Son of the Hawk (30 page)

“I’m gonna ride on ahead,” he said to Luke, and without waiting for Luke’s reply, gave the balky horse his heels. When he had spaced about a quarter of a mile between himself and the column, he let his horse settle back to a slower pace. From long habit, his eyes scanned the trail before him, darting back and forth, never fixing on one spot for any length of time. While that part of his brain stayed alert, working on instinct, another part worked furiously to sort out the recent events that served to trouble his mind.

While thoughts of finding the boy had never been far away, the fact that he had resigned himself to wait until the spring thaws had diminished the urgency somewhat. Now that urgency was renewed and he ached to set out for the Missouri right away.
The Big River
, as Black Wing called it—where the Yellowstone began—that’s where White Eagle was. It would not be easy. The Gros Ventres were strong friends of the Blackfeet, and not especially cordial to white men. To be tolerated by this hostile tribe, the renegade who had taken White Eagle must have been useful to them in some way—probably supplying guns and powder. This man he sought, this thin-faced white man in the flat-crowned black hat, showed a talent for allying himself with various bands. The one common thread seemed to be that each band was hostile and savage in its intent. Trace had the distinct feeling that the entire world would be a far better place without Mr. Black Hat.

The sky became darker and darker as the clouds continued to hover close to the earth, and Trace’s mind wandered to the Crow war party making its dangerous
journey back to their village. It had been a daring raid Black Wing had undertaken, especially at this time of year. A thought struck him that Black Wing’s raid might well have been inspired by the Great Spirit for the primary purpose of telling Trace where he might find the boy. He had been reluctant to admit it, but without help from some source, it might have taken him years to track down the white renegade. He realized that he was thinking like an Indian, but the teachings of old Buffalo Shield seemed to make more sense to him than the white man’s beliefs. Then he thought of Black Wing’s invitation to come back to the people. It was tempting—a way of life that Trace had found most fulfilling—he would think about it. But first he must find the boy—and settle a score with Black Hat.

A light snow was falling by the time the column approached Laramie. Plodding silently now through a veil of white, the wind stirring eddies around the horses’ hooves, the column appeared ghostly, as if floating through a cloud. Cold and stiff from hours in the saddle, the men began to rouse themselves from their cold-induced stupor as they closed on the encampment. The wood party was back, although a couple of days late.

B
y his own evaluation, Trace was not fit to live with for the next couple of months. So he kept to himself and his own thoughts as much as possible. There were a few patrols, but they were organized more for training purposes than actual missions. Some of the free time was spent in the company of Sergeant Turley and occasionally Luke, but most of the time Trace sought his own company. Thoughts of White Eagle with a rope around his neck kept recurring no matter how hard he tried to put them aside. Several times he determined to pack up his horses and start out, snow or no snow. Each time he would have to remind himself of the distance he must ride, most of it through hostile country. His best chance of accomplishing all he needed to do was if he was successful in traveling through that territory unseen. He wouldn’t be doing himself or the boy any favors if he was wandering all over the territory, leaving tracks in the snow. Even though he would keep to the mountains as much as possible, the slopes were too treacherous for his horses when covered with snow and ice. And many of the passes would be blocked. He had no choice but to wait.

A week before Lieutenant Masters was scheduled to transfer back to Fort Kearny, Trace did have occasion
to see Grace Turner. She made it a point to bump into him in the post trader’s store one Saturday morning.

“Well, hello, stranger,” Grace said, smiling. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“I’ve been around,” Trace allowed.

“We were talking about you the other night at supper. My fiance seems to think you’re a little too rough-cut for his liking.” There was a definite twinkle in her eye when she said it. “He says you lack the proper respect for an officer. What did you say to him, anyway?”

“Nothing that I recall,” Trace replied and quickly changed the subject. “I reckon you’re making big plans for your wedding. I surely wish you and the lieutenant all the happiness in the world.” Trace wanted to let Grace know that he harbored no resentment toward Masters, just in case she had the notion that he felt jilted by her.
Hell
, he thought,
no woman in her right mind would tie up with a drifter like me.

