Son of the Hawk (22 page)

Turley looked quickly around him then. Like Luke, it had not occurred to him until that moment that there was no sign of Trace McCall. “I don’t know. I thought he stayed behind when we rode out of here. I reckon he took the opportunity to light out while the shooting was going on.”

“Can’t say as I blame him,” Luke said. “He really didn’t have any obligation to stay. I sure like it better when that man is around, though.” With no time to waste further thought on the whereabouts of Trace McCall, Luke called his mind back to the situation at hand. After moving up and down the line of troopers now firmly entrenched in the sandy banks of the stream, giving instructions and encouragement where needed, Luke and Turley returned to discuss the possible intentions of the Sioux.

“You think they’ve had enough?” Turley wondered aloud. “McCall said they wouldn’t stay with it if they lost too many warriors—we must have killed five or six.”

Luke shook his head, never taking his eyes from the band of painted hostiles now reassembled on the ridge. “I don’t think five or six casualties will be enough to drive them off, especially with the prospect of gaining sixty rifles and ammunition.” He turned then to look Turley directly in the eye. “Besides, McCall said this was the same band that ambushed my patrol in the
Black Hills. They’ve had a real taste of blood already. I think they’ll want more.”

Turley was thoughtful for a long moment, thinking over the predicament they found themselves in. “I reckon we just kind of got our asses kicked real good.”

“I reckon,” Luke replied soberly.

Turley turned to look out across the grassy slope where the bodies of several horses still lay. Scattered among them he could see the faded blue lumps that were once troopers under his command. “I swear, Lieutenant, I wish we could bring our boys in before them savages get to ’em.”

“I know. I don’t like leaving them out there, either, but I don’t want to lose any more men. We’ll just have to leave them for the time being.”

Most of the battlefield was a no man’s land now with a good portion of the slope within rifle range from either side. Luke couldn’t take a chance on sending a detail out to recover their dead. Near the top of the slope, where Leach had fallen, a party of Sioux brazenly stripped the captain’s body. One of the warriors took Leach’s scalp and held it up so the soldiers could see. “Filthy bastards,” Turley spat angrily and took a shot at the jeering hostile. The ball fell harmlessly short.

“Save your ammunition, Sergeant, we’re gonna need it later,” Luke said. He looked back at the sun, sinking ever closer to the distant hills. In a matter of two or three hours it would be dark and then the real danger would begin. Movement upon the ridge caught his eye and he turned to see the Indians split off in two groups and disappear from his sight.

“I don’t reckon they’ve decided to go home for supper,” Turley said sarcastically.

“Looks like they’re getting set to hit us from the sides—probably wait till dark. Sergeant, you better
have the men get some sleep now because there won’t be any tonight.”

Turley nodded and left to follow Luke’s orders. Confirmed by a headcount, the detachment was reduced to twenty-eight men, four of whom were wounded, though still capable of performing their duties. Twenty-eight men, he had lost over half of the troop. The waste of it was highly grating upon Turley’s sensibilities, feeling it his responsibility to protect his men whenever possible. He silently cursed Leach for his arrogant foolhardiness as he moved down the line of rifle pits, instructing every other man to rest while the others stood guard. Before nightfall, he would have to set a picket line before the emplacements. It was going to be a long night.

L
ittle more than a mile from the embattled soldiers, a lone figure also waited for darkness. Resting comfortably in a willow thicket, his pony tethered safely out of sight, Trace McCall patiently chewed on a tough strip of buffalo jerky while he considered the events that had taken place that afternoon.

He wasn’t totally surprised that Captain Leach had decided to go charging up that hill in the face of all common sense. He had pegged Leach for a fool from the beginning. But it was a damn shame to sacrifice the lives of so many men. If Trace had been in Luke Austen’s place, he would have taken command—shot Leach in the head, if it took that to prevent the slaughter. But he reckoned it wasn’t fair to fault the young lieutenant for refusing to mutiny. After all, Luke had been trained to obey orders without questioning.

