Son of the Hawk (15 page)

Leach cocked his head at the old trapper, squinting his eyes as if annoyed by Buck’s intervention in the captain’s dressing down of his subordinate. “Are you suggesting we put the blame on a trusted Sioux scout?”

“Trusted, my ass,” Buck responded. “I’d like to know who decided he could be trusted. Oh, I ain’t
sayin’ I don’t take part of the blame. He pulled the wool over my eyes, too. I just thought he wasn’t too smart—wanderin’ away from the rest of us for half a day and more—actin’ like he didn’t know one canyon from the next. He was smart enough all right—led us right to the slaughter. I caught a glimpse of him when we was runnin’ for cover at the end of that canyon. He was right in the middle of ’em.”

Leach paused to consider this. He was still inclined to place at least part of the blame for the tragedy upon the broad shoulders of Luke Austen. There was going to be hell to pay for this when word got back to Washington. If the massacre of thirty-four soldiers by hostile Sioux got into the papers back east, then there was going to be a public outcry for justice. And Leach was smart enough to know that wasn’t going to please the generals. For one thing, the peace talks were not even a week old—and another, the army didn’t have enough manpower to go against the Sioux nation at the present time. Leach was going to have to leave it to his superiors as to what action, if any, should be taken against Lieutenant Austen. Somebody back East was going to have a hell of a job keeping this one quiet, especially when they had to explain to
The Chicago Herald
how their reporter got killed.

“Who the hell is this?” Leach suddenly demanded, glaring at the tall clean-shaven man in buckskins who had stood silently in the background while Buck and Luke gave the captain the details of the attack.

Buck glanced back at his friend briefly. “This here’s Trace McCall. If it wasn’t for him, you might be standin’ here talkin’ to yourself.”

Trace remained silent, his expression unchanged. Luke hastened to explain Buck’s flippant response to the captain’s question. “Mr. McCall managed to dispatch a body of hostiles that had us pinned down with
our backs to a cliff. Mr. Ransom’s right. We might not have made it without Mr. McCall’s help.”

“Well, then,” Leach began reluctantly, “I expect the army owes you a word of thanks.”

Leach’s manner irritated Trace. He gave the belligerent officer a long look before answering. Then he said, “Thanks ain’t necessary. If the army owes me anything, it’s a horse.”

“That’s right, sir,” Luke said. “Mr. McCall’s packhorse was killed while he was holding off the hostiles during our escape. I expect he lost more than the horse—there were supplies, too.”

While Luke related the events that led up to their escape along the narrow precipice, Leach kept his eyes on the tall mountain man.
One of the real wild ones
, he thought,
more Indian than white.
Being a military man, Henry Leach held no particular admiration for the brand of men like McCall who roamed the prairies and mountains. It was his opinion that most of them were hard-drinking, squaw-loving rascals whose greatest attribute was the ability to tell colossal lies about their exploits. Now he was thinking that he might have to change his opinion about this one at least. There was a quiet confidence in Trace McCall’s bearing that conveyed a sense of strength, and Leach knew that here was a man to be reckoned with. He glanced at the old scout for a moment, a true mountain man, too. But the contrast was impossible to miss for someone as perceptive as Henry Leach. Buck was old, of course, but he was as noisy and rowdy as a prairie thunderstorm. McCall, on the other hand, was like the deadly flight of an arrow—silent but lethal.

“All right,” Leach said, when Luke finished his account of Trace’s part in their escape, “Mr. McCall can pick a replacement horse from the army’s stock—maybe
pick up some things at the post trader’s store to replace his lost articles.”

“Obliged,” Trace said.

Leach turned back to Luke. “As for you, Lieutenant, you can report back to duty. But make no mistake, you’re not off my shit list just yet. I’ll file my report on this incident, and we’ll see what disciplinary action is called for.”

*   *   *

“What are you aimin’ to do now?” Buck asked as he and Trace led their horses toward the sutler’s store.

“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t reckon I’ll stay around here for longer’n it takes to replace some of what I lost on my packhorse.”

“I swear,” Buck snorted, “you’re gittin’ so you can’t stay around people for more’n two or three days before you go hightailing it back up in them mountains.”