Grace was outwardly pleased by his sentiment. “Why, thank you, Trace. You know I’ll always have a special place in my heart for you.”

Trace began to become uncomfortable. “Well, I guess I’d best get on about my business,” he said. “Hope you have a safe trip downriver.”

She caught his sleeve as he started to go. “Trace, I was thinking about taking a walk down by the creek to that spot Annie used to call her secret place—around four this afternoon, I expect.” Her eyes searched his, her smile warm and inviting. Then she turned to leave, but in case her message was a bit too demure, she paused and whispered, “If you’re out riding, you might want to take your buffalo robe with you. It’s still pretty chilly out.” Not waiting to witness his reaction, she promptly turned on her heel and was off.

Trace stood there a moment, watching her as she
made her way toward the door. Finding it difficult to believe at first, he marveled at the woman’s blatant invitation, practically on the eve of her wedding. He thought back to the last time they had met by that creek. He had certainly been surprised at what came to pass at that meeting. He was more surprised now.
Damn!
he thought,
I must have done something right.
Wrestling with his emotions, he changed his mind several times during the balance of the morning.

But at a little before four that afternoon, he saddled the paint and rode off toward the cottonwoods that lined the creek behind Lamar Thomas’s house.

He saw her once more after that day, passing her on his way to the stables. They came no closer than twenty yards of each other. Neither spoke—Trace nodded a solemn greeting, Grace smiled warmly. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a bond created by a mutual fulfillment of a deep need. There was no need for words. Two days later, a mail wagon with an army escort made it through from Fort Kearny. Assured that the trail was passable, Grace and her husband-to-be left Fort Laramie the following day. From a low rise along the riverbank of the Laramie River near the site of the old fort, Trace watched them depart—none of the parties involved knowing that he had presented Ira Masters with a son for a wedding present.

*   *   *

“Come’ere, boy.” Booth Dalton jerked on the rawhide rope, causing the boy to stumble, almost falling on the floor of the tipi. On the other side of the lodge, sitting close by the fire, Charlie White Bull chuckled, always delighted by pain administered to others. “We need some more wood,” Booth said.

White Eagle silently began the routine that was now all too familiar to him. He reached up and started
working at the knot that tied the rope to the noose around his neck. Once the rope was untied, he removed his moccasins and leggings. Next he pulled his shirt over his head. Down to his breechclout, he then left the tipi to gather wood for the fire.

Booth laid back by the fire, smug in the knowledge that he needn’t fear that the boy might run away. He felt certain that the desire to escape had been sufficiently dampened when earlier attempts had been dealt with severely. He smiled to himself when he thought of his latest method of clipping the little eagle’s wings. Jumping around barefoot and almost naked in the snow, while gathering wood, effectively discouraged any thoughts of running away. It also sped up the wood-gathering process.

“When you gonna let me have that boy?” Charlie asked. “These Gros Ventres ain’t gonna give you what you want for him.”

“Shut up!” Booth snapped, tired of hearing Charlie’s constant nagging. “It don’t give no profit to me, you skinnin’ that boy.” A thin smile cracked his stern countenance. “What you complainin’ about, anyway? Maybe you’d rather go git the wood.” He stretched his legs out to make himself more comfortable. “It suits my fancy to have me a slave, even if I can’t trade him.”

Near the center of the camp, Wounded Horse stood talking to Fire That Burns. Both men paused to watch the nearly naked boy searching along the riverbank for deadwood. After a moment, Wounded Horse spoke. “I do not think we should permit those two to remain in the village. There is a stench about them that offends my nostrils.”

Fire That Burns nodded, understanding the war chief’s feelings. Most in the village shunned the white man and his half-breed friend. They were only tolerated because the white man promised to supply them
with guns—and the fact that the half-breed was said to be the son of a Blackfoot woman. “Maybe you are right,” Fire That Burns replied. “Maybe we should drive them out. I would have driven them from our camp before if we didn’t need the guns they promised.”

