Old Broken Arm suddenly released the water he had just scooped in his cupped hand, letting it trickle through his fingers as he strained to listen. His warrior’s instincts confirmed the faint sound he thought he had heard—like that of a moccasin treading upon a small pine branch. Forgetting his thirst, he rose to his feet, looking all around him, aware also that a sparrow lark singing noisily moments before was now silent.
Looking across the wildly swirling waters of the wide stream, to the lodges of his small party, arrayed in a half circle—fourteen tipis in all—he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he had a feeling that something was wrong. It might be a good idea to alert the young men and take a look around the camp. This country was familiar hunting ground for both the Sioux and Cheyenne, and Broken Arm’s band was small, mostly relatives, numbering only twenty-eight warriors and thirty-two women and children. Unaware of the Sioux warrior behind him, he turned, too late to avoid the heavy war ax that buried in his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and driving him backward into the stream. Unable to give a warning cry, or defend himself, Broken Arm was set upon by the grinning warrior, the old Shoshoni’s blood already tinting the rapidly running water.
Twenty yards downstream, a Snake woman paused in the process of filling her water skins to puzzle over the crimson streaks flowing past the rock she knelt on. At almost the same instant she realized it was blood, the eerie war cries of the Sioux raiding party rang out across the little valley, and suddenly the peaceful camp was shattered by an explosion of cracking rifles and war whoops. Dropping the water skins, she ran for her life, only to be tumbled to the ground by an arrow between her shoulder blades.
In the confusion of the surprise attack, Broken Arm’s young men ran to get their weapons in an attempt to repel the hated Sioux. But Iron Pony had planned his attack well. Outnumbering the unsuspecting Snakes, his warriors converged upon the camp from all sides, slaughtering men, women, and children—even the dogs were slain. Most of the Snakes were killed within a half hour. The few that had managed to avoid the dreadful sweep through their camp scurried to take refuge in a rock-strewn pocket of willows and brush. Of these, only four were warriors, while the remaining seven were either women or children.
Working frantically to help dig firing pits for the men, Blue Water called to her son. White Eagle heard his mother’s calling, but he did not come to her. Instead, he had taken a place beside the four warriors, facing the attacking Sioux, his bow ready to shoot as long as he had arrows. Though little more than eleven summers, he was ready to fight for his people.
It was a hopeless defense, as the four warriors had very little ammunition. After an initial volley, they were forced to retreat back to the cover of the pocket to reload. Amid the storm of rifle balls and arrows, the boy stood firm until his last arrow was shot. Then he scrambled to the cover of the streambank where his mother still clawed at the rocky soil with her bare hands. He tried to shield her with his body, a knife now his only weapon.
“We cannot stay here!” one of the warriors shouted as the hailstorm of Sioux arrows began to find the range, and the whine of bullets was almost constant. “Run for the gully on the other bank!” The words had barely left his lips when a rifle ball split his forehead, and he sank to his knees.
Blue Water screamed in horror as the warrior tried to get to his feet. No longer in control of his limbs, he took two wobbly steps before collapsing helplessly on the rocky soil. Grabbing White Eagle by the arm, she scrambled over the side of the sandy pocket after the other fleeing survivors. Spotted immediately by the Sioux warriors, the remaining Shoshoni men turned back to meet the overpowering numbers of their assailants in an attempt to give the women and children time to escape.
White Eagle turned to stand with the men, but Blue Water yanked him around and dragged him after her. “It is hopeless,” she cried as she pulled the reluctant boy along behind her. “Live to fight another day.”
The mouth of the gully was no more than a few yards away now, as they made their way up the bank of the stream. Behind him, White Eagle heard the death moans of the three Snake warriors as they were overrun by the bloodthirsty Sioux. Looking straight ahead, his eyes fixed on his mother’s back, he was aware of the stinging bullets spitting in the sand around her feet as she ran. Just as Blue Water reached the mouth of the gully, she fell. White Eagle thought that she had stumbled, only noticing the dark stain spreading between her shoulder blades when he tried to help her up.
“Mother!” he cried, but she only gasped as her lungs began to fill with blood. Frantic, he took her wrists in his hands and dragged her into the gully. Safe for a moment, he tried to prop her up in an effort to keep her windpipe clear of the blood that was choking her. Her eyes fluttered wildly as she struggled to breathe, but it was becoming more and more difficult, and he knew that she was dying. Looking back down the gully in the direction of the pursuing warriors, his eyes were captured by an image that would burn in his mind forever. It was the leering face of a white man, staring straight at him. As White Eagle knelt frozen for an instant, the man laughed and started to reload his rifle.
