Son of the Hawk (32 page)

*   *   *

While the Gros Ventres prepared a reception for him, Trace McCall was two hundred miles away, as the hawk flies, and making his way up the Powder River valley. Unable to wait until spring officially arrived, he decided to leave at the first break in the weather. He had tried to be patient throughout the long winter months, but each day that painfully dragged by only increased his anxiety over the welfare of the boy, and the unfinished business with Blue Water’s killers. So spring had not yet arrived when Trace informed Captain Benton that he was leaving.

Though his patience had worn through, he had not grown careless. Without having to concentrate on it, he
naturally kept to the low side of the ridges, watching his back trail, and carefully looking over the trail in front of him before leaving cover. Luck seemed to be with him because winter had apparently lost its grip on the rolling hills with signs of runoff already spilling into the icy streams. In many places, the snow was little more than a light dusting. He was satisfied that it had been a good decision to leave when he did.

Although he could not make as many miles in a day as he would have liked, still he should be able to reach the head of the Yellowstone in a week’s time. Then he would have to find the Gros Ventre village.

“
D
amn that young’un,” Booth spat, as he sat by the fire and chewed on a tough strip of buffalo jerky. “I wish to hell I had let you skin that brat to begin with.”

“I told you them Gros Ventres wouldn’t trade you nuthin’ for him,” Charlie said, patiently working on his own strip of the tough buffalo meat.

“Shut up, dammit,” Booth fired back at his dimwitted partner. He swallowed hard, forcing a partially masticated wad of dried meat down his throat. “You’re some damn Injun,” he complained to Charlie, “can’t find so much as a rabbit to cook.”

It wasn’t Charlie’s fault that game was scarce, but Booth felt like assigning the blame somewhere so he could complain about it. He was still angry at having been ushered out of Wounded Horse’s camp. Sitting on a snowy riverbank, his hands and feet numb with the cold, he thought about the warm tipi he had enjoyed for most of the winter and cursed his luck again. At least they were able to leave the Gros Ventre camp with an extra horse—the pony that belonged to the Shoshoni boy.

Travel had not been as difficult as Booth had expected. There was only light snow down the Yellowstone valley. Still, that was not enough to improve his outlook. Looking at his foolish companion sitting
across from him, chewing contentedly on his jerky—slobber running down his chin—didn’t help Booth’s disposition, either. An unattached thought ran through his brain that this would be a good opportunity to rid himself of the half-breed.
One bullet between those stupid eyes would be all it took and I wouldn’t have to listen to his damn bellyaching no more.
It was tempting, but Booth was too lazy to do without the many chores that Charlie performed for him—hunting, cooking, gathering wood, slitting throats—all the things Booth preferred having someone else do.

“Where the hell we goin’?” Charlie suddenly asked, breaking into Booth’s thoughts.

“I ain’t decided yet.” That was all the answer he felt like giving Charlie at the moment. His plans to this point had advanced no further than following the Yellowstone to the point where the Powder forked off, following the Powder south, and cutting across to South Pass. From there, he could go east or west, and he was kind of favoring west—over toward Mormon country. Thousands of Mormons had been emigrating into the Wasatch country, thousands of folks who had never heard of Booth Dalton. The thought brought a smile to Booth’s face, causing his disposition toward Charlie to brighten a bit. Maybe he’d tolerate his dull-brained partner for a spell longer. “Maybe we’ll head for the Bear River Mountains and the Wasatch,” he said to Charlie.

Charlie stopped chewing for a second to consider this, then asked, “What kinda Injun I gotta be there?”

Booth laughed. “Snake, I reckon.” He thought to himself,
Dead Injun most likely.
Charlie’s usefulness was probably nearing an end. Booth didn’t think it likely that Charlie could pass for Shoshoni, and he damn sure didn’t look like a Mormon.

*   *   *

From the cover of a line of trees running the length of the low ridge that paralleled the river, Trace McCall lay on his belly in the snow watching the progress of the two riders. Sticking close to the river, the two appeared to be Indians, leading three horses, two of them heavily packed. He might have crossed their trail had he not been careful to look the broad valley over before descending from the ridge. Having no desire to encounter Indians from any tribe, Trace was content to remain where he was until the two had passed, then he would continue on his way up the Powder.

