* * *
It was anybody’s guess what the Indians would do now. Hawk was just thankful that they had decided not to shoot at the couple from the ranch when they were in easy rifle range. He had spoiled a young couple’s outing to pick serviceberries on the mountainside, but they were not reluctant to change their plans when he told them a party of Sioux warriors had beaten them to the patch. In fact, he had to caution them to ride back home leisurely, so as not to alert the Indians. He told them to tell everyone to get their weapons ready to defend their home. Although he thought the soldiers would prevent the hostiles from attacking the house, it was always better to be prepared. “We’ll most likely check by with you after whatever happens,” he had told them.
Now he was wondering if he might be able to ride back to join the patrol, that is, if his meeting with the couple from the ranch was casual enough to convince the hostiles that their presence had not been discovered. It was either that, or follow the couple to the house. He decided he’d rather chance rejoining the patrol, so he nudged Rascal to a comfortable lope and started back across the open prairie. Although his senses were sharp and alert, he was nevertheless startled by the sudden attack that exploded out of the trees at the foot of the largest hill.
All at once, he found himself in a swarm of lead snapping all around him like angry hornets as the Sioux war party charged out of the trees, firing wildly. His initial reaction was to run, knowing the only reason he had not been hit was because of the distance and the difficulty of firing accurately while at a full gallop. It was only a matter of seconds before one of those shots found purchase in him or his horse, or both. So he hauled back on the reins long enough to draw his rifle and jump out of the saddle. As soon as his feet were on the ground, he gave Rascal a sound slap on the rump, and the big horse galloped away, leaving Hawk to sprint for one of a series of hummocks on the open grassland. With no time to be picky, he dived behind the first one he came to and cranked a cartridge into the rifle’s chamber. Lying flat on his stomach behind the low mound, he tried to find the best position to fire from.
The hostiles were driving their horses straight at him, no farther than seventy-five yards away and closing fast. Their shots were more accurate at this distance and he could hear the constant sounds of impact as the bullets hit the front of his hummock. I wish I’d picked a bigger mound, he thought. They could not see him behind it, so most of their shots were aimed at the center of the mound, so he slid his body to one side and brought his Winchester to the party. Taking his time to take dead aim, he laid his front sight on the leading hostile and squeezed the trigger. Buffalo Heart was the first to fall, knocked backward off his pony to land hard on the prairie floor. Those behind him jerked their horses hard to avoid his body. Hampered with the task of leading the two horses they had captured, Many Scalps straightened up, offering a better target for Hawk’s second kill. With a cry of shock, the surprised Indian slid off his horse when Hawk’s shot smashed the center of his chest.
“Soldiers!” Kills Two Bears cried when the patrol of fifteen troopers suddenly appeared, charging full force, carbines blazing away. He veered sharply to the right. The others followed, no longer concerned about the lone man behind the mound. On ponies fresh from their long rest, the four surviving warriors galloped toward the river.
The brief battle over, Hawk got to his feet to send one last round after the fleeing Indians, but missed. He stood there awaiting the patrol and when they came up to him, Lieutenant Conner halted them briefly to make sure he was all right. “Yeah,” Hawk said in reply to Conner’s question. “I’m all right. Keep after’em.” He stepped back to avoid being knocked down by one of the horses and watched them gallop off after the fleeing hostiles, who had already reached the river. His concern then was the health of his horse, but first he decided he’d better check on the condition of the two warriors he had shot. With another cartridge cranked into his rifle, he walked to each one, ready to fire if the hostile was playing possum. After confirming both men dead, he looked around for his horse. Seeing the buckskin standing some fifty yards away, he whistled, and Rascal immediately trotted toward him.
Looking out toward the river, he saw the soldiers riding hard up the other side, already almost a mile away. And the thought struck him—if you ain’t caught them by now, I doubt you’ll ever catch them. His money was on the fast Indian ponies in a life-or-death race against the heavier cavalry horses. He turned around and looked back toward the ranch house. Might as well ride on in and tell them what happened, he thought.
