Son of the Hawk (11 page)

The distress in her voice caused Buck to stop and think for a moment. In the aftermath of the slaughter of the entire troop of dragoons, he had assumed that the mission was canceled, the primary concern now was to save what hair was still growing on the few heads that survived. “Considerin’ our predicament, I naturally figured the lieutenant here would say to head back to Laramie.” He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. “What do you say, Lieutenant?”

Like Buck, Luke had all but concluded that the mission was canceled. But now, seeing the look of distress on the upturned face of Annie Farrior, he hesitated, not sure what to do. “I’ve already lost a troop of cavalry. I think my first responsibility is to the safety of the lady, so we should probably get back to Laramie as fast as we can.”

Annie, frightened into tremors hours earlier, was now in possession of her former resolve. “I’m not going back until I look for my husband. That’s what I came out here for, and if Mr. McCall has found our
horses, I intend to continue. You can go back without me.”

“Annie,” Luke pleaded, “I can’t let you do that.”

Buck glanced at Trace to see his reaction, but there was no change of expression on the imperturbable face of his tall friend.
Foolishness
, Buck thought, but he understood why she felt she had to say what she did. Seeing the indecision in the face of the young lieutenant, he offered a suggestion to placate the lady. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a look around some of these canyons while we’re headin’ toward the Cheyenne—if that’s all right with you, Lieutenant. There ain’t but a few valleys they could be in, anyway, and we can check them out all right.” He glanced quickly at Trace, aware that his friend knew there were a hell of a lot of places where the four prospectors might be. But Trace made no comment. “The most important thing right now is to git ourselves away from this ridge,” Buck added.

O
f the dozen horses Trace had hobbled on the far side of the ridge, Buck’s scruffy-looking bay and Luke’s chestnut were recovered. Aside from Trace’s two horses and three Indian ponies, the rest were army mounts. By this time, some of the other strays had probably wandered back toward the canyon, but they had no desire to be burdened with the task of driving extra horses. One of the army mounts was selected for Annie to ride, the rest were unsaddled and set free.

By the time they got underway, the first hint of dawn was upon them. They rode in single file, Trace leading, as they made their way through the narrow valleys, winding deeper into the dark green slopes that towered up on each side of them. Not until the sun was almost directly overhead did they pause to rest the horses and take time to eat something themselves. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Buck, Luke, and Annie had their last meal. So the dried buffalo meat from Trace’s pack was welcome fare. To wash it down, Trace was also able to provide some coffee from his dwindling supply.

“I was fixing to head back to pick up some supplies when I came across your little party back there with those Sioux,” Trace commented as he watched over his coffee kettle. This was in answer to Buck’s question as to how Trace happened upon them.

Buck nodded. “I sure am proud you showed up when you did. We was gittin’ down to skinnin’ knives and prayers.”

Annie, chewing away at a rock-hard piece of buffalo jerky, studied the soft-spoken man, dressed in buckskins. He was a tall man, taller than Luke even, with sandy-colored hair that barely touched wide, powerful shoulders. Unlike most of the so-called mountain-men—like Buck for instance—Trace was clean-shaven, Injun style as Buck would say. He carried a Hawken rifle, much like Buck’s. On his back, he wore an otterskin bow case and quiver, decorated with beads and porcupine quills—a gift from a Snake maiden, Buck had said. Buck had also told her that Trace was known to the Blackfeet as the Mountain Hawk. Judging by the ease with which he moved through the wild country that surrounded them, she decided that Trace McCall belonged in these mountains—fully as much as the hawk for which he was named. For reasons she could not explain, she felt safer with him than she had before when escorted by a whole troop of soldiers.

Following old game trails for much of the time, they worked their way up into the hills, scouting out any streams they chanced upon for signs that the four white prospectors had passed that way. There was no evidence that anyone other than Indian hunting parties had been there. Trace and Buck were careful to cover their tracks whenever possible. They figured the Sioux war party was sure to be trailing them. The country was rugged and the riding hard. Still they continued to search until sunset found them close to the Cheyenne River.