One thing Trace had known for sure: He had better sense than to go galloping up that slope with the soldiers. So he took advantage of the commotion to slip out, down along the stream, until he was well clear of the battle.
Wasn’t much of a battle, he thought, more like a turkey shoot.
He hoped Luke Austen had survived the assault, he felt a fondness for the young lieutenant.
I oughta go on about my business, and let the army go on with their hurry to get killed.
But he knew he couldn’t. He also knew that he could be a hell of a lot more effective
by himself behind the Sioux. If he had stayed back at the creek, he would be just one more rifle. On his own, he could do a lot more damage, especially after dark. So he settled back and waited. While he waited, he thought again of the boy, and he wondered if he was too late to find him. White Eagle,
his son
—it was a strange thought to him, one he was not yet comfortable with. While he had never considered the possibility of being a father, still there was a strong sense of duty within him to find Blue Water’s son—his son. He shook his head, amazed that it was so. What should he do with the boy, if he did find him? The sensible thing to do would be to take him to Chief Washakie’s village as he had meant to do before White Eagle ran off.

Although it had been difficult, he had followed the boy’s trail toward the Powder River until losing it only hours before stumbling onto the Sioux war party and the soldiers. White Eagle had to have found Iron Pony’s camp. Had he already made some suicidal attempt to avenge Blue Water’s death? Maybe common sense arrived in time to prevent him from trying such a foolhardy thing. Trace could only hope. One thing he now knew, however—he was determined to find out.

*   *   *

Night fell with a deadly softness. Deep and moonless, the chill night air filled the coulees and draws until the prairie around him dissolved into a vast inky sea. It was a night made to order for his purposes.
I wish to hell that boy hadn’t took my bow
, Trace thought as he made his way up from the willows. The work he had to do that night called for a silent weapon.
Well, I’ll just have to borrow me one.

If he was to be of any value to the embattled soldiers, he had to find out exactly what the Sioux war party had in mind to do. To do that, it would be necessary
to work his way in close to the Sioux camp. Finding the camp would be no problem because he could already hear the singing and dancing, and the rosy glow in the dark sky beyond the ridge was indication enough that Iron Pony’s warriors were already getting worked up for the battle. First, however, he decided he would scout the flank of the soldiers’ position down along the creek banks to determine if a sizable force of hostiles was planning a night attack. If this turned out to be the case, Trace had no choice but to give some form of warning. It was his guess that there would be no more than a small party of scouts positioned to keep an eye on the soldiers. In all likelihood, the Sioux warriors would want to dance and make medicine for a big victory the following morning.

Leaving his horse behind in the willow thicket, he climbed up the bank and started upstream at a steady trot. Unencumbered by his rifle and bullet pouch, carrying no weapon but his knife, he was able to make good time. The rifle would be of no use to him on this night—one shot might have accounted for one dead Sioux, but it would have announced his presence to close to two hundred other warriors. He wished again that he had his own bow, a weapon he had fashioned from mountain ash, backed with sinew, made like his adoptive Crow father, old Buffalo Shield, had taught him. He was almost as confident with that bow as he was with his Hawken rifle. The bow was silent, and he could reload much faster, especially on horseback although the rifle was a hell of a lot more powerful and accurate, especially at a distance.

When he was within a few hundred yards of the embattled troopers, he slowed down to a gait between a fast walk and a trot, sharpening his senses to take in everything around him. Cautiously, he made his way closer to the water’s edge, where he stopped and
dropped to all fours. There on his hands and knees, he waited and listened. Looking back up toward the Sioux camp, the dark outline of the ridgetop was just barely blacker than the moonless night sky. Hearing nothing but the sound of dancing on the far side of the ridge, he started to rise again. Halfway up, he froze. A slight movement in the grass behind him caused him to tense, ready to react. It was no more than the sound a whisper of wind might make in the tall grass, but Trace instantly threw his body to the side, rolling as he hit the ground. A split second later he heard the impact of a body on the ground as a Sioux warrior barely missed him. With reactions quicker than a lightning strike, Trace was upon the dark form, his long Green River knife thrusting with deadly impact under the ribs of his would-be assailant. Thrashing violently, the two bodies rolled over and over in the tall grass in desperate struggle until the warrior was finally still.

