Son of the Hawk (7 page)

Annie studied the old scout’s face while the discussion was going on. Finally she asked, “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Ransom?”

Buck was surprised by her question. “Well, I reckon I’ve felt a heap better, ma’am. I’ve got a tooth that’s
painin’ me some. I’ve been tryin’ to pull it all day, but I reckon it ain’t done tormentin’ me yet.”

Annie got to her feet. “Here, let me take a look at it. I’ve pulled a couple of teeth for my pa.”

Buck situated himself in a position to try to get some light from the fire. It wasn’t enough so Annie produced a candle from her bag, along with some thread, which she always carried, and she was ready to examine her patient. Buck, grimacing, demonstrated the degree of looseness in the offending tooth with one hand while holding the candle up to his face with the other. Annie tested the resistance of the tooth, but like Buck, she found she could not get enough grip to apply a forceful enough pull. Annie suggested tying a band of thread around the molar to provide a grip that wouldn’t slip. Buck agreed, so she carefully wound strand after strand of thread around the tooth until she had a sizable wrap.

With a grip that offered more friction so her fingers wouldn’t slip, Annie tried to extract the tooth. She was not strong enough to do it. By this time, several of the men had gathered, fascinated by the project to separate Buck from his tooth. Soon there were many volunteers who wanted to take a stab at pulling the tooth. Buck held up under the assault admirably while one after another pulled and strained, pulling his head this way and that until he finally called, “Enough!”

An interested spectator to the exercise was the Sioux scout, Bull Hump. A solidly built man with short stubby fingers, he waited until Buck had called a recess in the contest before he stepped forward and stated, “I can pull.”

Buck was not anxious to continue the torture. In fact, he was at the point where he had just about decided to live with the constant toothache. But Bull Hump’s stoic announcement was delivered more as a
fact, and not simply a wish to try his luck. So Buck agreed to submit to one more assault. But Bull Hump had conditions that Buck had to agree to first.

“I pull tooth, tooth mine,” the stoic Sioux stated.

“You want the tooth?” Buck asked, amazed. “What in tarnation for?” When Bull Hump made no reply, his face as void of expression as a stone, Buck shrugged and said, “All right, you can have the blame tooth. I sure as hell warn’t planning to keep it.”

That settled, Bull Hump planted his feet solidly before the old scout and prepared to perform the extraction. Buck opened his mouth wide and squeezed his eyes closed. Bull Hump clamped his stubby fingers around the threaded tooth, and with his other hand on Buck’s forehead for leverage, administered a slow but powerful pull. Buck could not contain a long yelp of pain as the roots of the tooth steadily gave way to the overpowering force, finally parting from Buck’s gum.

Buck backed away, staggering as he scrambled to his feet, spitting blood and shaking his head violently. “Goddamn! ‘Scuse me, ma’am—I ain’t ever gonna do that again! If I have another tooth go bad, I’d druther shoot the blame thing out than go through that again.”

Bull Hump, his expression the same blank facade as before, turned the tooth from side to side, examining his token. Satisfied, he placed it in the pocket of his buckskin shirt and returned to his own cookfire, pausing briefly to gaze at Robert Dimeron, who was writing furiously in an attempt to record the entire operation.

When Bull Hump had moved out of earshot, Grady Post chuckled silently, shaking his head. “That is one spooky Injun.” He turned back to Buck, who was probing his empty socket with his finger, and periodically spitting blood. “He’s got your tooth now, maybe he’s planning on getting your scalp next.”

Buck took his finger from his mouth long enough to answer the sergeant’s tease. “I reckon this old, thin, gray straw on top of my head don’t appeal to him that much. I think he’s been admirin’ that fine head of black hair on that reporter feller. Did you see how he give it a look just now?”

“I did notice that,” Grady returned, grinning broadly.

Robert Dimeron looked up from his notebook, a forced smile upon his face. “I’m sure I don’t have to worry about that with a whole troop of soldiers to protect me,” he said, perfectly aware of their attempt to tease him. Still, it made him uncomfortable—the Sioux was a sinister-looking man who appeared to have little use for a pleasant expression.

