Son of the Hawk (2 page)

Ned Turner, not being one to give up easily, pointed toward a long line of trees that led down from a mountain about five miles distant. “That looks like a stream coming down that mountain. I say we get a move on and—”

Before he could finish, Anson growled a warning. “We got company.”

The heads of the other three turned as one to follow the direction he pointed out. From a narrow ravine that led down from the eastern ridge that formed one side of the canyon they had just passed through, riders came into view. All four men instinctively grabbed their rifles.

“Keep your eye on ’em,” Tom Farrior warned as he quickly scanned the treeless slope to the west, looking for a likely defensive position.

“There ain’t but two of ’em,” Jack said. “They look like white men—leastways one of ’em does. The other one looks more like an Injun.” All four frantically searched the slopes on either side of them, fearful of having been surrounded by a swarm of hostiles.

When no more riders appeared anywhere around them, Tom cautioned his partners to be ready, anyway. “We’ll just see who they are and what they want. Keep your rifles ready.” It was mighty surprising to meet a white man in this part of the territory, and Tom was especially leery of one riding with an Indian.

Booth Dalton affixed his most engaging smile in place and waved his arm back and forth as he and Charlie made for the four men now sitting motionless, watching their approach. He was well aware of his best asset in his chosen line of work, an amiable facade that betrayed no hint of ill intent. It had been said by one of the miners in Turkey Creek that Booth had the
face of a Methodist minister and the guile of Satan himself. The same miner originated the rumor—false though it may have been—that Booth was a man who might backshoot you, but he would give you the Lord’s blessing to send you along. In simple fact, Booth had no religion—no notion of God, Man Above, the Great Spirit, or any other symbol of a world beyond this one. It seemed simple logic to him that, if there was a God, He wouldn’t have made men like himself and Charlie. The only truth he accepted from the Bible was, “From dust thou art, to dust returneth,” and he reckoned that he had returnethed more than a few to their origin.

“Hallo, friends,” Booth called out once he was within earshot.

Tom and his partners made no response to the greeting but continued to watch the two closely as they approached. He glanced briefly to each side again, watchful for any sign of treachery, but the barren little valley appeared to be deserted save for the six of them. The two strangers were an odd pair. The white man did not wear the trappings of a mountain man, dressed as he was in black trousers, broadcloth shirt, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. His companion, a solid-looking block of a man, riding a gray pony with an Indian saddle, was definitely an Indian, or a half-breed. The beaming, openly friendly face of the white man contrasted with the sullen countenance of his companion—a face devoid of expression, discouraging even the seed of a smile.

“Boy, am I glad to see some white faces,” Booth exclaimed as he and Charlie pulled up before them. When there were no more greetings from the four miners other than a couple of nods, Booth pretended to take no notice of their suspicious stares. “I’m Booth Dalton,” Booth went on, “special aide on Indian affairs
to the Secretary of the Interior.” Making a sweeping gesture toward Charlie, he said, “This here is my guide. We’re on our way to Fort Laramie.”

Booth paused, beaming brightly, as he evaluated the effect of his story upon the four cautious miners. It evidently had the effect he wanted, for Tom glanced at Ned Turner briefly, and both men relaxed a bit. “Tom Farrior,” Tom responded courteously, still a bit leery of any white man in this wild country. His three companions nodded politely but said nothing. “What brings you alone in these parts? Don’t you know this is Injun country?”

Booth laughed good-naturedly. “Indeed I do, sir, and might I add that you do well to question anyone you meet in these hills. This is dangerous country, and my guide and me wouldn’t be west of the Cheyenne River if my packhorse hadn’t broke his hobbles and run off the other night. Most of our supplies and a packet of important dispatches for the post commander at Fort Laramie was on that horse, so we’ve been trackin’ him ever since.” He paused again to judge the effectiveness of his story. Pleased to see more of the stiffness dissolve from the faces of the four, he silently congratulated himself—he kinda liked the idea of being an aide to the secretary.

“Well, Mr. Dalton,” Anson Miller offered, “we ain’t seen sign of no packhorse. Leastways, it sure didn’t come through that canyon behind us.” Jack Stratton nodded his head, agreeing.