“My son,” Blue Water suddenly said, calm for a moment, “you must get away from here.” She groaned from the effort required to form the words. “We are too far from Washakie and the others. Go back to Fort Laramie and look for the old white trapper called Buck. He is a good man. He will help you find our people.”
“I can’t leave you here,” he cried, his gaze shifting frantically from his mother back to the evil white face under the flat-crowned black hat. The man’s horse, frightened by the shooting close behind it, reared and jumped, causing the man to fumble with his rifle, unable to reload it quickly.
“Go!” Blue Water commanded. “I am dying.” Then she smiled at her son—her only child—the son of the Mountain Hawk.
Blue Water did not slip peacefully into the spirit world. The rifle ball that tore into her lungs and damaged her internal organs caused a massive flow of blood that literally strangled her to death. It was not of a long duration, but the agony his mother endured before she finally lay still in death would remain in White Eagle’s memory, a vivid and lasting picture.
Even as he lay her gently back on the sand, he could hear the footsteps of the swarming Sioux warriors as they splashed through the stream and charged up the bank toward him. There was no time to run. He thought of leaping from the gully to meet them, to die like the warrior he sought to be. But his rational mind told him his mother was right. He must try to survive and live to avenge his mother’s death. With no chance to run for it, he did the only thing he could think of. Smearing his mother’s blood on his face and neck, he lay down next to her, hoping the Sioux would think him dead.
Moments later, they were there, pouring over the sides of the gully, chasing after the few terrified survivors who were running in a desperate effort to reach the hills beyond the stream. Two Sioux warriors paused briefly to stare down at the woman and boy in the bottom of the gully. Satisfied that they were dead, and anxious to participate in the slaughter of the final survivors, they raced after their brothers. There was no sign of the white man in the black hat. Had it been an illusion, brought on by the terrible slaughter going on around him? At that moment, he was not sure.
Lying next to his dead mother, White Eagle breathed once again. He knew he had been lucky, and he also knew he didn’t have much time. When the Sioux had completed the massacre, they would be back to take scalps. He had to find a better place to hide until dark. Then he could make his escape. Cautiously raising his head above the edge of the gully, he peered after the warriors who had just passed him. They were intent on overtaking the Snake women running toward the hills. Looking back toward the camp, he saw the main body of the war party busily scalping and plundering among the tipis. Behind him were the open plains and no chance for escape until darkness could hide him.
His eyes darted back and forth frantically, searching for a safe place. He had to hurry, the warriors would be back soon! Finally his gaze fell upon a hollow cottonwood. Larger than the others, it had been struck by lightning sometime in the past, and now it was no more than a shell, hollowed out by the fire that had resulted. The opening on one side looked just big enough for a boy his size to squeeze through. There being no better choice, he crawled the length of the gully, and keeping low behind the bank of the stream, made his way back toward the riotous band of Sioux, now whooping and laughing in celebration of their victory.
With more difficulty than he had at first anticipated, White Eagle was able to force his body through the opening in the hollow trunk, leaving some of his skin in the process. Once inside, he found he had room to stand, though his chamber was extremely confining. There were splits and cracks large enough for him to see through, but his hiding place was not obvious to anyone who might not suspect it. It was through one of these cracks that he saw the white man ride into the center of the plundering Sioux.
* * *
“Don’t give me that ol’ evil eye, you heathen son of a bitch,” Booth Dalton warned—a wide smile on his face as he said it, knowing the warrior didn’t understand a word of English. He prodded his horse past the sullen brave and made his way through the throng of noisy Indians to sidle up beside Iron Pony. “It was just like I told you, Chief, just ripe for the pickin’.”
Iron Pony was pleased with the overwhelming victory his warriors had earned that day. He would have been more pleased if the Snakes had possessed greater amounts of powder and flints, but a good many rifles were captured, just as Booth had promised. Some of his warriors were suspicious of Booth’s intentions. Although he and his friend, Charlie White Bull, had brought them many things to trade their hides and horses for, there were many in Iron Pony’s camp that did not trust them.
