Son of the Hawk (17 page)

T
race McCall pulled gently on the reins, and the paint pony stopped immediately, turning his head to look back at the tall mountain man gazing up at the sky. A redtail hawk turned random circles high above the hills that rolled into the Bighorn Mountains. The ghostly image formed by the peaks of the Bighorns as they reached heavenward never failed to strike a spiritual chord in Trace’s soul. There was something mystical about the silent peaks when the sun began to sink behind them, outlining each spire with a fiery gold brush. It was little wonder that the Sioux and Cheyenne thought this to be a special place.

Trace kicked his feet out of the stirrups and stretched his legs, looking up again at the hawk still floating on the late-afternoon breeze. There was a special bond between the hawk and the free spirit of the mountain man that had existed since Trace was a boy, living with a band of Crow Indians. Patiently, the paint stood there, waiting for his master’s signal, only tossing his head slightly and whinnying softly when Trace’s packhorse pushed alongside. Although the late afternoons had become quite chilly, there had been no frost yet, so the buffalo grass was green and high. The paint pulled at the grass, grazing unhurriedly as his master continued to fill his lungs with the crisp air. The pony tossed his head impatiently then. It was not
the first time they had followed the flight of a hawk, and anxious to slake its thirst, the horse was impatient to reach the valley before them and the river that flowed through it.

Finally, Trace placed his moccasined feet back in the stirrups and made a soft clicking sound out of the side of his mouth—all that was necessary to put the swift Indian pony in motion. They descended the grass-covered knoll, following a treeless ravine down into the valley. “We’ll just ride on down to the river to get a drink, then we’ll double back to see who’s been in such an all-fired hurry to catch up with us,” he told the horse.

*   *   *

Buck pushed the horses as much as he thought reasonable in his effort to overtake Trace. Once he had determined the trail Trace had taken when he left Laramie, he was able to make pretty good time, having ridden the same trails with his younger friend many times in the past. He had a pretty good notion where Trace was heading, anyway. There was a double bend in the river that Trace favored for a campsite whenever he rode through the Bighorn country and so far the trail pointed to that spot.

Occasionally, Buck glanced back at the young Shoshoni boy riding silently behind him on the spotted gray pony. Trace Junior. Buck laughed to himself, marveling at the resemblance to the boy’s father every time he looked back at White Eagle. Each time he was met with the same stoic stare.
He shore knows how to look Injun
, Buck thought. If there was any fear in the boy, he didn’t show it, even though they were alone in the country of the Snakes’ most dreaded enemies.

Just as the sun dropped below the peaks of the Bighorn Mountains, the two riders pulled up at the head of a ravine that led down to the river. Buck
waited for White Eagle to pull up beside him. “See that thicket of willows and brush,” he said, pointing toward the banks of the river. “On the other side of that, in that stand of cottonwoods, is where I’m thinking we’ll find Trace McCall. But we’d best go down there with our eyes open—Trace ain’t the only one that uses this place as a camp.”

White Eagle nodded his understanding and followed Buck down the ravine at a slow walk. Shadows were long and fading as they cleared the ravine, now looking at fifty or more yards of open flat before the trees along the riverbank. Buck signaled for quiet as he dismounted and led his horse toward the willow thicket. White Eagle followed his lead, and when they reached the cover of the brush, they tied the horses to a willow and proceeded on foot.

Making his way cautiously through the bushes that bordered the thicket, Buck suddenly held up his hand and stopped. Dropping silently to one knee, his rifle cocked and ready to fire, he peered through the tangle of brush and willow shoots. After a moment, he smiled. There, hobbled in the trees, was Trace’s paint Indian pony and the packhorse he had just acquired from the army’s remuda at Fort Laramie. Buck looked all around him, to both sides. Trace was getting a mite careless, he thought.
He’s lucky I ain’t a Sioux war party.

With White Eagle following in his footsteps, Buck moved closer to the river’s edge until he could see a small fire burning in a gully and the outline of a man sitting with his back against a tree. “It’s him all right,” he whispered to White Eagle. “Keep close behind me and don’t make no noise.” Buck always enjoyed an opportunity to let Trace know he could still learn a thing or two from this old trapper. “We’ll just let him know how easy it is to catch a Mountain Hawk.”

