“Damn 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.
Seeing that Booth was just about to lose consciousness, Trace eased his grip on the scoundrel’s throat slightly. “Where is the boy?” he demanded. “Is he alive?”
His windpipe already partially crushed, Booth could barely whisper. “If I tell you, will you let me go?” he rasped.
Too enraged to lie, Trace replied, “I’ll let you go to hell where you belong.”
Clearly seeing the end of his evil life only moments away, Booth resigned himself to his death, and in one last act of spite, said, “He’s dead, and you can go to hell.”
The pronouncement hit Trace like a rifle shot, and he clamped down on Booth’s neck, slowly crushing the life from his lungs. He held the hated renegade in his death grip long after Booth’s body went limp—his face now a terrified mask with bulging eyeballs that seemed to have stared Satan in the eye. Finally, Trace flung the lifeless body from him and stood up. Looking back toward the fire, he discovered Charlie White Bull painfully straining to drag himself to his rifle.
Trace walked over to the tree, picked up the rifle and tossed it out of reach. Seeing that Trace was coming to finish him off, Charlie pulled his knife from his belt, and falling back on his side, waited for Trace to attack. Trace paused for a moment to stand over the mortally wounded half-breed, his eyes blazing with hatred. Then suddenly he struck, kicking the knife from Charlie’s hand and pinning him to the ground before the half-breed could react.
Charlie tried to resist, but already he was too weak from the loss of blood to put up much of a fight. Seeing death reflected in the tall mountain man’s eyes, Charlie gave up his struggles and started to chant his death song.
“Is the boy dead?” Trace asked.
“No,” Charlie answered weakly, “he’s with the Gros Ventres on the Yellowstone.” The half-breed saw no reason to lie at his hour of death.
Trace released his hold on the dying man, and got to his feet. He stood over him once more and watched the man’s agonized struggling. Then he pulled out his pistol and put a ball into Charlie’s brain, ending the half-breed’s torment, a payment for his honesty. With the sudden report of the pistol, everything seemed to go silent. Even the wind stopped its whispered song through the pine needles, and Trace felt a heavy cloak of melancholy fall about his shoulders. Instead of the sweet release of vengeance he had long anticipated when the score had been settled with Blue Water’s killers, he found that he was only saddened more by her loss. The loss was even more devastating because he had really never had the opportunity to know her as his wife. Looking now at the two bodies sprawled before him, he wanted to cry out to the spirits that this was not enough. Then he thought of the boy—their son, his and Blue Water’s, and he gathered his emotions again and tucked them away deep inside where he always kept private thoughts—away from the rest of the world—and turned his mind toward rescuing his son.
Without bothering to drag the two corpses away from the campsite, Trace lay down by the fire and slept the sleep of the weary. Sometime during the night, he awakened and, realizing his carelessness, unsaddled his horse and took the packs from his packhorse. Then he lay down again and slept until dawn.
Rested now, he was eager to complete his quest. Before bidding the late Booth Dalton and Charlie White Bull farewell, he gathered their weapons and ammunition. With his own bow and quiver once again on his back, he took the silver watch from Booth’s pocket, opened it, and read the inscription. THOMAS L. FARRIOR, LOVE FROM ANNIE. It would mean a great deal to Annie to have this returned. He tied the gray spotted pony behind his packhorse and cut the other horses loose. With the job he had ahead of him, he couldn’t bother with extra horses. Everything finished there, he turned the paint’s head toward the Yellowstone.
* * *
For the past week, Wounded Horse had kept his village in a state of readiness. Every day scouts went out to scour the surrounding prairie and hills, watching for signs of the Mountain Hawk. Fire That Burns had told of dreams he’d had that foretold of the coming of this white man-spirit. For three nights in a row, he had dreamed of hawks—there could be no other interpretation. There had been many dances celebrating the honor and prestige that would come to the village when the golden scalp of the Mountain Hawk was displayed on the council lodge.