When sure of his kill, Trace released his hold, allowing the Sioux to settle lifelessly on the ground. Moments before, with no time for thoughts beyond fighting for his life, Trace had no opportunity to determine if his attacker was a lone scout. Now he paused to listen for sounds of other warriors, making a determined effort to quiet his own rapid breathing. Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, he turned his attention back to the body before him. As the powerful adrenaline rush slowly receded, he turned the corpse over to take inventory of the warrior’s weapons. There was a quiver of arrows strapped across his back, but no bow. Fortunately, it only took a few moments of searching around in the grass for the bow to turn up. He tested it and was relieved to learn that it was a good one. Armed now with the weapons he needed, he quickly moved away from the water in case one of the warrior’s friends had heard sounds of the struggle.

Finding better cover in a stand of low brush that bordered the creek, he stopped to listen. Although he could not see into the soldiers’ position, he detected an occasional whispered command or comment. He wondered how many of the original sixty had survived. He was about to leave the brush when he heard the soft tread of a moccasined foot upon some loose pebbles along the creek bank. Sinking back down in the brush, Trace waited until a shadowy form appeared, obviously intent upon pinpointing the source of the same whispered comment Trace had just heard. With an arrow notched on his bowstring, the Sioux strained to see through the darkness, hoping for a lucky shot at a careless trooper.

Pulling an arrow from the quiver that was now strapped to his own back, Trace took careful aim with his bow. The arrow’s flight was swift and true. An instant later, a sharp cry of pain and surprise broke the heavy silence along the creek, followed almost immediately by a volley from half a dozen army rifles from the sandpits by the water.
Jesus Christ
, Trace thought as the random hail of rifle balls whistled through the brush around him.
I’d better get my ass out of here before I get killed!

Satisfied that there was no massing of warriors to attempt to overrun the soldiers’ defensive position, Trace decided to vacate the area before he ran into any more scouts. He wanted to scout the Sioux camp on the far side of the ridge, anyway. Retreating back along the stream, he paused when he came to the body of the Sioux scout. Kneeling down beside the body, he discovered that the man was still hanging onto life, although it was obvious he was rapidly losing the battle. It had been a lucky shot to have disabled the scout so quickly. At such close range, Trace’s arrow had been powerful enough to penetrate the warrior’s ribs, puncturing
his lung, and he was drowning in his own blood. Trace decided to speed the man’s departure to the spirit world, and one quick slice with his knife abruptly ended the warrior’s suffering.

Trace was about to rise again when a faint glimmer of starlight reflected on a shiny object by the warrior’s side. Curious, Trace paused to examine it. It appeared to be a long knife of some sort. He rolled the corpse over to reveal an army saber.
An officer’s sword
, he thought. The warrior had obviously taken it from one of the two officers during the ill-fated charge. But which one? Luke or Captain Leach?
I hope to hell it was Leach
, Trace thought.
The world could get along just fine without that arrogant bastard. It would be a shame if young Austen was killed because of Leach’s stubbornness.
He took the saber and headed toward the ridge.

Making his way up the rise, he passed the grim evidence of Leach’s folly. As he neared the top of the ridge, it seemed there was a body every few yards—pasty white forms in the blackness of the night, stripped bare, every one mutilated. Trace did not pause but pressed on until he reached the crest where Iron Pony had originally sat, surrounded by his warriors.

Following a gully down to the base of the ridge, Trace moved quickly to a point no more than a hundred yards from the large Sioux camp. Crawling through the grass, he made his way closer and closer to the edge of the camp, stopping just outside the glow of the many campfires. He had been fairly accurate in his estimate of the number of Sioux. Chanting and dancing around one large fire, many of the warriors prepared for battle, their shadows casting long, impish forms that bobbed and darted in eerie patterns over the ground. There were no women or children in this camp, no tipis—this was strictly a war party. And it
didn’t take long to determine that they were not content to settle for their victory over the soldiers that day. Leach and his men were in for a total campaign of annihilation. There was no way to avoid it, unless the Sioux losses were so high that Iron Pony decided it best to call off the assault. Trace turned it over in his mind for a few moments while the incessant chanting of the dancers drummed away at his brain. There were too many of them, there was no way he—one man—could kill enough warriors to cause Iron Pony to abort the attack.