Placing each foot carefully so as not to make even
the slightest sound, Buck made his way around the brush so he could come up behind Trace. Patiently stalking his friend, ready to yell out when Trace finally became aware of him—he didn’t want to take a chance on getting shot—Buck sneaked right up behind the cottonwood in the near darkness of the shadows. Having to restrain himself to keep from chuckling, he stepped up to the tree and said, “I don’t know how you kept your hair this long, partner.” He thought to poke Trace in the back with his rifle as he said it, only to discover he had prodded Trace’s saddle pack, propped against the tree. “Damn,” he uttered, knowing he’d been outfoxed and at the same time hearing the soft pad of horses’ hooves behind him.

“Evening, Buck,” Trace casually greeted his visitors, as he rode into the camp on Buck’s horse, leading the boy’s pony behind him. “Figured you might want to bring your horses on in and hobble ’em with mine.”

Buck was too flabbergasted to say anything for a moment. He had been certain no one could have seen him approach that thicket. “Well, dang,” he finally sputtered, “I had to be shore it was you.”

Trace laughed. “Is that why you came sneaking up here like that?”

“I wasn’t sneakin’,” Buck shot back. “If I’da wanted to sneak up on you, you’da never knowed I was there.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Trace allowed, a twinkle in his eye as he slid down from Buck’s horse. “Looks like you got yourself a new partner,” he said, nodding his head toward the boy.

White Eagle, a silent spectator of Buck’s attempt to get the best of Trace, stood in awe of the tall sandy-haired man who was said to be his father. Standing next to Buck’s slightly stooped and blocky body, the man seemed as tall as a lodgepole pine, with shoulders
broad and powerful. He could understand now why his mother had told him that his father was a mighty warrior, even though he was white—and why such a man might be called the Mountain Hawk by the Blackfeet.

Remembering the purpose of his mission, Buck turned to face the boy as if examining him for the first time. “This young feller is the reason I come after you.” This piqued Trace’s curiosity and he took a closer look at the boy. Buck went on. “This here’s White Eagle and I reckon he needed to find you.”

“Oh?” Trace replied, speaking to the boy. “Why did you need to find me, son?”

“He don’t speak no American,” Buck answered for him. “He’s a Snake—leastways his mama was, his daddy’s white.” Buck deliberately held back, curious to see if Trace would see the resemblance to himself.

Trace was still puzzled. “I thought he looked more white than Injun.” He shrugged, “Well, what does he want with me?”

Buck got real serious then. “Trace, this here’s Blue Water’s son.”

Buck saw the dawn of realization breaking in Trace’s eyes, but his tall friend said nothing, continuing to stare at the boy standing wide-eyed before him. Then Trace looked at Buck and the old trapper answered the unspoken question with a nod of his head. Trace shifted his gaze once again to the boy, his face a mask of amazement. “Blue Water?” looking quickly back at Buck. “Where is she?”

Buck shook his head slowly. “Gone under. They was at the treaty talks at Laramie—got jumped by a band of Sioux on the way home. Accordin’ to White Eagle here, ever’body but him got kilt.”

The news of Blue Water’s death hit Trace with the impact of a boulder. He took a step backward as if to
maintain his balance. This could not be. Somehow, he had always thought that he would someday find the young Shoshoni girl who had taken his heart captive over a decade ago. It was this belief that had sustained him over the long winters that had passed since his one moment of supreme passion on the banks of the Green River. The image of Blue Water that had burned brightly in his mind ever since was the reason he had been unable to commit himself to Jamie Thrash in spite of his tender feelings toward her. Over the years, he had been able to call Blue Water’s face to mind whenever he felt melancholy. And though it was only a dream he had carried hidden away in the deep recesses of his thoughts, still it was a dream that he hoped would someday come true, even though a small part of him knew he was destined to ride the lonely ridges with no one at his side. But he had held onto her in his memory, where she would always be as young and beautiful as she had been when he last saw her. Now the dream was gone, snatched away like a thistle in a windstorm.

