Son of the Hawk (26 page)

The first sight that met his eyes when he awakened the next morning was his paint pony, gazing forlornly at him, a white frosting of snow covering the pony’s ears and mane.
Dammit it to hell
, he thought, as he
threw back the heavy buffalo robe and peered up at the sky. Looking around him, he was dismayed to find a blanket of snow already covering the riverbank. He got to his feet and shook the snow from his hair, scanning the silent cottonwoods along the bank, their leaves still and muffled by huge wet flakes as big as silver dollars floating down from the gray ceiling.

A feeling of despair swept through him as he stood there contemplating the impossible task now presented to him. How could he hope to find the trail under the snow? At that moment, he was stung by a reality that he was reluctant to admit—he had been beaten. His heart filled with remorse. He sat down by the fire thinking about the boy and what it must be like for him. Those thoughts served to rekindle his intense passion to avenge the murder of the boy’s mother, causing a deep frustration such as he had never known.

With a morbid feeling that he was now reduced to stumbling around in a trackless world of white, hoping to chance upon the party he searched for, he nevertheless broke camp and started upstream. With no trail to follow, he had to rely on lucky guesses. And since any tracks that he might have found were now hidden under the snow, he found it difficult to feel lucky. With any direction as good as another at this point, he decided to follow the Powder north, hoping that the white man had done the same. Still determined, he urged his horses on. Looking back over the way he had come, he noticed that the falling snow was already beginning to cover his own trail.

*   *   *

“Damn, Booth, I told you snow was coming.” Charlie White Bull pulled his robe over his head as he hunched over in the saddle. “We’ll freeze our balls off if we don’t git outta this cold.”

“Well, where the hell are we gonna git outten it?” Booth shot back impatiently. He was as cold as Charlie and tired of hearing the half-breed complain about it. “We cain’t just flop down in the snow and wait for spring, dammit. We got to keep movin’ till we find someplace to hole up.” What Booth hoped to find was a friendly tribe in winter camp, some group of Indians that wasn’t acquainted with his reputation.

A
fter four more weeks of wandering between the Powder, Little Powder, and Tongue rivers, slowly making his way through drifts sometimes as tall as the paint’s belly, Trace finally admitted his search was hopeless. After the first week the weather had cleared, still the storm had been so severe that the snow lay frozen on the ground. Crusted hard in the lower draws, sheltered from the sun, the snow scraped and tore at the horses’ shanks and fetlocks, making travel difficult. He had hoped to stumble upon the boy’s captors, but he was now resigned to the fact that it would take no less than a miracle to do so. With game scarce and supplies exhausted, he knew he would have to abandon his search for White Eagle and the white man who captured him. Reluctantly, he turned back to the south, headed for Fort Laramie. He had a few furs he could trade, and maybe Luke Austen had been able to authorize some scout’s pay for him—possibly enough to supply him with the basics again.

The weather improved steadily as he rode south, and pretty soon he was able to make better time. When he reached the North Platte, the horses were moving easily through a six-inch covering of snow. Although the weather was brighter, his thoughts were troubled and heavy, for he felt he had failed White Eagle. His common sense told him that it was just bad luck—the
early snowstorm—a man could not follow a trail hidden under a blanket of snow. That bit of wisdom did nothing to relieve his mind of its burden. He would find the boy, and he would avenge the death of Blue Water. These two things he solemnly promised himself—if he had to search forever. But for now, he had to wait out the weather.

*   *   *

Sergeant J. C. Turley stood passing the time of day with the sergeant of the guard near the post bakery. Turley was off duty, it being Saturday afternoon, and he had just come from visiting with Lamar Thomas. As the two sergeants stood there talking, Turley’s gaze was captured by a lone rider approaching in the distance. Not many travelers passed through Laramie this time of year, so Turley continued to watch the visitor with an ample measure of curiosity. The rider was leading a packhorse, and when he got within a few hundred yards, Turley recognized the paint he was riding.

“Well, I’ll be . . .” he interrupted the sergeant in midsentence, and abruptly turned and started walking across the parade ground, stopping in the middle to watch the rider approach.

Riding easily in the saddle, his rifle cradled across his forearms, Trace McCall passed the outer buildings and headed for the structure that housed the post commander’s office. Recognizing the sergeant standing in the center of the parade ground, he nodded. “Turley.”