Keeping low, he made his way back over the top of the ridge to check on his horses. Satisfied that all was in order there, he returned to his vantage point in the trees to watch the progress of the two Indians. They had reached a point abreast of his position and would soon be far enough beyond for him to safely continue on his way.

While he waited, he pulled a skin pouch from his coat pocket and unwrapped the remaining portion of a young rabbit that had been his breakfast. Tearing off a leg, he contented himself while watching the two Indians as they slowly rode past. Suddenly he stopped chewing, forgetting his hunger, as something triggered his mind. The last horse in line behind the two packhorses looked familiar—a lot like the little spotted gray pony that White Eagle rode. Dropping the rabbit leg in the snow, he quickly scrambled to a better position where he could get a closer look at the horse.
It was the same pony!
He was sure of it.

Scores of hurried thoughts stampeded through his brain as he made his way along the tree line, working his way down as close to the edge of the trees as possible. Had he been too late to save his son? This didn’t mean that White Eagle was dead, he quickly reassured himself. Maybe these Indians stole the horse. He realized
that he was jumping to conclusions that made no sense. Why would the Gros Ventres kill White Eagle if he had been a captive all winter. He needed to get a closer look at the two, now approaching the edge of the trees where he waited. Maybe they could tell him of the boy’s whereabouts.

Lying flat behind the trunk of a pine, and hidden by its low-hanging branches, Trace waited and watched as the riders came closer and closer. In the next instant, he felt a rush of blood to his brain and his heart pounded in his chest. For now he could see that instead of two Indians, it was
an Indian and a white man
!

Fighting an almost overpowering urge to spring upon the two, he forced himself to remain still. He could not be certain this was black hat, the white man he had seen in the Sioux camp. The two riders were almost opposite him now, and the white man turned to say something to his partner. Still, Trace could not get a good look at the man’s face since it was partially masked by the heavy fur robe pulled up around him. Almost certain that he had stumbled upon the very man he searched for, Trace was frustrated now when a thread of doubt entered his mind. He had only seen the man before from a distance, wearing a flat-crowned black hat. This man now riding away from him wore a fur cap—which would be only natural in weather this cold. His gut feeling told him this was the man White Eagle described to him. And yet, there was a small margin of doubt, and Trace had no desire to murder an innocent man. His finger lightly stroked the trigger on his Hawken rifle, wanting to squeeze it, but unable to until he confirmed his target.

Damn!
he swore to himself. There was no choice but to follow the two and find out for sure. And there was no way to find out unless he confronted them. He stood up and watched the two riders until they rode
out of sight. Then he made his way back up the ridge to fetch his horses while deciding his best course of action. By the time he reached the paint and his packhorse, the decision was made. He would follow the men until they made camp. Then he would ride in peacefully. If they were the murdering renegades he hunted, he should soon find out.

*   *   *

Charlie White Bull looked up when the horses whinnied, startled to see the rider approaching their camp. His first thought was to reach for his rifle, only then realizing that it was propped against a tree some twenty feet away. One look at the Hawken rifle resting across the stranger’s thighs told him it would be futile to make a try to get his. Charlie glanced at Booth, stretched out by the fire, his rifle still in its saddle sling, the saddle serving as Booth’s pillow.

“We got company,” Charlie said, keeping his voice low. Booth, unaware of their visitor until that moment, bolted upright. “Who the hell . . ?” he started, trailing off when he saw the solitary figure in buckskins.

Trace reined up some twenty-five yards away, and called out, “Hello the camp.”

Booth started to pull his rifle from the sling, thought better of it, then answered. “Hello yourself. Who be you?”

“Trace McCall,” Trace answered. “I saw your fire, thought you might have some coffee.”

Charlie began inching toward his rifle, but Booth stopped him. “Stand still,” he whispered, “there ain’t but one of ’em. No sense in gittin’ shot at.” To Trace, he called back, “Come on in, if you’re peaceful. Friends is always welcome at my fire.” He was already evaluating the possible spoils to be gained with the stranger’s demise—two horses, a fine-looking rifle, and who could say what might be packed on that horse?

“He’s a big’un,” Charlie noted under his breath, his hand resting on his knife hilt.

“Ain’t he?” Booth confirmed, grinning widely.