* * *
Lieutenant Conner found Hawk sitting on the front porch of the ranch house, working on a cup of coffee, an empty plate and a fork on the floor beside his chair. Garland Davis, the owner of The Double-D, got up from his chair and went down the steps to meet the lieutenant. “Welcome, Lieutenant. I’m mighty glad you boys came along when you did. From what Mr. Hawk tells me, we mighta been in a whole heap of trouble. I don’t reckon you caught up with those Injuns.”
“Thank you, sir,” Conner replied. “No, we didn’t catch up with them.”
“Right,” Davis replied. “Hawk said you wouldn’t.”
Conner cast a knowing smile at Hawk, then replied. “I doubt they’ll be back here to cause you any trouble, though.”
“That’s what Hawk said,” Davis remarked, then led him up on the porch to meet the rest of his family. “This is my wife, Amanda, and this is my son, John, and his wife, Lucille. John and Lucille was headin’ out to that spring in the hills over yonder to pick some berries till Hawk turned ’em around. We got two hired hands here on the place and one more up at the line shack. When John told us what Hawk said to do, why, we got our guns and we was ready for ’em.”
“I expect you were,” Conner said. “I’m glad you didn’t have to use your guns.” He glanced over to catch Hawk’s eye. Understanding, Hawk slowly shook his head, so Conner broke the news. “About that man of yours in the line shack, I’m sorry to have to tell you that the Indians killed him and burned down the shack. We buried him, of course.”
His news caused both women to gasp in horror. “Oh, that poor man,” Lucille lamented. “We didn’t even know his name.”
“It was Ed somethin’,” John spoke up.
“That’s right,” Garland said. “We didn’t know much about him. He drifted in here about two months ago, lookin’ for a grubstake. So I told him I’d use him up at the shack. That’s sorry news, though. I hate to hear it.” Talk was interrupted then by the arrival of the patrol, led up in the yard by Corporal Johnson, the horses having been watered at the river. “I expect your horses are pretty tired, Lieutenant,” Garland said. “And your men, too. You’re welcome to camp here tonight if you want. Matter of fact, I’ll have one of the boys cut out a steer and we’ll feed your whole outfit with some fresh beef.” He turned to his wife. “Mother, have we got enough coffee to take care of these boys?”
“I think so,” his wife replied cheerfully. “I’m sorry we don’t have any pie for them. Mr. Hawk got the last piece of that.”
Conner raised an eyebrow and gave Hawk another sly smile before accepting the invitation. The fresh beef would be enjoyed by his men, especially since they were already short of rations. “That’s mighty hospitable of you folks,” he said. “I know my men will certainly appreciate it. I’ll have the men move on over to the other side of the barn to make camp.” He turned to go down the steps just as Hawk did. “What kind of pie was it?” Conner whispered aside.
“Apple,” Hawk replied, grinning.
Seated on his horse, sullenly witnessing the introductions, Roy Nestor felt a now-familiar pang of jealousy from the special treatment received by Hawk. It galled him to know that while he was riding hard after the Sioux, Hawk was having pie and coffee on the front porch. The damn Indians, he thought. Not a one could hit the son of a bitch, and him right in the middle of the prairie. He had considered throwing a shot at Hawk when they rode by him, but was afraid he wouldn’t get away
with it. He wished now he had done it.
* * *
Conner was certainly right when he told Davis his men would appreciate the fresh beef. Before they gathered around a fire pit built for the purpose of roasting meat, Corporal Johnson assigned some men to pick up the bodies of the two hostiles Hawk shot. Under the corporal’s supervision, a shallow grave was dug at the base of the hills. With nothing more of a serious nature to occupy their time, the men enjoyed the rare respite. And for a change, everyone went to bed with a full stomach. The next morning, the patrol headed back to Fort Ellis with only a short day’s march before them.
It was early in the afternoon when Conner led his patrol back into Fort Ellis, just south of the Gallatin River. He ordered his men to take care of their horses while he reported directly to Major Brisbin. Hawk and Nestor accompanied Conner, and Lieutenant Meade, who was in charge of the scouts, came in to hear their report as well. Afterward, Conner dismissed the scouts, then remained to discuss the performances of the two assigned to him for this particular patrol. “Are you saying Hawk and Nestor didn’t work well together?” Brisbin asked.
