Son of the Hawk (34 page)

Slowly at first, he raked the snow away, his hands red and stiff from the cold. Then, once he thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, his efforts became more rapid, as he wriggled his body out into the open, searching constantly from side to side, expecting to be discovered at any minute. His joints frozen from the long confinement, he staggered to his feet, taking care to remain behind the cover of the trees.
So far, so good
, he thought. There was no one around. Watching the people moving back and forth through the camp, he was satisfied to see that no one looked in his direction. Taking a few moments to smooth the snow around the log again, he then hurried down the riverbank, leaving the village behind.

It was necessary to make a wide circle around the Gros Ventre camp to avoid being seen. Even so, he was obliged to dive for cover once to avoid two warriors on horseback. When all was clear again, he crossed the river valley and entered the pines that ringed the line of low hills where he had made his camp. As he made his way back to check on his horses, he tried to formulate a plan to rescue White Eagle that would allow them enough time to gain a sizable lead on their pursuers. The only way that could happen, he concluded, was if there was some distraction to occupy the warriors when he made a try for the boy. At that moment, he didn’t know what that could be.

As he neared the tree-lined defile where he had made his camp, he stopped to listen. Hearing nothing
but the afternoon breeze stirring the pine needles, he continued on. A little closer—now he could hear the horses stamping nervously, sensing his presence, he presumed.
The paint’s showing his displeasure for leaving him all night without any feed
, Trace thought as he entered the head of the defile.
Well, you ain’t the only one that didn’t get any supper.

The thought had barely left his mind when he was suddenly knocked sprawling to the ground with such force that he was sure he had been attacked by a mountain lion. Instinctively rolling with the blow, he was on his feet in an instant, to find himself confronted by a painted Gros Ventre warrior. Knife in hand, the warrior attacked, slashing out at Trace as he charged, causing Trace to back away while he tried to pull his own knife. The warrior was quick and powerful. Trace had to lunge sideways, diving in the snow once again to avoid the slashing knife. Seeing his adversary on the ground, the warrior sprang upon him, his face a mask of triumph, only to register mortal shock a moment later when Trace’s long Green River knife measured the depth of his belly. Still the Indian struggled, trying to find Trace’s throat with his own blade. With his hand still on the handle buried deep in the warrior’s belly, and his other clamping the wrist of the Indian’s knife hand, Trace got to his feet, lifting the warrior with him. Once on his feet, Trace slammed the warrior down in the snow, withdrawing his knife as he did so. The warrior, gasping with pain that seared his innards, struggled to get up, knowing he was finished. Trace stood over him for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. When he saw there was still some fight left in the warrior, he reached down, grabbed his topknot and pulled his head up. One quick slash with his knife opened the Indian’s throat before Trace let him drop to the ground.

When it was over, he sat down in the snow, still a little stunned by the sudden attack on his life. His assailant lay dying at his feet, his only motion a series of violent spasms as a scarlet stain spread under him in the snow.
That was damn close
, Trace thought, scolding himself for being ambushed so easily. He had been lucky, however. If the warrior had not launched his body so violently, he might not have knocked Trace out of reach of his knife hand. It was close, but Trace didn’t dwell on it, having accepted the fact long ago that it took a generous portion of luck to survive as a lone white man in Indian territory. He got on his feet and checked on his horses.

“You tried to warn me. I just didn’t listen,” he said as he stroked the paint’s muzzle.

He found the Gros Ventre’s pony halfway down the back of the slope, tied to a small pine. Not willing to risk having a riderless horse wander into the Gros Ventre village, Trace moved the horse down the hill a few dozen yards to a thicket and tied the animal in the center of it. “At least you won’t starve to death before somebody finds you.”

The next question to be resolved was what to do with the dead Indian—if anything. If one Indian could stumble upon Trace’s camp, then it was not out of the question for another to do the same.
Maybe I should at least cover him with snow
, he thought. And then a better idea occurred to him—one that might serve two purposes. To make good his attempt to rescue his son, he needed a diversion of some kind. Now he had one.