Trace touched the paint lightly with his heels and the horse walked slowly into the camp. As he approached the fire, the two men watching him, Trace noticed the rifle leaning against the tree, the other rifle in the saddle sling on the ground, one pistol laying beside the saddle, another pistol and a knife stuck in the Indian’s belt. He made it his business to know where all the weapons were before he stepped down, and he thought he had them all accounted for. But just as he was about to dismount, the weapon that caught his eye and held it for a long moment was lying by the Indian’s blanket—an otterskin bow case and quiver, decorated with colored beads and porcupine quills. The expression on Trace’s face never changed as the anger boiled up inside him. The gray spotted pony and the bow case were all the confirmation he needed to know that he had found the right pair. But he decided to continue to play out the hand he had already dealt just to be doubly sure.

“Well now, Mr. McCall,” Booth piped up when the stranger dismounted, “where are you headed, all by yourself in this territory?”

“I’m looking for somebody,” Trace answered, his rifle still in his hand as he positioned himself so he could keep an eye on both men. “Maybe you’ve seen him.”

Booth shrugged. “Maybe. We ain’t hardly seen nobody though.” He sat back down by the fire. “Set yourself down by the fire and git warm.” His show of hospitality failed to induce the stranger to put his rifle down. “Who is it you’re lookin’ for?”

“A boy, eleven or twelve, Shoshoni,” Trace answered, watching Booth’s reaction intently. Booth
never twitched, his expression remained as innocent as a Sunday-school teacher. The half-breed was not so adept at restraining his emotions. Trace did not miss the sharp eye-jerk toward Booth and the hand tighten on the handle of the knife he wore opposite his pistol.

Unfazed, Booth stroked his chin whiskers as if trying to recall. “Nope,” he finally said, “we ain’t seen nobody like that. What do you want him for, anyway?”

“He’s my son. He was abducted by a couple of low-down bushwhacking murderers.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the half-breed slowly inching over toward the rifle leaning against the tree. He turned his head and looked straight at Charlie, stopping the half-breed in his tracks. “You sure you ain’t seen him?” Trace pressed.

“No, friend, we ain’t. Why don’t you set yourself down and rest a while. Help yourself to some of that coffee there.” Booth made a show of settling back against his saddle, hoping to relax the stranger a bit. “Why, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you camp here with us tonight? And me and ol’ Charlie will help you look for your boy in the morning.”

“Well now, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” Trace replied, barely hiding the sarcasm. Charlie shuffled a couple of steps closer to the rifle while Trace pretended not to notice.

“No trouble at all,” Booth said. “I swear, it’s about time to turn in, anyway.” He took a pocketwatch from his coat and held it up to the fire so he could see it. “Yep, it’s past my bedtime.” He closed the cover on the watch and wound it.

Remembering a comment that Annie had once made, Trace said, “You know, if I was a betting man, I’d bet a hundred dollars that watch you got there says
To Tom Farrior from Annie
on the inside cover.”

There followed a frozen moment when both Booth
and Charlie stared speechless at the imposing stranger who had invaded their camp. Charlie made his move first. Still too far from his rifle, he snatched the pistol from his belt. The barrel had barely cleared his belt when the rifle ball from Trace’s Hawken tore into his belly, causing him to double up in pain, his pistol discharging into the ground.

Without waiting to see the results of his shot, Trace dropped the empty rifle, and in the wink of an eye, lunged toward Booth. Stunned for a second by the sudden explosion of Trace’s rifle, Booth dived for his own pistol, only to be knocked sideways by Trace’s hurtling body. Scrambling up from all fours, Booth stumbled and staggered, trying to regain his feet. Though much bigger than the thin-faced renegade, Trace was lightning-quick, and was upon the hapless man like a fox on a prairie dog, tumbling and mauling him viciously.

In one last desperate attempt to save himself, Booth managed to pull his knife from his belt. Fueled by the fury that had festered inside him over the long winter, Trace caught Booth’s wrist, clamping down so forcefully that Booth was powerless to hold the weapon. Holding the terrified renegade helpless, Trace stuck his face inches from Booth’s, and growled, “Is that the knife you used to scalp the Shoshoni woman you killed?” Booth’s eyes were wide with panic, bulging from the powerful hand that crushed his throat. “She was my wife,” Trace forced through clenched teeth.