Wounded Horse frowned, his eyes still on the boy, who was now making his way back to the lodge through the snow. “They say they will leave in the spring to go get guns for us. I think they’re lying. I think they just want a warm place to spend the winter.” He looked back at Fire That Burns. “I don’t like the way they treat the boy. I think maybe we should kill them instead of letting them go free when the snow melts.”

“Maybe you are right, but we need the guns. Already, the Shoshoni and the Sioux have many guns. If this white man’s word is true, it would help us against our enemies. It might be best to let them stay until spring, and see what happens.”

“What about the boy?” Wounded Horse asked. “They claim he is white. He looks white, but he looks Indian, too. Maybe we should take him away from them. They ask too much to trade him—ten buffalo hides and four ponies—I say we should just take him.”

“Maybe. Let’s wait a while.”

Back inside the tipi, White Eagle dropped his load of firewood, and shivering with the cold, hastened to climb back into his clothes, ignoring the lascivious grin on Charlie White Bull’s face. Booth might be secure in his belief that White Eagle’s will to run away had been broken, but it did not escape the boy’s notice that the ice was beginning to melt along the riverbanks. It would not be long before the first signs of spring would appear. Then he would try again—clothes or no clothes. His spirit was far from broken.

*   *   *

Wounded Horse came out of his lodge to find Booth approaching his tipi, Charlie at his side, and the boy once again led by the rope around his neck. “Good morning, Chief,” Booth said, combining his scanty knowledge of the tongue with sign language. “I come to trade this white boy.”

Wounded Horse glared at the two men he had come to detest while some of the other people of the village came up to listen. Without warning, the boy spoke. His words came slowly as he was not totally confident in the few words of broken English he had picked up from Booth. “Not white—Shoshoni.”

“Shut your mouth!” Booth hissed and jerked hard on the rope. “He don’t know what he’s sayin’. He’s white, he was just raised by the Snakes.”

Wounded Horse was taken aback by the sudden announcement by the boy. The boy had never spoken before. Now, Wounded Horse could see that it had possibly been out of fear of punishment from Booth. “Go and find Three Toes,” Wounded Horse said to a warrior standing near him. Three Toes knew the Shoshoni tongue. Within minutes, he joined the gathering around the war chief’s tipi. “Ask this boy where he comes from, and who his people are,” Wounded Horse said, and all eyes turned to look at White Eagle.

“I am White Eagle, Shoshoni,” the boy replied boldly. “I am from Chief Washakie’s village in the Wind River country.” Pointing toward Booth, he said, “This man killed my mother and my grandfather.”

A low murmuring began to build within the growing crowd of spectators as Three Toes translated the boy’s words. The people of the village had little use for the white man and his half-breed partner, so White Eagle’s accusations were not surprising to them. When the boy spoke again, Three Toes jerked his head back
abruptly, his eyes shifted briefly to fix on Booth Dalton, a look of shock on his face. Then he looked back at Wounded Horse and translated.

“The boy says that this white man and his friend were riding with a Sioux war party when the boy’s mother was killed.”

There was an immediate swell in the crowd, lifting the low grumbling of the previous moments to sharp protests of individual voices. In the next moment, all eyes were turned toward the two renegades. The Sioux were traditional enemies of the Gros Ventres. Instinctively, Charlie White Bull began to inch away from Booth’s side in a feeble attempt to disassociate himself from the white man.

“Now wait a minute, Chief, me and Charlie wasn’t riding with them Sioux, no sir.” His face a shade whiter than before, Booth blurted the denial so quickly that he forgot Wounded Horse couldn’t understand English. Seeing the stern face of the chief, he quickly groped for the proper Gros Ventre term, finally spitting out, “Captive! Captive! We were captives . . . The boy’s wrong.”

The situation had rapidly turned ugly for them, and Booth knew he had some fast talking to do. The little Shoshoni rat had thrown their fat in the fire for sure if Booth couldn’t convince these Gros Ventres that he and Charlie had taken no part in any raids with the Sioux.
I told the little bastard to keep his mouth shut. I should have let Charlie skin him.
Feeling the angry crowd of warriors closing in closer and closer, their faces reflecting the contempt they held for anyone who rode with the Sioux, Booth held up his arms, asking to be heard.