“Trace McCall,” Turley returned in greeting. “We wondered if you would ever show up again. Did you finish that business you had to take care of?”

“Nope—trail got covered with snow.”

“I heard it snowed pretty heavy up in the mountains.” Turley fell in step with Trace and walked with him as Trace led his horses to a hitching rail. “There
ain’t been much going on around here—the old man sends out a patrol once or twice a week, lookin’ for God knows what. The Injuns ain’t doin’ nothin’ but settin’ by the fire.” Trace offered no comment, so Turley went on. “Lieutenant Austen got you some pay for the part you had in that little shindig near the Belle Fourche. From the looks of them horses, I reckon you could use it.”

“I reckon,” was all Trace replied, but he was mighty pleased to hear it.

“You’re just in time for the social event of the season,” Turley continued, his face a broad smile. “We’re gonna have a weddin’ tomorrow. Lieutenant Austen and Annie Farrior is gittin’ hitched.”

“Do tell,” Trace replied and raised an eyebrow. “I thought those two might tie the knot—make a fine coupling.” It was good news. Trace had taken a liking to both of them. It helped take his mind off of White Eagle for a moment. “Where they gonna have the wedding?”

“In the post trader’s store—only place big enough. We’ve got a chaplain now—come up from Fort Kearny a month ago. He’ll tie the knot. Everybody’s invited.”

With Turley tagging along, Trace stepped up on the small wooden walkway and entered the sutler’s store. Lamar was in the back storeroom, mending a hole in a sack of grain, so he didn’t hear them come in until Turley called out, “Mr. Thomas, there’s a feller out here lookin’ to trade with you.” Trace glanced briefly at Turley, wondering if the sergeant intended to do all his talking for him. Turley met Trace’s glance with an open-faced grin. Trace couldn’t help but be amused.

After a moment, Lamar came from the storeroom, still holding a large needle and a ball of twine. “Damn rats,” he offered in explanation. “Mr. McCall,” he acknowledged when he saw who his customer was.

“Trace,” was the quick reply.

“Yessir, Trace,” Lamar countered. “What brings you back to these parts?” Lamar had always held a certain curiosity for this tall sandy-haired friend of Buck Ransom’s. To Lamar, Trace McCall was a strange one—a loner who just appeared, mostly in the summer, but at any other time of year as well. He always seemed dead serious, although Buck claimed McCall had a sense of humor about him—if you got to know him. As far as Lamar could tell, very few people got to know him that well. Buck said Trace was mostly raised by Crow Indians, lived four years with old Chief Red Blanket’s band. Maybe that explained why Trace never wore whiskers, even in the dead of winter—and he looked more Indian than white if there was such a thing as a sandy-haired Indian.

The man had a way about him that Lamar found hard to define. Many so-called mountain men had passed through Lamar’s store—including Jim Bridger, Buck Ransom, and Frank Brown—but none to match the likes of Trace McCall. Looking at the towering, broad-shouldered trapper, whose eyes seemed to penetrate a man’s very thoughts, Lamar could understand why the Indians called him the Mountain Hawk.

In answer to Lamar’s question, Trace said, “I’m needing some supplies. I’ve got a few skins and four buffalo hides. It ain’t much, but I reckon I’ll take whatever you can give for ’em.”

“We can always use buffalo hides,” Lamar said, “and I’ll take a look at the other plews, maybe I can give you a little something for them. I reckon you know you’ve got a voucher for credit that Lieutenant Austen arranged for you.”

Luke had been as good as his word, a fact that didn’t surprise Trace. The young lieutenant had already established himself as a man of character in
Trace’s book. “Good,” Trace said. “Maybe I’ll take a sack of that grain, then. My horses could use a good feed. They’ve been living off mostly cottonwood bark for the past couple of weeks.”

After Trace had completed his dealings with Lamar Thomas, Sergeant Turley walked along with him to the bachelor officers’ quarters. Trace wanted to express his thanks for the line of credit Luke had established for him, as well as offer his congratulations on Luke’s marriage to be performed the next day.

Luke Austen seemed every bit as happy to see Trace as Sergeant Turley had been. He came striding across the snow-covered parade ground in front of the bachelor officers’ quarters when he caught sight of his sergeant and the tall mountain man approaching. “Trace McCall,” he exclaimed when within hailing distance. “I should have known you’d show up. You always do when you’re needed. I damn sure need someone to stand up with me tomorrow when I surrender my freedom.”