Buck watched Trace’s reaction with confused concern. Trace was visibly stunned by the news. A fact that came as a mild surprise to Buck. He knew that Trace was a serious and responsible man, but he had no notion of the depth of the mountain man’s feelings toward this Snake maiden. He wished now that he had been a little more compassionate instead of bluntly announcing Blue Water’s death. Buck had known many a trapper who had taken a squaw for a time—he had himself at one point in his life. But most of them left the Indian women to return to their villages when the trappers moved on—usually without a backward glance. That’s just the way it was in the high mountains.

Buck scratched his head and glanced at White
Eagle, then back at Trace. He didn’t know what to say. The only reason he brought the boy here was because he knew Trace would feel responsible to take White Eagle back to Snake country to find his people—a mission Buck had no desire to undertake. He was getting too damn old to risk his hair anymore, while Trace seemed to prefer living a knife blade away from danger.

Suddenly the awkward moment was over, and Trace seemed to bring his focus back to present company. It had been a show of emotion that Buck had not seen since Trace was a boy not much older than White Eagle. He was relieved to see the calm, unperturbable demeanor return.

Trace spoke to the boy in Shoshoni. “I am deeply sorry to hear of your mother’s death.” A single nod of the head was White Eagle’s only response. “What did she tell you about me?”

“She said you are my real father,” White Eagle answered. Searching Trace’s face intently, he asked, “Are you my father?”

One look at the boy’s features would answer that question for any casual observer. Trace answered, “Yes.” As he said it, the realization of it began to dawn on him. But it would be some time yet before he felt the full impact of his new status as a father. “Tell me how Blue Water died.”

White Eagle told them of the murderous attack by the large Sioux war party, of how his people were taken by surprise, not suspecting an attack after the peace talks at Laramie. From the description of the war party, Trace suspected it was Iron Pony’s band.

“A white man killed my mother,” White Eagle said. This captured Trace’s attention at once. He glanced at Buck to see if he had heard, certain now that it was Iron Pony’s band. White Eagle went on, “I think he
was some kind of medicine man. I saw him talking to the sun, then he took out a shiny object and opened it and looked inside. It must have told him something because he talked to the sun some more before he put the medicine thing away.”

This was mighty curious as far as Buck was concerned. He scratched his beard and tried to picture what the boy had just related. He couldn’t make any sense of it. “I don’t know what in thunder he could be talkin’ about,” he confessed.

“Pocket watch,” Trace said. “Coulda been looking at the time.” It was just a notion that had come to him. They had pretty much decided that it was a white man who had participated in the killing of Annie Farrior’s husband and his partners. And Annie had lamented the fact that the silver pocket watch she had given her husband had been taken. “Just a notion,” Trace continued, “a lot of men carry pocket watches. But it ain’t something a lot of men in this part of the world carry. I wouldn’t be surprised if this white man White Eagle saw was the same one that murdered those four young fellows up in the Black Hills.”

“I kinda figured that myself,” Buck said. “A coyote like that leaves a wide track.”

While speculation upon the identity of the white man who had crossed their paths was of more than passing interest to Buck and Trace, there was a more pressing issue to be resolved at the moment—and that was what to do with young eleven-year-old White Eagle. The boy had been sitting quietly while the two mountain men talked, understanding not a word spoken. Realizing this, Trace changed the conversation by asking Buck, “What are you aiming to do with the boy?”

Buck jerked his head back as if surprised. “What do
I aim to do with him? Hell, he’s your son. What do
you
aim to do with him?”

My son
—the thought was almost too much to believe. Trace was not prepared to be anybody’s father. But what Buck said was true, he was the boy’s father, and he guessed that pretty much made him responsible for his welfare. He looked at the youngster, staring back at him with the dark eyes of his mother, and the image of Blue Water filled his mind once again. Quickly, before he began to dwell on it, Trace pushed it from his mind. He would think about it later, when he could be alone with his thoughts. Now was not the time. “I was planning on doing some trapping and hunting in the Bighorn country, but I suppose I could take him to find his mother’s people. He must have aunts or uncles in Washakie’s village. Even if he doesn’t, they’ll take him in.”

Buck shrugged. “I reckon. That’s why I brung him after you. I’m gittin’ too damn old to go tearing off after a band of Snakes. I’ve been away from my place in Promise Valley too long already. I told Reverend Longstreet I’d be back before the end of summer, and here it is gittin’ close to winter.”