Booth grimaced and shook his head as if perplexed. “I guess we’re just gonna have to give it up for lost, and hard luck at that. We’ll just have to make do with the supplies we’ve got in our saddlepacks, won’t we, Charlie?” The half-breed did not respond. Booth turned back to Tom. “You fellers look like you’re fixin’ to do some prospectin’. I’ve heard there’s some color
in some of the streams in these hills, but I feel it my duty to warn you that you’re in some country that the Injuns are mighty particular about. So you boys best be real careful. Keep a sharp eye all the time, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep a guard over your animals at night.”

“I reckon that’s good advice, all right,” Tom said. “We know we’re in dangerous country. We aim to be mighty careful.” Booth certainly seemed to have an honest face, and Tom had no doubts that the man was who he said he was. “What we’re looking to do right now is find a place to camp. You run across any water back the way you came?”

Booth smiled warmly. “Matter of fact, we did. There’s a suitable spot to make camp about two miles on the other side of that ridge. It’s gittin’ late—me and Charlie was fixing to find us a place to camp, too. We could camp together, if it’s all right with you gentlemen.” When there was no immediate response to his proposal, he continued. “I’d be happy to offer my protection in case we have any Sioux visitors. Charlie here is the younger brother of old Iron Pony himself, so the Sioux won’t hardly bother nobody ridin’ with him.”

This seemed to encourage a favorable reception from the four miners, and the atmosphere suddenly became free of tension, jovial in fact, as Booth cordially shook hands with each man. As far as Tom was concerned, it was a stroke of luck to run into Mr. Booth. It might not be a bad idea to ask for some token from his guide, something that would identify the four of them as friends to the Sioux in case they were unsuccessful in avoiding a war party after they parted company with Booth.

True to his word, Booth led the small mule train to an ideal camping spot in a grove of trees beside a clear stream that fairly sparkled with the last faint rays of
the setting sun. Tom marveled that Booth had been able to stumble upon it because it had been necessary to cross a ridge and ride down an almost hidden ravine to reach the stream. He supposed that Booth’s somber guide had found it. There was a little more excitement among the four prospectors when they looked back up the mountain toward the source of the rushing stream. Without discussion, the four of them decided it to be a likely spot to start their search for gold.

When advised that his camping companions had decided to set up a permanent camp on the spot, Booth seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, now, I’m mighty happy that I could show it to you. Maybe, when you strike it big here, you’ll remember ol’ Charlie and me.”

It was a lighthearted camp that night. Tom and his friends found Booth Dalton to be a most entertaining guest, full of stories about the frontier—some of them possibly true—tales of the California territory, and mining towns in between there and here. Iron Pony’s younger brother remained apart, whether from cold detachment from white men or some other reason—Tom couldn’t say. But Mr. Dalton was a close friend to them all before it was time to unroll their blankets. Still, Tom did not feel it wise to discard all caution. When it was finally time to bank the coals for the night, Tom took Ned aside. “I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about from Mr. Dalton, but it might be a good idea for one of us to have one eye open all night.” Ned agreed, and they quietly worked out a guard schedule with Jack and Anson, so that only three of them would be asleep at any time during the night.

Meanwhile, Charlie White Bull was showing signs of impatience to see what manner of plunder the prospectors’ pack train contained, so Booth found it
necessary to remind his associate once again that he would be the one to decide the proper time to strike—and Booth was in no particular hurry now since Charlie had not turned up any sign of Sioux in the area. He reasoned that the job would be a whole lot easier if the four men came to accept him as a friend. If it took a couple of days to reach that point, he was content to bide his time and enjoy the company of four pleasant companions. After cautioning his half-breed partner to be patient, and not to try anything during the night, Booth retired to his bedroll, content in the knowledge that there would be a sentinel on guard all night to protect and watch over him. Of the half-dozen men in the camp, only Booth and Charlie enjoyed a full night’s uninterrupted sleep—snoring peacefully while the four prospectors took turns watching them.

When morning came, Tom awoke to find Booth already up and preparing to set a kettle on the fire to boil coffee. Glancing around him, he saw that his three partners were still huddled under their blankets—including Jack Stratton, who took the last watch during the night. After watching Booth for a few moments, Tom said, “We’ve got a coffeepot that might be a little easier to work with than that kettle.”

