Mr. Rayburn,” he said omitting his clerical title. “In many ways, Indians are more civilized and spiritual than the white man.”

  As if slapped, Rayburn recoiled. His face reddened.

  Garrett turned to Sam with an expression that was a mix of surprise and admiration.

  Only Cletus seemed unaffected by what had just transpired. He nodded and said, “Yes, this is Samuel Hawkins and he’ll be the Indian guide to help with negotiations with the Indians, should any be needed.”

  Mrs. Rayburn gasped again. The reverend, regaining his composure, looked at Garrett and asked, “Do you suspect any negotiations will be needed, Mr. Taylor?”

  As if the question had been addressed to him, Cletus began to answer.

  Rayburn cut him off. “Excuse me, Mr. Weston, but I was addressing the wagon master who would know better than you what dangers we face on the trail west.”

  Cletus blustered, then was silent.

  “We encounter Indians on the way west, yes. Whether or not we need to negotiate with them depends on a lot of things, like how other whites have treated them recently, how threatened they feel with us on their land, what we have that they may want. Most times, if we respect them and their territory, they’re friendly. At times, they can be hostile, yes, but usually not without good reason.”

  Sam looked at Garrett. He felt good about the way the man had answered. He had given the Indians the honor due them.

  “Well, I hope we do meet with them. I want to bring the Word of God to these heathens and offer them the hope of salvation, lest they burn in hell forever,” the reverend intoned with his head held high and a faraway look in his eyes.

  Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Garrett lightly put a hand on his arm.

  Cletus then asked the Rayburns to move to his desk, where he started to go over the contracts for their passage on the train.

  Garrett signaled Sam, and they slipped out the door.

  When they were outside, Garrett faced Sam. “You sure gave the old reverend what he deserved in there.”

  Sam shrugged. He had spoken strongly in defense of his people, but in the end, he had still denied his heritage. His identity as Soaring Hawk remained a secret.

  * * * The two men walked from the main street to the field set aside for the staging of the wagon train. Several wagons were already in the area, and families were busy packing them with their supplies a
nd belongings.

  “You be careful with that barrel, Hiram. That’s my grandmother’s china packed in there,” a woman with chiseled features screamed at a man Sam assumed to be her husband, as he struggled to lift the barrel and secure it to the side of the covered wagon.

  Garrett shook his head and went to help him. Sam followed. Once the barrel was in place and both husband and wife thanked the men profusely, Garrett and Sam continued on their way to find Gus and Todd.

  “Nothing you can say to convince ’em it’s foolhardy to be taking stuff like that. Nary a cup’ll make it, no matter how well it’s packed,” Garrett said with a shake of his head. “They’d do better packin’ the barrel with flour or salt pork.”

  Sam looked back at the couple they had just helped. The woman was now directing the husband to place a large, oval, wood-framed mirror in the wagon box. A familiar bark made him turn around. Bounding toward him—causing a few folks to scurry out of the way in fear—was Wolf. Sam braced himself for the animal’s greeting.

  Wolf came to a sliding stop in front of Sam, stood on his hind legs, placed his forelegs on the man’s shoulders and covered his face with sloppy kisses.

  Garrett laughed as Todd and Gus joined them. “Wagons ’re right over here,” Gus said, turning to lead the way to two wagons.

  Sam looked them over. They were good-sized and were already packed with supplies and gear. The second wagon had plenty of room in the bed. The men would sleep there.

  “How’d it go with Cletus, the ole bastard?” Gus asked.

  “Same as always,” Garrett replied. “Wants us to put off leavin’ for another week so he can milk every nickel he can outta people.”

  “Dang!” Gus said shaking his head.

  “What?” Todd asked. “Why does a week make a difference?”

  “A week at the other end of the trip can mean a snow-covered pass. Come late August you never can tell what Momma Nature ain’t gonna throw at cha,” Gus said in disgust.

  “Not much we can do about it, ’cept maybe pray,” Garrett added. “Who’d you line up to hunt for us?”