“We’ll strike the river ’bout noon tomorrow,” Buck said, as he and Trace sat by the fire, discussing the next day’s march. “I reckon that little gal is gonna be mighty disappointed we didn’t find no sign of her
husband. But I don’t see much future in hangin’ around this territory any longer. You know that dang party of Sioux is gonna turn this country inside out, lookin’ for us.”

Trace nodded and glanced toward the horses where Annie was talking to Luke as he checked the condition of the girth strap on Annie’s saddle. He thought for a moment more before making a suggestion. “I know a place that might be a likely spot to check. It ain’t far from here, but we’ll have to backtrack about half a day.” Before Buck could ask why he hadn’t mentioned it a half a day ago, Trace explained. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I guess I just forgot about it. It’s a little hard to find, so I doubt they would have stumbled on it. The only reason I know about it is because I followed a deer there last fall.”

Buck called Luke and Annie over to discuss a decision to backtrack or to continue to the river. If they continued, he explained, they would be out of the hills the next day, and should probably have the best chance of getting back to Laramie before being over-taken by a Sioux war party. In spite of the danger, Annie urged them to continue the search. It seemed obvious to Luke that they could spend weeks searching every draw and valley before finding a trace of the missing four. Concern for Annie’s safety was foremost in his mind, and his better judgment told him to get the hell out of there while they still could. He was already burdened by his failure to prevent the massacre of his patrol. On the other hand, he found it hard to deny the young lady’s wishes.

In the end, the three men gave in to the lady. They decided that Trace should start back immediately, since there were still a couple of hours before dark. The others would start back in the morning. He could make much better time alone, perhaps enough to scout
the area and intercept them before they backtracked the entire distance. Once it was decided, Trace wasted little time saddling his paint pony, and leaving his packhorse with Buck, started back the way they had come. He had drawn a little map on the ground to show Buck how to find a large column of stone that stood like a chimney near the foot of the ridge that hid the stream where he had followed the deer. If things went as he expected, he would be on his way back before Buck and the others got to that ridge.

*   *   *

Early the next morning, Trace reached the long tree-covered ridge that ran like a high wall above the old game trail he had been following. Leaving the trail where it looped around the chimney-like stone column, he guided the paint up through the pines. Upon reaching the top of the ridge, he had to pause for a few moments to get his bearings. Looking off toward the east, he spotted the mouth of the narrow draw that led down to the stream.

As he descended the slope into the little valley, his eyes constantly scanned back and forth, alert for anything that looked out of the ordinary. There was a heavy silence hanging over the dark slopes that surrounded the valley. It seemed to amplify the gurgling sounds of the noisy stream that cut like a scar through the grassy bottom. He thought about the first time he had seen this tiny valley, and recalled how peaceful it had seemed to him then. On this day, however, there was an ominous feeling about the place. He couldn’t explain why—the grass was high, still with some scattering of wildflowers that defied summer’s end—the stream was strong and clear. It was just a feeling he had, but he had learned to pay attention to those feelings, for they had often forewarned of something the eye had not yet detected.

Urging the paint forward again, he crossed over the stream and climbed up the other bank. That was where he found the first one. Lying parallel to the rushing water, the sun-bleached skull seemed to stare vacantly up at the cloudless sky from its grassy tomb. Trace dismounted and knelt to examine the skeleton. It had been a white man—he could tell by the clothes. The fact that they were torn and shredded was a clear indication to Trace that the body had been found by wolves or buzzards—or both. He reckoned the worms had cleaned up what was left.

He found the other three close by, almost hidden in the tall grass. The position of two of the skeletons, with their arms flung out and legs spread or bent under, led Trace to conclude that it had most likely been a wolf pack that devoured the corpses. There were no signs of injury on any of the skulls but one, and that one had a neat bullet hole in the forehead. He considered this for a moment. If the men had been attacked by a band of Indians, there would have been much more evidence of broken skulls and bones. If he had to guess, he would say they might have been murdered in their sleep. Apparently, Annie’s husband and his partners were murdered soon after they first arrived in the Black Hills. And from the lack of sign, no one had been here since. It was a hard thing to have to tell the young lady, but there was little doubt that these four skeletons were the men they searched for.