Trace smiled. He was happy to see the young officer again. “I heard you’d gone a little crazy in the head,” he teased. “Turley here told me you’d decided to stick your head in the yoke.” He dismounted and extended his hand.

Luke shook Trace’s hand vigorously. “That’s a fact,” he said, beaming unabashed.

“Well, if I can put in my two cents’ worth, you couldn’t have got yourself a much better woman than Annie Farrior.”

Luke’s face remained awash in a grin that seemed permanently afixed, making no effort to hide his excitement. “I mean it, Trace, I want you to stand up with me when I get hitched. I’d appreciate it.”

Trace hesitated. “I don’t know . . . ’course I will I guess. . . . What do I have to do?”

Luke couldn’t help but laugh. “Nothing, really, just stand up with me, and hold the ring, I guess. For a man who walked into the middle of a Sioux camp and killed the chief, you ought not be afraid to face a chaplain.”

Trace laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then, we’ll do her.”

Sergeant Turley, an amused witness to the exchange, laughed with him. “I don’t know, Trace, your job might be to make sure the groom don’t cut and run.”

When they had finished with the off-color jokes and asides that most males indulge in when teasing a prospective groom, Trace took a serious moment to thank Luke for the line of credit. Luke affirmed that Trace had certainly earned it, and Leach’s replacement, Captain Theodore Benton, heartily approved.

“Have you thought any more about what I said when we left you near the Belle Fourche? About hiring on as a scout?”

“Well,” Trace replied, “not really.” In truth, he hadn’t. His mind had been too heavily occupied with graver thoughts. But now the idea held more merit. There was no disputing the fact that he needed the income. And it was useless to try to find White Eagle until the snow had cleared the mountain passes. So why not? Although he was still uncertain what being a scout for the army involved, and how much it would infringe upon his freedom.

“We sure as hell need scouts who know the country as well as you do,” Luke prodded. “Why don’t we go talk to Captain Benton?”

Trace continued to hesitate, then said, “I ain’t saying I’m not interested, Luke. I reckon I could try it till spring. But when spring gets here, I’ve got something I’ve got to take care of, and I’m gonna take care of it,
come hell or high water. I can’t tell you how long it’ll take—it just depends on how lucky I get.”

“Let’s go talk to the captain,” Luke said. He knew that spring was the time of year Trace would be needed most, when the wagon trains would start passing through, and the Indians would most likely be riled—treaty or no treaty. Still, there were patrols occasionally during the winter months where a competent scout was necessary. It was Luke’s guess that the captain would be anxious to hire Trace, even with the conditions he set.

Luke was right. Captain Benton was more than agreeable to the idea. He was in desperate need of more white scouts experienced in the ways of the Indians. Like Luke, Benton pressed the tall mountain man to consider permanent employment, but Trace was steadfast in his conditions. He allowed that, if his few months’ service were satisfactory to both parties, he would consider coming back after his spring leave of absence. He and the captain shook hands on it and Trace was now a scout for the army.

*   *   *

Sunday at noon, Trace rode over to Lamar Thomas’s place of business, where a small gathering of friends awaited the arrival of the bride and her party. Although he was not completely comfortable being inside with that many people, he had promised Luke he would be there, so he went in the door. On the counter where he had traded his plews with Lamar Thomas the day before, a small altar had been placed. In lieu of flowers, a spray of willows had been arranged for a romantic touch, and a clean white cloth laid across the altar to represent the purity of the occasion, Trace supposed. Off to one side, at the end of the counter, next to a molasses barrel, Luke stood talking to the chaplain. When Luke spotted Trace, he immediately signaled
him over. All eyes turned to watch an uncomfortable and self-conscious army scout as he made his way through the gathering. Trace became acutely aware of his animal-hide attire in a room mostly filled with soldiers in dress uniforms and a couple of ladies in the finest they had.

Luke greeted his best man with a wide smile. “I don’t know who looks more scared, me or you.” Trace answered only with an embarrassed grin. Luke turned to introduce the chaplain. “Trace McCall, Captain Gunter.” The chaplain grabbed Trace’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. Turning back to Trace, Luke took a thin silver ring from his pocket. “You take the ring. All you have to do is give it back when the chaplain asks for it.”