While White Eagle was treated with kindness, he soon found that he was still regarded as a captive. He was never allowed to leave the village alone. When he asked old Three Toes why the men of the village appeared to be preparing for war, he was told that it was nothing but springtime ceremonies. The boy suspected there was more to it than that, but he could not get any more information out of the old man, and Three Toes’s wife never spoke to White Eagle at all.
* * *
Several miles away, Trace knelt down to examine the tracks of two horses in a patch of snow. They were recent enough to tell him that he must be getting close to a village. He must exercise even more caution now to avoid encountering any Gros Ventre hunting parties. After another mile or so up the valley, the hunting trails grew more numerous, and he decided it was time to find a place to hide his horses. Most of his scouting would be on foot from that point and under the cover of darkness.
On the eastern side of a low line of hills, he finally found what he was looking for, a sheltered defile that was ringed by thick pines—close enough to the village that he could hear occasional voices on the wind. Here he made his camp and waited for nightfall.
When the last few shafts of light finally faded away, he laid his rifle aside. Taking up his bow and knife, he left his hideaway and started for the Gros Ventre camp. There was still too much snow on the ground to avoid leaving tracks altogether, so he would just have to trust to luck, and try to mix his tracks with others that he encountered.
Long before he had made his way up a low hill some two hundred yards from the village, he could see the glow of a huge fire reflected on the dark clouds overhead, and hear the chanting of a war dance. Sounds like they’re getting ready for something big, he thought. Upon reaching the top of the hill, he saw the Gros Ventre village before him, spread along the riverbank. He estimated over a hundred tipis, and a large pony herd below the camp. It would not be an easy task to find the boy, especially at night, but the risk of getting close to the camp in daylight was too great.
Twice, while making his way down the hill and across the narrow valley floor, he was forced to stop and take cover to prevent encounters with a Gros Ventre rider patrolling the perimeter of the camp. It caused him to wonder. It was not the usual routine for a camp this size, especially in winter. Possibly the village was expecting an attack from some enemy.
When at last he worked his way up behind the outermost lodges, he began to edge his way around the camp, sometimes on his hands and knees, trying to find some clue that might indicate where White Eagle was being held. There was not much he could see. Still he continued to work his way around the camp, watching the people of the village as they either joined in or watched the dancers. There were many children in the camp, but none that could be distinguished as White Eagle. Finally he had to admit that his efforts were meeting only with frustration, and he backed away a bit to contemplate his situation.
After giving it much thought, he decided that it would be impossible to find White Eagle at night. He could be in any one of over one hundred tipis. It was going to be risky as hell, but he was going to have to find a place to hide himself in the daylight, close enough to see the goings and comings of the village.
He spent the rest of the night trying to find a proper location to hide himself. An ideal spot would be on a rise on the west side of the camp in a stand of trees, but he rejected it because the sun would be directly in his eyes for much of the early morning. Stopping once again to lay flat on his stomach as another Gros Ventre warrior rode by, he then made his way along the riverbank until he found a place that might be suitable. In fact, it may have been made to order. A large log lay close to the river, held on the bank by two smaller trees. By scooping out the snow between the two trees, Trace found that he could fashion a sizable hole beneath the log. Once he had dug out enough to accommodate his body, he crawled inside. Using his bow as a rake, he pulled the snow back up to the log and smoothed it out as best he could. He could only hope he did an adequate job of disguising his handiwork—daylight would be the ultimate judge. There was nothing to do now but wait for morning, so he made himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances, knowing that if he were discovered, this snowbank would be his coffin.
When the sun rose the following morning, Trace was surprised to find that he had dozed off during the wee hours before dawn. For now he could already hear sounds of the village waking up. Anxious to see if his snow cave gave him the vantage point he had thought it would during the dark of night, he raked a small observation hole under the log. He was disappointed to find that he could only see about half of the camp—but that half he could at least see clearly. It might be necessary to find a better spot, but for now, he had no choice but to stay where he was, maybe even until that night.