“I guess I’m saying those two seem to have a natural hatred for each other,” Conner answered. “Hawk not so much, but Nestor seems to have a need to disagree with everything Hawk says. I don’t know, it just works out that Hawk is right about ninety-nine percent of the time and I think that riles Nestor no end. So it causes a friction that a commander can do without on a patrol like this one. You need to have your scouts helping each other instead of disagreeing on everything that comes up.”
“I see what you mean,” Brisbin said. “And from what you tell me, you prefer Hawk on your patrols. Does Hawk have trouble with other scouts?”
“Not in my experience, and he’s ridden with me on numerous patrols,” Conner replied. “In my opinion, he’s the best scout in the regiment.”
Brisbin glanced in Meade’s direction and the lieutenant remarked, “I’d have to agree.”
“Then I suggest you need to have a talk with Nestor,” the major said. “We might be better off without him if he’s a source of friction like Lieutenant Conner says. This is not the first trouble we’ve had with this man and it makes me wonder if he should have been fired after that incident six months ago.” The major was referring to a raid on a Sioux village where some Lakota horse thieves were thought to be hiding. Nestor had been the only scout on that mission and he had shot a Sioux woman and her baby he found hiding in a gully. He claimed the woman was about to shoot him, but there was no weapon found near the bodies. In Conner’s opinion, Meade should have fired Nestor then, but he gave Nestor the benefit of the doubt. His reasoning was that there were nearly always deaths and injuries to noncombatants in the course of a hot firefight.
The problem with Roy Nestor would solve itself, as far as the military was concerned, however, for Nestor decided after this last patrol that he was no longer inclined to ride for the army for the meager wages they paid. He was confident that there were any number of ways for a man to make good money without working for it. He was already kicking around an idea in his mind he had been thinking about for some time. Now was a good time to give it a shot. Hell, he thought, I can do it just as good as anybody else. Lieutenants Conner and Meade, the other scouts, especially Hawk, could all go to hell. That thought triggered another in his mind. He wished to hell he had taken that shot at Hawk in the confusion of the chase after the fleeing Indians. I won’t pass it up the next time, if it ever comes around again.
* * *
“There you are,” Lieutenant Conner said when he walked into the stable. “I thought you might be here.”
Hawk interrupted the packing of his saddlebags to greet him. “Lieutenant,” he acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Meade said you told him you were gonna give up scouting for the regiment,” Conner said. “I thought I’d like to know what you’re thinking about doing instead. Hell, man, you were born to do what you’re doing. I hope to hell you’re not letting Nestor run you off.”
Hawk had to laugh. “Is that what Meade told you? I didn’t tell him I was quittin’ scoutin’ for good. I need the money, as stingy as it is. No, sir, I told Meade I was takin’ a little vacation for a while ’cause I need to do a little work on my cabin up on the Boulder River. We’ve been goin’ hot and heavy for a long spell and I’ve got to see if my place is still standin’, or if somebody has moved in on me.” He laughed again. “Nope, you’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy. I’ll be back, if for no other reason, so I can aggravate you. Besides, you’ve got a good man in Roy Nestor to scout for you.”
Conner was visibly relieved. He ignored the remark about Nestor. “Well, you do aggravate better than most, I have to admit,” he said, and Hawk laughed with him. “You’d best watch your scalp back in that wild country. Come to see me as soon as you get back.” He turned and walked away.
“I’ll do that,” Hawk called after him.
CHAPTER 4
“Don’t move.” The command was soft, but deadly, striking Monroe Pratt with an immediate sense of danger and stopping him in his tracks. Not sure where the voice had come from, he scanned the almost solid bank of berry bushes on the other side of the small stream before him, but saw no one. About to speak, he paused, suddenly apprehensive when he caught sight of a rifle barrel, protruding from the bushes and pointed his way. Due to the thickness of the branches, the barrel was all he could make out. Thoughts of diving for cover in the stream crossed his mind, but the bank was not high enough to give him any real protection. And it would be foolhardy to try to retreat back to the pines some twenty yards behind him. He would never make it. It seemed obvious to him that he had blundered into an open ambush as he had made his way carelessly through the heavily forested riverbank to this clearing where the stream emptied into the river.