If Booth was startled by the sudden voice behind him, he didn’t show it. “Good morning,” he offered cheerfully in response. “That might work a little better at that. I had me a good coffeepot, but a Blackfoot warrior put a hole in it when we was attacked last spring on the Missouri.” He waited while Tom got the coffeepot and handed it to him. “I’m aiming to get me another one—just like this one,” he said, smiling. There was a smidgen of truth in his story. He
had
discarded his coffeepot after it received a bullet hole. But the rifle ball that did the job had come from the flintlock of a miner Booth had left for dead—and he did have plans
to replace the pot with the very one he was now holding.

Just then, Tom noticed that Charlie White Bull’s horse was missing. “Where’s your guide?” he asked, glancing toward the horses and mules tethered in the trees.

Booth’s smile broadened. “I sent Charlie out a little earlier to see if he couldn’t git us some fresh meat. I noticed that you boys weren’t packin’ anything but salt pork last night—and I know I ain’t had nothing but jerked buffafo for a while. Figured we
all
might enjoy a little fresh meat.”

“Why, that sure sounds good to me,” Tom replied, a second or two before another thought occurred. He quickly glanced in Jack’s direction and was met with an expression of puzzled bewilderment on his young partner’s face, as Jack threw back his blanket.
How the hell did he get outta here without you knowing it?
Tom wondered. The knowledge that the guide had been able to untie his horse and ride out without anyone taking notice bothered Tom more than a little. After thinking about it a second, he also realized that Booth had said he had sent Charlie to hunt. That meant that the two of them were awake and talking while Tom and his partners slept unaware. He shot Jack an accusing look.

Tom remained a bit uncomfortable knowing that the half-breed was missing. Mr. Dalton seemed jovial enough, however, serving coffee to the four prospectors as if he were the host. Tom’s concerns were lessened somewhat when, after half an hour, a single shot was heard about a mile off in the distance.

“Well, boys,” Booth announced, “that’ll more’n likely be breakfast.” He looked around the fire, grinning at each man in turn. “Charlie don’t hardly miss.
I’m thinkin’ we’d best rig us up a spit to roast the meat on.”

Just as predicted, the half-breed returned with a fresh kill draped across his saddle. They spent the day in camp, calling it a holiday, while they stuffed their guts with strips of roasted meat from Charlie’s white-tailed deer. Tom was beginning to believe his suspicions of their new friends were completely unfounded. It would be hard to imagine a more congenial companion than Mr. Dalton. After a while one even became accustomed to the stoic presence of Iron Pony’s younger brother. Tom was glad that the two had decided to stay with them a couple of days—he would be sorry to see them start back on their way to Fort Laramie.

After the second night, Tom and his partners became wholly convinced that Mr. Dalton and his guide were no more than honest men involved in honest work. Ned was certain that Lady Luck herself had caused the two to cross their path because Booth spent a generous amount of his time educating the four novices on the proper methods of placer mining. Having nothing to qualify them as gold prospectors, other than desire and the money to equip themselves, the four men had counted on compensating for their lack of knowledge with hard work. To Tom’s delight, they found Booth Dalton to be a veritable gold mine of information on the subject of mining. When Tom wondered why Booth didn’t try his own hand at prospecting, he was advised that Booth felt that serving the government in his capacity with the Department of the Interior was much more gratifying. Tom wondered what Annie would think now if she could know of their good fortune.

It had been troubling to Tom that his young wife was not more supportive of this venture to strike it
rich. Although she had argued that it was risky to invest what money they had on what she considered a pipe dream, Tom was convinced that her real concern was being separated from her husband after only three months of marriage. She had journeyed as far as Fort Laramie with him, and had remained there with Ned’s wife Grace. Tom missed his wife, but he was convinced that prospecting was the only opportunity he had to amass enough to set Annie and himself up with a farm of their own. And now he was even more certain that he had made the proper decision, what with Mr. Dalton’s glowing reports of likely signs of gold throughout the Black Hills country.
Why, we might be back at Laramie well before the two months I promised
, he thought as he spread his bedroll and checked it for uninvited critters. Mr. Dalton had promised to draw them a map in the morning, showing over a dozen promising streams for prospecting.