Hours passed and Trace watched as the daily life of the Gros Ventre village unfolded. A few of the women cooked the morning meal outside, even though there was still snow on the ground. Smoke from the smoke-flaps of the tipis was evidence that the majority preferred the comfort inside the warm lodges. Cramped and hungry, Trace envied those warriors still in their fur robes as he rubbed his arms and legs to stimulate some circulation.
Gradually the village came to life. Some of the men went to tend their horses, only a few prepared to go hunting, a fact that puzzled Trace. He saw many young boys running between the lodges, but none that looked like White Eagle. After a while, he began to wonder if the half-breed had lied to him about the boy. As he grew more and more uncomfortable, he started to question the wisdom in burying himself in this frigid hole.
Later in the morning he spotted the chief of this band of Gros Ventres. His lodge was in the center of the village, close to what appeared to be a council lodge. From the manner in which other men of the camp approached this man, Trace could tell that he was either a chief or at least a respected member of the tribe. As Trace watched, an old warrior came from one of the lodges close to the chief’s and went to talk to him. Then the older man returned to his tipi and said something to someone inside. A few moment later, White Eagle emerged and went around behind the tipi to relieve himself in a patch of bushes.
He was no more than fifty yards away. Trace could feel the muscles in his arms tense, and he had to remind himself to remain calm. Had there not been twenty or thirty warriors milling about, he might have made a move to grab the boy right then. But he knew that would be suicide, and it would get both of them killed. He turned his attention back to the old warrior who positioned himself a few yards away from White Eagle, obviously guarding the boy. Even though he would have to wait for a better opportunity, Trace now knew which lodge White Eagle was being held in.
Suddenly he heard a voice behind him, and he was sure he had been discovered. Quickly turning over to defend himself, he expected to find someone pulling the snow away from the log. Instead, he saw two Gros Ventre women walking to the water’s edge. During the early hours, the snow had evidently fallen away from the log, creating a long narrow gap through which he could clearly see the two women. Every nerve in his body seemed to be twitching at once. If they chanced to turn in his direction, they could not help but discover him, stretched out under the log. At that moment, he wondered how far he could get before a Gros Ventre war pony ran him to ground after the women screamed in alarm.
A stupid way to die, he thought. But the women turned away from him and began to fill their water skins. Lying as still as he possibly could, he listened to their conversation.
“My husband refuses to go out to hunt, and I have cooked the last of that puny deer. I’ll see how he likes eating nothing but pemmican.”
Her companion laughed. “Mine, too. None of the men want to be away from the village when the Mountain Hawk comes for his son.”
Hearing her words, Trace was astonished. They know I am coming? White Eagle must have said he would come. How else could they know?
Listening again, he heard the first woman say, “My husband says that Lame Elk thinks this hawk is a mortal man, but Wounded Horse is certain he is a spirit.”
“My husband agrees with Wounded Horse,” the second woman replied. “He knows the Blackfoot chief who saw the white man turn into a hawk and fly away.”
Trace didn’t listen closely to the rest of their conversation, his mind was too busy working on the startling information just heard. This news changed his plans dramatically. Thinking before that his task would be simply to steal into the camp at night and take the boy, hopefully while everyone was asleep, he now had to consider other factors. Now he understood the roving sentinels that constantly scouted around the perimeter of the camp. The whole village was waiting for him to show up. With his original plan, he felt it would have been highly likely that the Indians would think White Eagle had run away on his own. They might not have even cared enough to go after him. But now Trace could see the stakes were higher—the Gros Ventres were intent upon killing what they thought to be a spirit. When he took the boy, they would most definitely come after them. He would have to think on it, come up with some way to ensure a good head start after he got the boy.