For long seconds, he stood frozen with no sound now except that of the gentle breeze rustling through the pines behind him.Well, I’m not going to just stand here to be executed, he decided, but his decision to draw the Colt .44 he wore came too late. The rifle suddenly split the stillness of the forest with a sharp report and the snap of the bullet sounded only inches from his head. Shocked, he dropped to one knee and fumbled in his panic to defend himself, feeling it a miracle that he had not been hit. When he finally freed his reluctant .44 from his holster, he prepared to fire at the berry bushes where he had seen the rifle barrel, but stopped, uncertain, when he heard something in the pines behind him. Thinking he was caught between two assailants, he turned to defend against the attack from behind, only to discover a deer thrashing about in a helpless effort to run. Captured in a sudden paralysis of confusion, Monroe watched the wounded animal stumble a half-dozen yards before collapsing. He regained his wits then and whirled back toward the berry bushes in time to see them part and a tall man emerge, wearing a buckskin shirt and a flat-crowned hat with a hawk’s feather stuck in the band.
“I’ve been waitin’ for that buck to come for his supper berries for half an hour,” the man said. “He started hangin’ back when he heard you come crashin’ through the bushes like a herd of buffalo. But he didn’t hang back far enough to keep from gettin’ shot.”
It took a moment before Monroe could realize that he had not been the target. When he did, he was not happy about the situation he had been in between the man and the deer. “God A’mighty, man!” he blurted. “You almost shot me! I heard that slug snap right beside my ear!”
“Not hardly,” the man said, maintaining his low, casual tone. “I shot a good foot to the right of your head. Plenty of room, but I druther you hadn’t stepped right in my line of sight. If you’d come a few steps closer, I mighta had to pass on deer for supper.” He gave Monroe a quick look up and down as he walked on by him and went to put the deer out of its misery. When he had finished, he wiped the blood from his knife, replaced it in the scabbard he wore on his belt, and turned to Monroe again. “What are you doin’ wanderin’ arou
nd in the woods here? Did the army send you out lookin’ for me?”
Not comfortable with the deer hunter’s seeming unconcern for the closeness of his shot, Monroe answered, “I’m lookin’ for a man named John Hawk. I was told he had a cabin near this creek.”
“He does,” Hawk said. “Whaddaya lookin’ for him for?”
“I reckon that’s something for Mr. Hawk and myself to discuss,” Monroe replied, irritated by the man’s abruptness. He felt compelled to make the remark even though he had a suspicion that he was talking to John Hawk. Based upon the description he had been given of the sometimes army scout, it was easy to assume the rugged-looking individual who stood at least a couple of inches taller than he, was the man he searched for. The hawk feather stuck in his hatband was enough to confirm the identification. In response to Monroe’s remark, the man simply shrugged, seeming to have no interest in the matter. “Are you John Hawk?” Monroe finally pressed.
“I am,” Hawk answered, then repeated the question. “Whaddaya lookin’ for me for?”
“Major Brisbin at Fort Ellis told me you’d be the best man for the job I’ve got to do. He said you know the mountains on both sides of the Yellowstone better than any man hiring out as a scout or guide. Are you interested in a job?”
“Depends,” Hawk said. “What’s the job?” He looked back toward the berry bushes and whistled softly. After a few seconds, a buckskin horse pushed through the bushes, plodded slowly up to Hawk, and stopped a couple of yards from him. Without waiting for Monroe’s answer, Hawk grasped the front legs of the deer and pulled it up high enough to get his shoulder under its belly. He let the body fall across his shoulder, then lifted it off the ground. Once the carcass was draped solidly across his shoulders, he proceeded to unload it onto the horse.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 5