Trace laughed. “Now, that ain’t exactly so, Buck. I’ve been hanging around with you for the most part of a week. ’Course most folks wouldn’t call that the same as hanging around with people.”

Buck snorted again and spat to show what he thought of Trace’s humor. “I thought you might wanna ride on back to Promise Valley with me. It’s been a while, and there’s folks there who’d like to see you.”

“How
is
Jamie?” Trace asked.

“Last I saw her, she was workin’ that little farm of her daddy’s like a man. I swear, she can outwork ol’ Jordan any day of the week. You mighta made a big mistake not marrying that gal.” He cocked an eye at Trace, his tone almost wistful. “I thought the two of you would end up together.”

“And do what?” Trace replied. “Settle down in Promise Valley and raise young’uns?”

Buck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand
while he studied his friend’s face for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “I reckon not. You’d hear the call of a hawk before the first year was out. Jamie’d turn around and you’d be gone.”

“I expect so,” Trace replied softly, his mind drifting back years ago to a young Shoshoni maiden on the banks of the Green River. She remained fresh in his mind even after all this time, and he wondered if he ever entered her thoughts. There was a time, years ago, when he was inclined to look for her. But things got in his way, and before he knew it, years had passed and he finally decided it was not in the cards for the two of them. He often reminded himself that it was she who slipped off in the night, leaving him no word of her whereabouts. Still the smoky fragrance of her raven-black hair lingered in his memory, to surface occasionally in moments like this.

S
ergeant Michael Barnes, sergeant of the guard on the night just past, walked out of the orderly room holding a cup of steaming black coffee. He stood on the wood stoop for a few moments, evaluating the coming day as he looked out toward the east to catch the first rays of light on the silent prairie. First light, it was his favorite time of day, while the post was still and peaceful, before the first blasts from the bugler. He glanced back toward the bakery and almost spilled his coffee when he discovered an Indian boy quietly sitting on his horse no more than fifty feet from him.

“Damn,” Barnes swore. Turning to the sentry standing by the orderly room door, he asked, “I swear I didn’t see that boy when I came out the door.” Looking back at the Indian boy, who remained silent as he stared at the door of the headquarters building, Barnes spoke again. “How long has he been settin’ there starin’ like that?”

“Can’t say for sure, Sergeant,” the, sentry replied. “It was awful dark out here. I didn’t see nothin’, didn’t hear nothin’. Then, first light, and there he was. Kinda spooky, ain’t he? Scared the shit outta me at first, I can tell you that—till I seen he was just a boy.”

“Well, what does he want?”

“I don’t know. I asked him what he wanted, but I
reckon he don’t understand American. He just sets there starin’, so I just let him be.”

Barnes shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to the cup of coffee he was sipping. One of the privileges that came with guard duty was having the following day free from fatigue details, and the sergeant was taking his leisure to enjoy a morning cup before catching up on a little of the sleep he had lost the night before.

The sergeant stood outside the door until he had finished the bitter black brew, leaning against the wall, occasionally glancing at the stone-still Indian boy on the gray spotted pony. Finally his curiosity got the best of him. Tossing the last few swallows from his cup, he stepped off the stoop and walked toward the boy. The boy did not move as Barnes approached, but his eyes followed the sergeant’s every step until Barnes stopped two paces from his pony’s nose.

“Somethin’ I can do for you, son?”

“Buck,” the boy replied.

“Buck?” Barnes echoed. The boy nodded solemnly. “Whaddaya mean, Buck?”

“Buck,” the boy repeated.

Barnes shook his head, puzzled. “Do you speak any white-man talk?” He could see by the boy’s confused expression that he didn’t. “Well, now, that makes things a little harder, don’t it?” He pulled at his whiskers, thinking. “Buck, you say?”

“Buck,” was the quick response.

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, boy.” He glanced up then to see Lamar Thomas walking to the sutler’s store. “Mr. Thomas,” he called, “you know an Injun word that sounds like Buck?”

Lamar stopped and turned around to look at the boy, who promptly uttered, “Buck.” Lamar thought for a minute trying to recall his limited Indian vocabulary.
He couldn’t think of any word that sounded like that. “Maybe it ain’t Injun. Maybe he’s looking for somebody named Buck. Buck Ransom’s still here if he didn’t cut out this morning. At least Buck can talk his lingo.” He motioned for the boy to follow him. “Come on,” Lamar said and started walking. The boy appeared hesitant, but when Lamar didn’t turn around again and just kept walking, he nudged his pony and followed.