*   *   *

When it was just about dark, Trace began his preparations. Earlier that afternoon, he had selected his spot, a clearing on the highest point of the hill, a spot that could be easily seen from the Indian village. Now with twilight approaching, he gathered a great amount of
dead limbs and branches and stacked them just out of sight below the ridge of the hill. When darkness finally came, he went back for his horses. Lifting the warrior’s corpse onto the back of White Eagle’s pony he returned to the hilltop. Selecting a stout limb, he dug a hole in the ground and drove the limb in it, pounding it down with a large rock. When he thought it steady enough, he carried the corpse over and propped it upright against the limb. The weight of the body proved to be too much for the shallow footing of the limb, and it promptly toppled over.

Not discouraged, Trace replaced the limb, then piled rocks around the base of it. Again, the limb toppled. Refusing to be defeated by a dead Indian, Trace dragged the body back a few yards to a tree at the edge of the clearing. Taking a coil of rope from his pack, he tied it under the Indian’s arms and threw the other end over a limb. Letting his horse do the lifting, he raised the corpse off the ground and tied it off around the tree trunk.
Hell, that’s better, anyway
, he thought.
Makes him look about ten feet tall.

Satisfied with his Mountain Hawk, he brought the dead wood up from below the brow of the hill and formed a large stack behind the Indian hanging from the limb. When he figured the time was right to start the show, he spread some of his Du Pont black powder along the base of the firewood, and then lit a dry branch.

When the branch was burning with a healthy flame, Trace began to yell at the top of his lungs. “Awaken, Gros Ventre dogs! I am the Mountain Hawk. Come and fight me, if you are not afraid!” He kept yelling it over and over until he saw signs of activity outside the tipis below.
I hope to hell this doesn’t fizzle
, he thought as he threw the flaming branch into the stack of wood.

It was better than he had hoped for. A huge, bright
fireball bellowed out from the stack when the fire ignited the gunpowder, and the dead wood was soon blazing, casting an eerie backlight behind the hanging body. “I am the Mountain Hawk,” he shouted once more before jumping on his horse and hightailing it down the other side of the hill, trailing his other two horses behind him.

Time was important now. It was critical to the success of his plan that he should circle around behind the Gros Ventre camp so as to be in position to act at the peak of confusion. He raced through the night, dodging the gullies and breaks, praying that the paint could find its footing. Out of the cover of the trees and across the open valley he galloped, trusting to luck that he did not meet one of the scouts who had been patrolling the village. He could already hear the sounds coming from the Indian camp over the pounding of his horses’ hooves.

In the Gros Ventre village, there was an explosion of frenzied activity. Chief Wounded Horse, confused at first, quickly shouted to all who could hear his voice to arm themselves and ride. Like a disturbed anthill, angry warriors, long awaiting the fateful coming of the Mountain Hawk, now scurried frantically to grab their weapons and run for their ponies. Terrified women screamed as they witnessed the fiery spectacle on the hill where a spirit in the form of a man hovered over the ground like a hawk.

In the midst of the stampede to charge toward the hill, Wounded Horse looked around and discovered Three Toes and his wife, standing and staring at the fearful sight. “Go and guard the boy! Don’t let him out of your sight!” the chief commanded.

Three Toes nodded excitedly and hurried back to his lodge, leaving his wife to gape horrified at the ghostly scene. He reached the lodge just in time to stop
White Eagle from joining in the chaos. He had not learned many words of their tongue, but he was sure he had heard “Mountain Hawk.”

“Back inside,” Three Toes ordered. “It is not for you to see.”

White Eagle resisted but was forcefully taken back in the tipi. “I heard them shouting about the Mountain Hawk,” he insisted. “Is my father here?” Three Toes did not answer, pushing the boy back. “If my father is here, let me go to him!”

Three Toes sat the boy down, and tried to calm him. “Your father is not here,” he said. “It is nothing—a fire on the hill, that is all. It’s best that you stay here.”

White Eagle made up his mind to dash around the old man, and go out to see for himself what had caused such an uproar in the village. He was on his feet when he heard the ripping of the tipi wall behind him. Turning at the sound, he was startled to see the long blade of a skinning knife as it parted the inner lining of the tipi. He jumped back in fright when Trace suddenly burst through the opening. Then recognizing the tall mountain man, his heart leaped for joy.