It would not be a pleasant thing for Annie to see, but Trace decided after some serious thought that it might be important to the girl to know which skeleton was that of her late husband’s. So he left the bones where they lay, figuring she could identify her husband by his clothes, if she decided that’s what she wanted to do. After looking around a little while longer to see if there were any clues that might shed
more light on the murders, he decided there were a few signs that didn’t seem right. He determined to make a closer search of the area later after Buck arrived.

Shortly before midday, Trace spotted the three riders as they approached the rock. He walked out on the flat surface of the giant stone and signaled. Annie, upon seeing the tall mountain man, urged her horse ahead of the others, anxious to know what Trace might tell them. Buck already knew that Trace had found something, since he had waited for them instead of meeting them farther along the trail. And he had a pretty good idea that the news wasn’t good since Trace was waiting alone.

“Did you find anything, Mr. McCall?” Annie yelled long before her horse pulled up to a stop.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry but I did.”

“Oh,” was all she responded. She had dreaded this moment, knowing deep inside that Tom had in all probability met with some disaster. In spite of telling herself for months now that Tom could take care of himself, there had been a nagging lack of faith in his return. He would have gotten a message to her somehow—and none had come. She waited for Trace to explain.

“I found ’em,” he began. “I don’t know any way to make this any easier . . .” He paused, groping for some words to soften the message he had to give her.

“I know,” she interrupted, “they’re dead.” Feeling suddenly weary, she dismounted and walked off a few yards to shed her tears in privacy.

Trace felt a deep compassion for the young woman, but he was not good in situations like this, so he was greatly relieved when Luke Austen quickly dismounted and moved to comfort her. Buck shook his head sadly and nudged his horse up beside Trace.

“Injuns got ’em?” he said, his voice soft enough to keep Annie from hearing. Whereupon Trace related the scene of the murders that he had discovered.

“I ain’t so sure it was Injuns, Buck,” Trace answered. “It just doesn’t look like the work of Injuns. They ain’t nothing but bones now—and rags—but I left them where they lay till I find out if she’s up to looking at ’em. Then we can put them in the ground.” He glanced over at the grieving woman, her head now buried against the lieutenant’s chest.

Buck’s curiosity was up. “Well, I’d like to take a look. You think they might have been murdered by white men?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but right now it appears that way to me.”

Annie regained her composure after only a few minutes, and when she again exhibited a calm demeanor, Trace described the scene he had found by the stream. “I didn’t bother ’em, ma’am. I mean, I left ’em lay as I found ’em in case you wanted to try to identify your husband’s bones.”

“Annie,” Luke said, “it might not be a good idea for you to see them. Why don’t you let us bury them and then you can take a few minutes alone to say good-bye.”

“What if it’s not Tom?” Annie quickly responded. “No, I’ve got to see for myself. It could be any four men—we don’t know for sure.”

“Ain’t likely it’s anybody else, ma’am,” Buck commented. “The lieutenant’s right, it might be somethin’ you don’t need to see.”

Her composure recovered and her resolve firm, Annie insisted. “I need to know if it’s my husband or not. Mr. McCall, will you lead us to the place?”

Trace glanced at Buck before answering. “Yes’m, I’ll take you there.”

*   *   *

Gazing down, unblinking, at the bleached white skull whose empty black sockets stared up at her, Annie found that she could not picture Tom’s face even though she tried to focus her mind on it. Cheerful and cocky, he had kissed her farewell and stepped up in the saddle, promising to return with enough gold to build her a fine house in Oregon. Young and boyish in his enthusiasm for this great adventure, he and his three equally inspired partners rode out of Fort Laramie more than four and a half months ago. Now as she felt a tear creep slowly down her cheek, she found it difficult to believe that these cold bones were once the warm and caring man who had shared her bed, albeit briefly. Although the only remaining possessions were his shirt and pants, she knew that it was Tom lying there. She had made the checkered shirt for him herself, and the trousers were the same he had worn on the last day she had seen him. Suddenly she felt a heavy blanket of guilt descend upon her shoulders—guilt born from knowing she had not loved him as passionately as he had loved her.
I would have, Tom. I was learning to.
Tasting the salt on her lips, she realized that her tears were now flowing freely. She turned as a shadow fell across the skeleton, and a voice gently woke her from her reverie.