Lamar found Buck behind the stables, where the old trapper had spread his blankets the night before. Now he was busy packing up in preparation for the trip back to his cabin in Promise Valley. He looked up to see Lamar approaching on foot followed by the Indian boy on a pony. As soon as he came close enough, Buck recognized the boy.

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Buck muttered. He looked beyond the two, expecting to see the boy’s mother. “What are you doin’ back here all by yourself? Where’s your mama?” From the quizzical expression on the young boy’s face, Buck realized he didn’t understand English, so he repeated the questions in Shoshoni.

There was immediate change in the boy’s expression. His face lit up at the familiar sound of his own tongue. Without further hesitation, he told Buck of the massacre of Broken Arm’s band and the death of his mother. Buck’s heart went out to the boy.
What a shame
, he thought,
that pretty little Snake woman.
For a brief moment, he pictured the young Indian maiden who had captivated Trace McCall’s adolescent heart—then left as quickly as she had appeared. That brief encounter had resulted in this precocious young boy standing before him now—looking for his daddy, and Trace didn’t even know he existed. The news would most likely hit Trace McCall pretty hard. He never mentioned it, but Buck suspected that Trace still carried
a special memory of the young girl called Blue Water.

“Are you called Buck?” White Eagle asked when he had related the details of the tragedy that befell his people. “My mother told me to come here and find Buck.”

“Yeah, I’m Buck. I’m the one your mother sent you to find.” He paused to nod to Lamar Thomas who excused himself, saying he had to open the store, leaving the two talking. Buck was puzzled at first as to why Blue Water had sent her son to find him instead of making his way back to the Snake village. But after thinking on it for a few minutes, he figured that the main band of Snakes must have been too far ahead of Broken Arm’s band. And rather than have the lad ride alone through Sioux and Arapaho territory, she knew it was closer for him to run back to Laramie. It was Trace she wanted the boy to find, but she had no idea where Trace might be—so she sent him to Buck, hoping Trace’s friend could find him.

White Eagle was studying the old mountain man intensely, wondering if this old graybeard could possibly be the Mountain Hawk his mother had talked about. He had pictured a younger man. “Are you my father?” he finally asked.

Buck smiled.
So she did tell you about your daddy, did she?
In the boy’s tongue, he said, “No, your father left here yesterday, heading for the Big Horn country.”

There was a discernible change of expression on White Eagle’s face, a mixture of relief and disappointment—relief that the grizzled old trapper was not the legendary Mountain Hawk he had been told of—disappointment that he had missed seeing his real father by one day. He was now at a loss as to what he should do. He couldn’t stay there in a strange land, a land where there were many enemies of the Shoshoni. His
only possessions were the pony he rode, a knife, and a bow with no arrows. He was not without the courage to fight, but he knew he was in no position to defend himself if it came to that.

Reading the concern now etched in the boy’s face, Buck made a quick decision to change his plans to return to Promise Valley. After all, this was Trace McCall’s son, even if Trace had no notion of the boy’s existence. He knew Trace well enough to know that he would feel responsible for the boy—at least responsible enough to see White Eagle safely back to Chief Washakie’s village.

“Your mother told you the right thing,” Buck said. “I’ll take you to find your father. He’s not but a day ahead of us and he’s not in any particular hurry.” Again, he read relief in the boy’s face. “We’ll catch him,” Buck assured him.

White Eagle nodded and expressed his thanks, trying hard to disguise the concern that had worried him moments before. Buck could not help but marvel at the resemblance to Trace.
The spittin’ image of Trace McCall
, he thought.
I could have picked him outta a crowd to be Trace’s son.
He thought back to the time when he first met Trace. Trace wasn’t a great deal older than this half-Shoshoni boy before him now when Buck caught him stealing beaver from his traps. Buck almost laughed when he thought about it. Trace, left on his own in the mountains, was robbing Buck and Frank Brown’s beaver traps for food. Buck shook his head and chuckled,
He was a damn sight ways from a Mountain Hawk back then.