During the morning, several more women followed the same path to the river to fill waterskins while Trace lay hidden in his cave. Stiff and fidgety, he longed to extricate himself from his snowy grave but was resolved that he must wait until darkness. Later on in the afternoon, he came to change his mind, for more than an hour had passed with no one venturing close to his hiding place, not even the mounted perimeter guards. His discomfort had advanced to the point where he was approaching a reckless state of mind, causing him to conclude that there was little risk that he would be seen.
Slowly at first, he raked the snow away, his hands red and stiff from the cold. Then, once he thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, his efforts became more rapid, as he wriggled his body out into the open, searching constantly from side to side, expecting to be discovered at any minute. His joints frozen from the long confinement, he staggered to his feet, taking care to remain behind the cover of the trees. So far, so good, he thought. There was no one around. Watching the people moving back and forth through the camp, he was satisfied to see that no one looked in his direction. Taking a few moments to smooth the snow around the log again, he then hurried down the riverbank, leaving the village behind.
It was necessary to make a wide circle around the Gros Ventre camp to avoid being seen. Even so, he was obliged to dive for cover once to avoid two warriors on horseback. When all was clear again, he crossed the river valley and entered the pines that ringed the line of low hills where he had made his camp. As he made his way back to check on his horses, he tried to formulate a plan to rescue White Eagle that would allow them enough time to gain a sizable lead on their pursuers. The only way that could happen, he concluded, was if there was some distraction to occupy the warriors when he made a try for the boy. At that moment, he didn’t know what that could be.
As he neared the tree-lined defile where he had made his camp, he stopped to listen. Hearing nothing but the afternoon breeze stirring the pine needles, he continued on. A little closer—now he could hear the horses stamping nervously, sensing his presence, he presumed. The paint’s showing his displeasure for leaving him all night without any feed, Trace thought as he entered the head of the defile. Well, you ain’t the only one that didn’t get any supper.
The thought had barely left his mind when he was suddenly knocked sprawling to the ground with such force that he was sure he had been attacked by a mountain lion. Instinctively rolling with the blow, he was on his feet in an instant, to find himself confronted by a painted Gros Ventre warrior. Knife in hand, the warrior attacked, slashing out at Trace as he charged, causing Trace to back away while he tried to pull his own knife. The warrior was quick and powerful. Trace had to lunge sideways, diving in the snow once again to avoid the slashing knife. Seeing his adversary on the ground, the warrior sprang upon him, his face a mask of triumph, only to register mortal shock a moment later when Trace’s long Green River knife measured the depth of his belly. Still the Indian struggled, trying to find Trace’s throat with his own blade. With his hand still on the handle buried deep in the warrior’s belly, and his other clamping the wrist of the Indian’s knife hand, Trace got to his feet, lifting the warrior with him. Once on his feet, Trace slammed the warrior down in the snow, withdrawing his knife as he did so. The warrior, gasping with pain that seared his innards, struggled to get up, knowing he was finished. Trace stood over him for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. When he saw there was still some fight left in the warrior, he reached down, grabbed his topknot and pulled his head up. One quick slash with his knife opened the Indian’s throat before Trace let him drop to the ground.
When it was over, he sat down in the snow, still a little stunned by the sudden attack on his life. His assailant lay dying at his feet, his only motion a series of violent spasms as a scarlet stain spread under him in the snow. That was damn close, Trace thought, scolding himself for being ambushed so easily. He had been lucky, however. If the warrior had not launched his body so violently, he might not have knocked Trace out of reach of his knife hand. It was close, but Trace didn’t dwell on it, having accepted the fact long ago that it took a generous portion of luck to survive as a lone white man in Indian territory. He got on his feet and checked on his horses.
“You tried to warn me. I just didn’t listen,” he said as he stroked the paint’s muzzle.
He found the Gros Ventre’s pony halfway down the back of the slope, tied to a small pine. Not willing to risk having a riderless horse wander into the Gros Ventre village, Trace moved the horse down the hill a few dozen yards to a thicket and tied the animal in the center of it. “At least you won’t starve to death before somebody finds you.”