Iron Pony sneered at the thought of the peace treaty just completed. He felt contemptuous of his Sioux and Cheyenne brothers who attended the conference with the white soldiers, sitting to smoke with the Snakes. He would never smoke with the hated Snakes, nor with the soldiers who sought to cheat the Lakotas and push them back from their ancestral hunting grounds. His scouts had told him of the large band of heavily armed Snakes that had made the journey to Fort Laramie. They were too many and too well armed for Iron Pony’s band of Sioux. But then Booth came, claiming to be a friend of the Lakotas, and told him that a smaller group of Snakes had broken off from the main body and was traveling alone. This was when Iron Pony knew the spirits were smiling in his direction. He glanced over at the grinning white man who had just ridden up beside him and smiled. You are my friend, white man, but only until you cross me. Then I will tie your scalp to my lance along with those of these Shoshoni dogs.
Booth Dalton was corrupt, godless, and completely without morals, but he was also a sly fox who considered himself a shrewd conniver. At this particular moment, Booth was feeling justifiably smug for the successful massacre of the unsuspecting Snakes. He grinned unabashed as his witless partner, Charlie White Bull, joined in the looting and mutilating with Iron Pony’s Sioux warriors. It struck Booth as rather humorous that the whole bunch might jump on ol’ Charlie if they knew he was really half Flathead. Like most Injuns, Charlie derived great satisfaction from the mutilation now taking place—it was supposed to make it harder for their dead enemies to find their way in the spirit world, and render them incapable of doing them any more harm. A foolish belief in Booth’s opinion, mutilation of those he had killed never held any interest. So he sat on his horse and watched the savage rituals, a disinterested spectator.
Booth figured his stock with the Sioux chief was bound to go up after leading him to the small band of Snakes heading back from the treaty talks. The bitter hatred between the Sioux and Shoshoni was well known, and even though the Sioux greatly outnumbered Chief Washakie’s warriors, the Snakes held a superiority in firepower—having been well armed by their friend, Jim Bridger. Consequently Booth had figured that Iron Pony would jump at the chance to catch a small band of Snakes out of their territory. Maybe now Booth’s stock would be so high that he could influence the Sioux chief to use his warriors for other purposes beneficial to Booth.
* * *
The boy hiding in the burnt-out hollow tree now knew that the white man he had seen leering at him had not been an illusion. He felt his blood go cold and his body tremble with rage as the murdering white man rode up to talk with the Sioux chief. White Eagle made an effort to sear in his mind the image of the slender man in the black coat and flat-crowned hat. He memorized everything about the man, knowing that the Great Spirit must surely provide him an opportunity for revenge. No matter how far in the future that might be, he would recognize this evil man. He studied his movements and gestures, as the man took a round silver object from his coat pocket, opened it, and peered inside before returning it to his pocket. What it told the man, White Eagle could not guess, but the man looked at the sun before he stared at the object, then looked up at the sun again after he had put it away—so it must hold some strong medicine from the sun. I will remember you, he thought. Someday I will find you and kill you.
Stiff and shivering, his limbs aching from standing motionless for hours, White Eagle began to wonder if the celebrating Sioux were ever going to sleep. He had to fight the almost overpowering urge to break from his confining prison and take his chances in the glow of the many campfires. The one thought that prevented him from taking such foolish action were the words of his mother, Live to fight another day. In spite of his thirst for revenge, he knew that if he were caught trying to escape, he would be no more than an added amusement for the Sioux warriors. If he had any arrows left, it would be different. He could make the price of his death expensive for the hated Sioux. But with only his knife to fight with, he would be easily overpowered and his death would be for nothing. So he waited.
It was long after the moon had risen directly overhead before the last of the dancing and singing finally stopped and the Sioux camp was quiet. When he could see no one walking around the dwindling campfires, he decided it was safe to make his move. Straining as before, he squeezed his body through the narrow opening in the tree trunk, standing for a few moments on legs weak from lack of circulation. Walking unsteadily for a few steps, he quickly regained his balance and was once again his nimble self.
White Eagle made his way carefully between sleeping warriors, exhausted from their celebration and strewn randomly like dead bodies—some with blankets hastily wrapped around them, some lying half naked in the cool night air. It would have been an easy thing to sink his knife in a belly filled with the white man’s firewater, but he resisted the temptation and made his way quickly toward the stream.