By the time Buck turned in for the night, the throbbing in his gum had stopped. Spreading his blanket close to his horse, he sat down and propped his rifle against a bush, where he could get to it in a hurry. Satisfied that all was well in the camp, he glanced across the clearing and was met by a steady gaze from the Sioux scout. When their eyes met, Bull Hump broke it off, and lay down, turning his back to Buck. Buck gave it no more than a moment’s thought before going to sleep himself.
Damn Injun—probably thinks he oughta be the number one scout.

Annie pulled her army blanket up around her shoulders. Already the snores of the soldiers outside her tent provided an assortment of low rasping notes, like a chorus of oversized katydids. She wondered if Tom was nearby in the mountains that loomed before them, perhaps listening to the snoring of his three companions. Then her mind drifted to the image of Luke Austen, standing guard over her bath. The picture was still in her mind when she fell asleep.

T
he scouts were out early the next morning—Buck to the east, along the river—Bull Hump to the west. By the time the troop was ready to move out, both scouts had returned to camp to report no sign of any Indian activity anywhere. When Lieutenant Austen gave the order, “To horse!” Buck indicated the line of march, pointing toward a line of low hills to the northwest. Since Buck didn’t know what valley Bull Hump had in mind where all this gold was supposed to be just laying around waiting to be picked up, it was decided that Buck would lead the troop as far as Bitter Water. It was Bull Hump’s suggestion. Explaining that he had been to the valley only once himself, Bull Hump preferred to be free to scout on ahead of the troops to make sure he could find the landmarks that would take him to the right valley.

“That sounds all right to me,” Luke said, upon hearing the scout’s proposal. “What do you think, Mr. Ransom?”

“Hell, it don’t make no difference to me,” Buck replied. “I can sure take you to Bitter Water. If he don’t git lost, we’ll meet him there.” The hint of sarcasm was not lost on Luke, but in case it was, Buck added, “I can’t wait to see that valley with the gold laying all over the ground. We can all go back rich men.”

Bull Hump sat on his horse, waiting. If Buck’s comments
bothered him, it didn’t show on his expressionless face. When Luke nodded to him, he immediately wheeled his pony and galloped away. They watched him for a few moments, then Luke put the column in motion with a wave of his hand. Buck backed his horse a few yards and watched the troops start out before moving out in front.

“Good morning, Mr. Ransom,” Annie Farrior called out as Buck rode by. “How’s the toothache this morning?”

“It don’t hurt a’tall, ma’am. I’m much obliged.” He tipped his hat, then nodded to Robert Dimeron, who was riding beside Annie.

It took most of the day to reach Bitter Water due to the roughness of the terrain and the ridges that had to be crossed. When they reached the little creek in the middle of the afternoon, Luke saw at once why Buck had doubted the existence of any gold in the dark, slowly moving water. Unlike most of the mountain streams, Bitter Water flowed from an opening in the side of a hill, making its way leisurely down through a belt of pine trees. The bed of the stream was almost black, no doubt caused by the minerals that washed out of the hill. The resulting odor of the water was probably the origin of the stream’s name.

When the column pulled up, Buck was sitting there waiting for them. After Luke gave the order to dismount, Buck motioned him over to where he stood. “Damned if them fellers weren’t here,” he said, pointing to the remains of a campfire. “I didn’t really expect them to even find this place.”

“How do you know it was them, and not an Indian hunting party?” Luke questioned.

“Tracks,” Buck said, his attitude suggesting that the answer to Luke’s question was fairly obvious. He swung his arm around from side to side. “Look around
you. Them’s shod horses and mules, about a dozen or more of ’em, I expect.”

Luke nodded, realizing he should have noticed that himself. It was a good sign, however, for it meant that they were at least on the trail of the four white men. Then a thought crossed his mind, and looking around him, he asked, “Where’s Bull Hump?”

Buck shook his head. “Ain’t seen him all day, not since he rode out this morning.”

Luke pushed his hat back and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve still got some daylight left, but I expect we’d better wait here for him. You think he can find that valley he was talking about?”

Buck shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe.” Buck had his doubts. It had been a while since Buck had ridden this part of the country, but old age had not dimmed his memory of places he had been. And he had no idea what valley Bull Hump might be thinking of. Buck had explored every valley and canyon in the Black Hills, from the Cheyenne River to the Belle Fourche, and he had never seen a valley with gold all over the ground like the one Bull Hump had described.