The next question to be resolved was what to do with the dead Indian—if anything. If one Indian could stumble upon Trace’s camp, then it was not out of the question for another to do the same. Maybe I should at least cover him with snow, he thought. And then a better idea occurred to him—one that might serve two purposes. To make good his attempt to rescue his son, he needed a diversion of some kind. Now he had one.
* * *
When it was just about dark, Trace began his preparations. Earlier that afternoon, he had selected his spot, a clearing on the highest point of the hill, a spot that could be easily seen from the Indian village. Now with twilight approaching, he gathered a great amount of dead limbs and branches and stacked them just out of sight below the ridge of the hill. When darkness finally came, he went back for his horses. Lifting the warrior’s corpse onto the back of White Eagle’s pony he returned to the hilltop. Selecting a stout limb, he dug a hole in the ground and drove the limb in it, pounding it down with a large rock. When he thought it steady enough, he carried the corpse over and propped it upright against the limb. The weight of the body proved to be too much for the shallow footing of the limb, and it promptly toppled over.
Not discouraged, Trace replaced the limb, then piled rocks around the base of it. Again, the limb toppled. Refusing to be defeated by a dead Indian, Trace dragged the body back a few yards to a tree at the edge of the clearing. Taking a coil of rope from his pack, he tied it under the Indian’s arms and threw the other end over a limb. Letting his horse do the lifting, he raised the corpse off the ground and tied it off around the tree trunk. Hell, that’s better, anyway, he thought. Makes him look about ten feet tall.
Satisfied with his Mountain Hawk, he brought the dead wood up from below the brow of the hill and formed a large stack behind the Indian hanging from the limb. When he figured the time was right to start the show, he spread some of his Du Pont black powder along the base of the firewood, and then lit a dry branch.
When the branch was burning with a healthy flame, Trace began to yell at the top of his lungs. “Awaken, Gros Ventre dogs! I am the Mountain Hawk. Come and fight me, if you are not afraid!” He kept yelling it over and over until he saw signs of activity outside the tipis below. I hope to hell this doesn’t fizzle, he thought as he threw the flaming branch into the stack of wood.
It was better than he had hoped for. A huge, bright fireball bellowed out from the stack when the fire ignited the gunpowder, and the dead wood was soon blazing, casting an eerie backlight behind the hanging body. “I am the Mountain Hawk,” he shouted once more before jumping on his horse and hightailing it down the other side of the hill, trailing his other two horses behind him.
Time was important now. It was critical to the success of his plan that he should circle around behind the Gros Ventre camp so as to be in position to act at the peak of confusion. He raced through the night, dodging the gullies and breaks, praying that the paint could find its footing. Out of the cover of the trees and across the open valley he galloped, trusting to luck that he did not meet one of the scouts who had been patrolling the village. He could already hear the sounds coming from the Indian camp over the pounding of his horses’ hooves.
In the Gros Ventre village, there was an explosion of frenzied activity. Chief Wounded Horse, confused at first, quickly shouted to all who could hear his voice to arm themselves and ride. Like a disturbed anthill, angry warriors, long awaiting the fateful coming of the Mountain Hawk, now scurried frantically to grab their weapons and run for their ponies. Terrified women screamed as they witnessed the fiery spectacle on the hill where a spirit in the form of a man hovered over the ground like a hawk.
In the midst of the stampede to charge toward the hill, Wounded Horse looked around and discovered Three Toes and his wife, standing and staring at the fearful sight. “Go and guard the boy! Don’t let him out of your sight!” the chief commanded.
Three Toes nodded excitedly and hurried back to his lodge, leaving his wife to gape horrified at the ghostly scene. He reached the lodge just in time to stop White Eagle from joining in the chaos. He had not learned many words of their tongue, but he was sure he had heard “Mountain Hawk.”
“Back inside,” Three Toes ordered. “It is not for you to see.”
White Eagle resisted but was forcefully taken back in the tipi. “I heard them shouting about the Mountain Hawk,” he insisted. “Is my father here?” Three Toes did not answer, pushing the boy back. “If my father is here, let me go to him!”