Out of the camp now, he crossed the stream to the place where the horses were grazing. As he searched for his own spotted gray pony among the Sioux horse herd, he heard a grunt behind him. Whirling at the sound, he raised his knife, ready to defend himself, only to find a sleeping sentry, groaning in his slumber. His heart started beating again and his muscles relaxed when he realized he was not about to be attacked. He started to walk around the sleeping guard when he hesitated, looking down at the helpless man. Here was one of the men who had murdered his people, lying vulnerable at his feet. There was a great temptation to extract some measure of revenge. He considered the possible consequences. The body would probably not be found until after sunup, by which time he should be hours away. But if he left the sleeping man alone, no one would pursue him. It was a hard decision to make. His heart was filled with grief and outrage over the death of his mother and grandfather. To steal away quietly unnoticed? Or to strike a blow for his people? He fingered the blade of his knife, his mind in a panic of confusion while he stared down at the snoring warrior. The man lay helpless before him, but what if he struck and he didn’t kill the Sioux? The sleeping man shifted slightly, causing his blanket to fall slightly away. White Eagle started in fright, but the warrior did not awaken. A strange token attached to a rawhide string around the warrior’s neck caught White Eagle’s eye. As he stared at it in the moonlight he realized that it was a human tooth. White Eagle looked up at the warrior’s face again. Suddenly the warrior’s eyes popped open, and White Eagle took a step backward, staring horrified at the Sioux.
“What is it?” the warrior asked, still half drunk and groggy with sleep. He reached for the edge of his blanket to pull it over his shoulders.
There was no time to think. Acting on instinct alone, White Eagle quickly knelt down and grabbed the blanket as if to help cover the sleepy man. Then he whispered, “Die, Sioux dog.” The confused warrior did not understand the words, but there was no mistaking their meaning when, a moment later, the blanket was stuffed over his face and White Eagle’s knife opened his throat.
The eruption that followed was almost more than the boy could handle. As soon as he had severed the warrior’s windpipe, White Eagle tried to sit on the man’s head to keep him from throwing the blanket off and yelling an alarm. But the panicked Sioux rose up violently, tossing the boy aside. Staggering to his feet, the Sioux stumbled around in blind confusion, one hand holding his throat, the other swinging wildly in an attempt to defend himself. He could not make a sound other than a choking cough. Finally his stunned brain focused on the boy kneeling before him in the moonlight, and he stumbled unsteadily toward him. Terrified, the boy’s will to survive took over. His heart racing, he managed to avoid the wildly swinging arm. Slipping under it, he struck as hard as he could, sinking his knife in the warrior’s belly. Horrified when the man did not fall down dead, White Eagle backed away as fast as he could, eyes wide as he watched the last moments of the Sioux warrior. His chest glistening in the moonlight with the blood from his throat, the man frantically pulled the knife from his belly and flung it aside. Then he released a long sigh and crumpled to his knees. He remained in that position for a long moment, his eyes wide but seeing nothing. Finally he fell facedown in the grass.
Frozen in shock, White Eagle was unable to move for a long minute, staring at the body only a few feet from him. The realization that he had just killed a man struck him, an enemy, and in close combat. What he had just done was overwhelming, and his mind was in a confusion of shock, fear, and disbelief—but also pride. He might have stood there longer had he not felt a sudden nudge at his back. Startled, he turned to discover that his pony had found him. Awakened to action, he briefly hugged the pony’s neck before picking up a coil of short rawhide line that lay near the body of the Sioux horse guard. He quickly made two half-hitches in the middle of the line, looping them around the pony’s lower jaw for a bridle.
In minutes, the scene of the massacre was far behind him as he urged the gray across the prairie, retracing the trek his people had made the day before. It crossed his mind to circle the Sioux camp and try to continue on the long journey to find the rest of Chief Washakie’s people in the Wind River Mountains. But it was closer to ride back to Fort Laramie—one day if he didn’t stop that night, and this was where his mother had told him to go—to find the white trapper named Buck.