“I suppose we could camp here for the night,” Luke said.

“Well, it ain’t the best place to camp,” Buck said. “That water ain’t fit to drink—the horses won’t even drink it—but if I recollect correctly, there’s a better place no more than three or four miles beyond that ridge to the east. There’s better water and a little grass for the horses.”

“What about Bull Hump? We’re supposed to wait for him here.”

Buck snorted. “Hell, he can damn shore follow our trail. If he can’t, he ain’t much of an Injun.” He turned his head and launched a brown stream of tobacco juice
that spattered on a rock a few feet away. ‘“Course you’re the boss, whatever you say.”

Luke laughed and turned to Grady Post, who had joined them. “Sergeant, get ’em mounted up. We’re going to a better camp.”

As Luke suspected, Buck’s memory was reliable. They arrived at a grassy knoll below the pines on the eastern side of the ridge, where a clear stream made its way down the mountainside. There was still at least an hour of daylight left with no sign of Bull Hump as yet. The troop went about setting up camp. Sergeant Post put out pickets while Luke checked to see that Annie was comfortable. Buck decided to scout the area around them to make sure they didn’t have any neighbors.

Luke paused to look at his scout as Buck crossed the stream and disappeared into the pines. Then he turned his attention back to Annie Farrior. “I don’t know if you overheard back there, but Buck is pretty sure the campfire at Bitter Water was that of your husband and his friends.” Annie’s eyes brightened—evidently she had not heard.

Dimeron, busy at that point with his bedroll, had paused to listen, and hearing the lieutenant’s statement, walked over to join them. “You think we might be close to finding them?” he asked.

Luke only glanced briefly in the reporter’s direction before directing his answer toward Annie. “According to Buck, that fire is pretty old, weeks maybe. If it had been recent, I would have told you right away. But I thought you’d like to know we’ve at least crossed their trail.”

It was almost dark when a picket called out, “Rider coming!” It turned out to be Buck, returning from his scout. He reported to Luke that he had found no sign of anyone else in the area. Glancing around the camp,
he noticed that Bull Hump had not shown up yet. Although Luke was mildly concerned, Buck was not. He didn’t have that much faith in the Indian’s ability to begin with. “Hell, Lieutenant, if he can’t find a whole troop of soldiers in these hills, he ain’t much good to us no how.”

It was early the following morning when the Sioux scout came riding in, stolid and unperturbed. He rode straight over to Luke and slid off his pony. “I find valley,” he said simply, “white men been there.”

Buck, walking stiffly as a result of his usual morning back pain, made his way over to Luke and the Sioux. Questioning Bull Hump in his own tongue, he asked, “How long ago?”

“Not long,” Bull Hump answered, “maybe one or two days, no longer.”

“Any sign of a war party?” Buck asked.

Bull Hump shook his head vigorously. “No war parties. No sign of anyone else.”

Buck translated for Luke. “He thinks they were there only a day or two ago.”

“We’d best get moving, then,” Luke decided, and instructed Grady Post to hurry the men to finish their breakfast and get ready to move out. “And, Sergeant, tell Mrs. Farrior what the scout said—she’ll want to know that.”

Buck continued to question Bull Hump. “Where is this here valley?”

“Three or four hours’ ride, that way.” He pointed toward the northwest. “I’ll show you.”

Buck scratched his head, thinking hard in an effort to recall what valley Bull Hump might possibly be referring to. The somber Sioux scout was not very adept at transmitting information. But Buck figured it couldn’t be many miles from where they stood, if it was no more than three or four hours away, because it
would be slow travel in the direction he pointed out. It would require following a series of valleys and canyons to make their way through the high hills.

Within half an hour, the troopers were in the saddle and moving out behind the stoic Sioux scout. Buck rode beside Luke Austen and Sergeant Post, a few paces behind the Indian. Annie and Robert Dimeron were next in line before the column of troopers. There had been no rain for weeks, promising another dusty ride, so Annie and Dimeron rode near the head of the column to avoid most of the dust. Leaving the grassy knoll, they followed a dry canyon through a low line of mountains. After approximately two hours’ ride, Bull Hump turned back east, following a narrow cross canyon that appeared to make a blind turn some two hundred yards ahead.