Son of the Hawk
Authors: Charles G. West
Medicine Creek
Bitterroot
Wind River
The Jason Coles Series
Cbeyenne JlkJtice
Black Eagle
Stone Hand
The Trace McCall Series
Cry of tbe Hawk
Mountain Hawk
Son of tbe Hawk
White Eagle’s heart was filled with grief and outrage over the death of his mother and grandfather. To steal away quietly unnoticed? Or to strike a blow for his people? He fingered the blade of his knife, his mind in a panic of confusion while he stared down at the snoring warrior. The man lay helpless before him, but what if he struck and he didn’t kill the Sioux? Suddenly the warrior’s eyes popped open, and White Eagle took a step backward, staring horrified at the Sioux.
“What is it?” the warrior asked, still half drunk and groggy with sleep. He reached for the edge of his blanket to pull it over his shoulders.
There was no time to think. Acting on instinct alone, White Eagle quickly knelt down and grabbed the blanket as if to help cover the sleepy man. Then he whispered, “Die, Sioux dog. . . .”
Son of the Hawk
Charles G. West
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182–190 Wairau Road,
Auckland 10, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, November 2001
Copyright © Charles West, 2001
ISBN: 978-1-101-66287-8
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.
For Ronda
C
HAPTER
1
B
ooth Dalton sat watching the string of twelve heavily loaded mules as they filed through the narrow part of a rocky canyon some three hundred feet below. He squinted against the afternoon sun in an effort to study the four riders, each leading three of the mules. He shifted his position in the saddle slightly, contemplating the possibilities that might develop for an enterprising man like himself. He didn’t concern himself when the lead rider disappeared from his view, blocked out by the trees on the ledge. Booth knew where the canyon led. He felt no sense of urgency—there was plenty of time to decide how best to approach this unforeseen stroke of luck.
Just what in hell are four white men doing smack-dab in the middle of Injun country? And where the hell are they goin’
? This wasn’t just Indian territory, this was the sacred hunting grounds of the Sioux nation. Booth knew he was taking a sizable risk himself just being in this part of the hills, but he had traded with the Sioux, and he figured that if they did catch him in the Black Hills, they might go easy on him. But this mule train moving through the pass below him might as well be carrying a big sign saying,
Come and get us!
“The last of ’em’s goin’ outta sight. What’re we gonna do?”
Booth turned to look at Charlie White Bull as the
chunky half-breed walked back from the rim of the ledge where he had been watching the progress of the mule train. Booth smiled to himself as he considered his witless associate. Charlie claimed he had been kicked in the head by a horse when he was a young’un, and that was the cause of his thoughts sometimes being a little behind schedule. Booth figured it more likely that Charlie had been kicked by that horse on a regular monthly basis, judging by the elementary level of the man’s reasoning. Most men would find it uncomfortable to have Charlie hanging around, but Booth found the simpleminded half-breed useful for any number of troublesome chores—such as slitting some miner’s throat.
“Why, what do you think we oughta do?” Booth finally replied, knowing what Charlie’s answer would be.
His face absent of all expression, Charlie answered just as Booth expected. “Go down there and kill ’em and take them goods.”
Smiling patiently, Booth chided his partner. “There’s four of ’em, and they all got rifles cradled across their saddles. You wanna just ride down there blazin’ away?” Charlie shrugged. “That might not be too smart,” Booth finished.
“Maybe you know what to do,” Charlie finally said, his phlegmatic facade never changing.
“Maybe I do. Maybe I
always
know what to do—right, Charlie?” He didn’t expect an answer. “I always know how to git what we need without riskin’ our asses. Now mount up. We’ll just take a little ride across the ridge and wait for ’em on the other side. I’d druther they made camp so we don’t have to go chasin’ after them mules when the shootin’ starts.” He pulled his horse’s head around and pointed him toward the ridge. Talking more to himself than his stoic
partner, he said, “I’m mighty curious to git a look-see in them packs. And I damn shore wanna git to ’em before the damn Injuns find ’em.”
Booth continued to marvel at this unexpected good fortune that had wandered deep into Indian territory on this late summer afternoon. He was pretty sure the four were prospectors looking for gold, but they were a long way from the gold strikes west of the Absarokas. Booth had long held a suspicion that there might be gold in the Black Hills, so it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise that some bold miners might be brave enough—or dumb enough—to prospect in the Indians’ sacred grounds.
Booth might have searched for the precious metal himself, but he and Charlie weren’t suited to the work involved in washing it out of the streams. Confiscating it, along with anything else he could get his hands on, from those who had labored for it was more Booth’s style. The two of them had done quite well by themselves by bushwhacking greenhorn miners. There was some gain from the dust their victims occasionally found, but the real profit was in selling the equipment and supplies to the other, more established miners. Booth considered himself an entrepreneur in the hunting and retailing field. He and Charlie would hunt for some tenderfoot with his back turned, kill him, and sell his goods at an inflated price. It had worked to perfection in the Montana territory until the miners around Turkey Creek became wise to the source of Booth’s inventory. He and Charlie had just managed to strike for Indian territory a step ahead of a vigilante committee.
Booth smiled again when he thought about how soon he was back in business—this time selling guns and ammunition to the warring Sioux. Old Iron Pony was anxious to get his hands on as many rifles as
Booth could bring him, along with the powder, flints, and balls. But Booth was well aware of the fact that the Lakota chief wouldn’t tolerate the two in his country for one minute after the rifles they supplied stopped coming. Of course even the plunder Booth and Charlie provided might not be enough to save their hair if Iron Pony found out that Charlie was half Flathead. Booth had told the chief that his stoic partner was the product of the union between a white man and a Santee Dakota woman. He almost convinced Iron Pony that Charlie White Bull was his cousin, a thought that always amused Booth.
* * *
The four men led their mules through the narrow mouth of the canyon only to find a flat stretch of shale and gravel leading up to another line of pine-covered hills. The leader, Tom Farrior, raised his hand to halt those behind him. “I swear, Ned, I sure thought there’d be water on this side.”
Ned Turner pulled up beside Tom, concern etched in his face as he stood up in the stirrups and gazed all around him. “I did, too. We need to find a stream soon. It’s been a good while since these animals had a drink.” He paused to look around again before adding, “I could damn shore use one myself.”
While they considered the formidable line of hills dead ahead, the other two members of their party caught up to them. “What’s the trouble?” Anson Miller wanted to know. The afternoon sun was already beginning to settle over the mountains, and if they didn’t find a place to camp soon, he feared they’d be stumbling around in the dark.
Tom turned in his saddle to face both Anson and Jack Stratton. “There ain’t no water here. I thought there would be. It just seemed like a likely place, looking from those hills on the other side of the canyon.”
“Damn,” Jack Stratton murmured. The other three felt the same about prospects for making a dry camp.