He wondered if Buck was his real father. He had known since he was a small child that Eagle Claw was not his real father. There had been no attempt to keep his white blood a secret. At one time he had hated the fact that he was not a pure-blooded Shoshoni like his mother and grandfather. But his mother had told him that he was not born the son of a typical white man—he was the son of the Mountain Hawk—a man who was feared by the Blackfeet, traditional enemies of the Snakes. After that, he was no longer ashamed to be half white. As he made his way across the moonlit prairie, he tried to recall the white man’s name his mother had called his father. In fact, he couldn’t remember if his mother had actually told him, but Buck didn’t sound familiar. What if this man, Buck, was not at Fort Laramie? He decided to worry about that after he reached the fort.
* * *
The day was clear and unseasonably cool when four weary riders approached the outer buildings of Fort Laramie. Most of the many bands of Indians that had attended the peace talks had been gone for almost a week, with only a few smaller groups lingering on outside the walls. Trace and Buck had set a ground-eating pace from the Black Hills, with no complaints from Lieutenant Austen or Annie Farrior. After the disastrous encounter with Iron Pony’s Sioux, Annie was especially anxious to put hostile country behind her, although she was not looking forward to her reunion with Grace Turner. Burdened with her own grief for the loss of her husband, she now had the sorrowful task of telling Grace of Ned’s death.
To further trouble her mind, she found her thoughts constantly straying toward the slender young lieutenant with the reddish-brown hair and the finely chiseled features. Though it made her feel guilty, she found she could not help herself. Poor Tom’s bones lay in the ground no more than a week, and already there were long periods when he did not cross her mind. She hoped Tom would forgive her, for she had no desire to betray his memory. Even now, as anxious as she had been to reach the safety of the fort, there was a definite feeling of dread that she would no longer see Luke Austen after they got back.
As for the young lieutenant, Luke had a great load on his mind upon reaching Fort Laramie. Foremost was the burden of responsibility he shouldered for the loss of his entire detachment of troopers—and this at a time when the post was dreadfully understrength. He knew he would have to answer for decisions that resulted in such a devastating massacre at the hands of the very tribe the committee was negotiating a peace with. He feared a court-martial might even be called for. In spite of the ominous cloud of concern, there was one thing he was certain of. As soon as it seemed proper to do so, he was going to call on Annie Farrior. It might be callous of him to think of such things with her husband only recently killed, but there wasn’t always time to do things the proper way in this country.
Captain Henry Leach got up from his desk and went to the open door. Moments earlier, his orderly had informed him that four riders were approaching and one of them was plainly Lieutenant Austen. As Leach stood there, he could feel his whole body tensing as the anger rose in his veins. So it was true, he thought. The whole damned troop was wiped out. It further infuriated Leach that his Sioux and Arapaho scouts knew about the massacre long before any official word reached his ears. The damned Indian telegraph, he fumed, unable to understand how news was able to travel so rapidly throughout the Indian nation.
Now, as the four crossed the empty yard of the fort, the captain could readily identify the riders. Austen, Ransom, the woman—but who was the other? Leach had never seen the tall buckskin-clad sandy-haired mountain man before. As he watched, Annie pulled her horse up short, and after a few words with Luke, turned back toward the river to seek out Grace Turner. Good, Leach thought, I don’t have to be bothered with the female. Finding it increasingly difficult to contain his anger, Leach turned on his heel. “Private, escort the lieutenant and the scout in here.” Then he returned to his desk and awaited their arrival.
“Sir, Lieutenant Austen,” the orderly announced and stood aside to let the three men enter.
Leach could not wait to sail into his subordinate. Ignoring Luke’s salute, he rose to his feet and demanded, “Thirty-four men! Maybe you can explain to me how you lost your entire troop, mister!” Luke blanched, but before he could open his mouth to explain, Leach railed on. “With thirty-four dragoons, you should have been able to defend yourself against any size Indian force. I’ll have your explanation, sir!”
Luke, stunned at first by the hostile reception, steeled himself to meet the captain’s angry tone. “We were led into a trap, sir, and attacked by a superior force of Sioux. There was no way we could hold out against the overwhelming odds.”
“How in hell could you be foolish enough to be led into an ambush? Maybe they didn’t teach you that at West Point, but out here any shavetail junior officer knows that you don’t go chasing after a few Indians into a blind draw.”
Before Luke could respond, Buck figured it was time to butt in. He didn’t particularly care for the direction Leach was taking. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but none of this was Lieutenant Austen’s fault. It was that damned double-dealin’ renegade Bull Hump. He damn shore set us up for that massacre—led us right into that box canyon.”
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.