There was no time for a joyous reunion. Stepping past the stunned boy, Trace sprang immediately upon Three Toes, quickly pinning the old man to the ground. Three Toes struggled briefly in an effort to defend himself, but he realized at once that he was no match for the powerful mountain man.

“Don’t kill him!” White Eagle cried out. “He has been kind to me.”

Trace hesitated, looking at the boy, then back at the old man, caught helplessly in his grip. “Hand me that rope,” he said, nodding toward a coil of rawhide line hanging from a lodgepole. When Three Toes was securely bound and gagged, Trace dragged the old man over to the side of the lodge. While Trace was taking
care of Three Toes, White Eagle stood at the entrance to the tipi, keeping watch for Raven, Three Toes’s wife. She was apparently in the middle of the crowd of children and women who were anxiously watching the fiery apparition on the hill.

“Come,” Trace said, and pushed through the slit in the back of the tipi. Outside in the cold night air, he paused only long enough to see that White Eagle was right behind him, then made for the riverbank at a trot. Behind them, the sounds of the frightened women drifted over the camp like the moaning of the wind, as Trace and his son ran along the bank to the willows where the horses were tied.

“Gray Thunder!” White Eagle cried when they reached the willows.

“What!” Trace responded, reacting at once, ready to fend off an attack.

“Gray Thunder,” White Eagle repeated, rushing up to the spotted gray horse and hugging its neck affectionately. “You brought my pony.”

“Oh,” Trace responded, relieved to find they had not been discovered by the Gros Ventres. “Well, jump on him, and let’s get the hell outta here.” They were wasted words, for White Eagle was on his pony’s back before Trace finished saying them.

They rode hard, pushing their horses constantly to keep up the pace. Trace led them down the river, always riding on the common trails so that their tracks were intermingled with hundreds of others. After an hour of hard riding, Trace eased off to let the horses rest. There was no sign of anyone pursuing them, so they let the horses walk for a while before picking up a faster pace. Daybreak found them some thirty miles down the river, and far enough from the Gros Ventre camp to stop and rest.

Trace told White Eagle to gather some wood to
make a small fire, while he cut some cottonwood limbs to strip for horse feed. In short order, the boy had a cheerful fire going, and he knelt before it warming his hands, never taking his eyes off the tall man in buckskins who was now feeding handfuls of cottonwood bark to the three horses. After the horses were taken care of, Trace got some coffee and salt pork from his pack and proceeded to make them a little breakfast.

Fascinated by the man who had come to rescue him, and still watching his every move, White Eagle finally asked the question that needed definite confirmation. “Are you
really
my father?”

Trace paused for a moment to glance at the boy. “I reckon I am.” Then he turned his attention back to the pork he was heating over the fire.

“You are the Mountain Hawk,” the boy stated in tones of undisguised wonder.

While still focusing upon the strips of salty meat that had now begun to sizzle slightly, Trace said, “I think I already told you I ain’t no mountain hawk. I’m an ordinary man, like everybody else.” He was concerned that the boy was going to set standards for him that he couldn’t live up to.

White Eagle smiled.
You are the Mountain Hawk
, he said to himself. Then he asked, “Then what do I call you? Father?”

“Hell no!” Trace reacted immediately, looking up at the awestruck face of the eleven-year-old. “Call me Trace,” he said, then meeting the probing brown eyes of his natural son, reconsidered. “Whatever you want—you can call me father if you want to.”

Pleased, White Eagle sat back and accepted the cup of steaming black coffee from his father’s hand. “I am glad you came for me, Father. We will live in the mountains together.”

Trace raised his eyebrows as he turned to face the
boy. “I kinda thought you might be anxious to get back to your mother’s people with Chief Washakie.”

“I want to stay with you.”

This option was not really one that Trace had considered. There followed a lengthy pause while he thought about the possibility. Finally, he said, “We’ll see. We’ll have to think about it.”

White Eagle smiled inwardly while he chewed the tough strip of meat.
I will stay with you.
There was a natural streak of determination in the boy—his mother would have said stubbornness—that he had apparently inherited from his father.