Three Toes sat the boy down, and tried to calm him. “Your father is not here,” he said. “It is nothing—a fire on the hill, that is all. It’s best that you stay here.”
White Eagle made up his mind to dash around the old man, and go out to see for himself what had caused such an uproar in the village. He was on his feet when he heard the ripping of the tipi wall behind him. Turning at the sound, he was startled to see the long blade of a skinning knife as it parted the inner lining of the tipi. He jumped back in fright when Trace suddenly burst through the opening. Then recognizing the tall mountain man, his heart leaped for joy.
There was no time for a joyous reunion. Stepping past the stunned boy, Trace sprang immediately upon Three Toes, quickly pinning the old man to the ground. Three Toes struggled briefly in an effort to defend himself, but he realized at once that he was no match for the powerful mountain man.
“Don’t kill him!” White Eagle cried out. “He has been kind to me.”
Trace hesitated, looking at the boy, then back at the old man, caught helplessly in his grip. “Hand me that rope,” he said, nodding toward a coil of rawhide line hanging from a lodgepole. When Three Toes was securely bound and gagged, Trace dragged the old man over to the side of the lodge. While Trace was taking care of Three Toes, White Eagle stood at the entrance to the tipi, keeping watch for Raven, Three Toes’s wife. She was apparently in the middle of the crowd of children and women who were anxiously watching the fiery apparition on the hill.
“Come,” Trace said, and pushed through the slit in the back of the tipi. Outside in the cold night air, he paused only long enough to see that White Eagle was right behind him, then made for the riverbank at a trot. Behind them, the sounds of the frightened women drifted over the camp like the moaning of the wind, as Trace and his son ran along the bank to the willows where the horses were tied.
“Gray Thunder!” White Eagle cried when they reached the willows.
“What!” Trace responded, reacting at once, ready to fend off an attack.
“Gray Thunder,” White Eagle repeated, rushing up to the spotted gray horse and hugging its neck affectionately. “You brought my pony.”
“Oh,” Trace responded, relieved to find they had not been discovered by the Gros Ventres. “Well, jump on him, and let’s get the hell outta here.” They were wasted words, for White Eagle was on his pony’s back before Trace finished saying them.
They rode hard, pushing their horses constantly to keep up the pace. Trace led them down the river, always riding on the common trails so that their tracks were intermingled with hundreds of others. After an hour of hard riding, Trace eased off to let the horses rest. There was no sign of anyone pursuing them, so they let the horses walk for a while before picking up a faster pace. Daybreak found them some thirty miles down the river, and far enough from the Gros Ventre camp to stop and rest.
Trace told White Eagle to gather some wood to make a small fire, while he cut some cottonwood limbs to strip for horse feed. In short order, the boy had a cheerful fire going, and he knelt before it warming his hands, never taking his eyes off the tall man in buckskins who was now feeding handfuls of cottonwood bark to the three horses. After the horses were taken care of, Trace got some coffee and salt pork from his pack and proceeded to make them a little breakfast.
Fascinated by the man who had come to rescue him, and still watching his every move, White Eagle finally asked the question that needed definite confirmation. “Are you really my father?”
Trace paused for a moment to glance at the boy. “I reckon I am.” Then he turned his attention back to the pork he was heating over the fire.
“You are the Mountain Hawk,” the boy stated in tones of undisguised wonder.
While still focusing upon the strips of salty meat that had now begun to sizzle slightly, Trace said, “I think I already told you I ain’t no mountain hawk. I’m an ordinary man, like everybody else.” He was concerned that the boy was going to set standards for him that he couldn’t live up to.
White Eagle smiled. You are the Mountain Hawk, he said to himself. Then he asked, “Then what do I call you? Father?”
“Hell no!” Trace reacted immediately, looking up at the awestruck face of the eleven-year-old. “Call me Trace,” he said, then meeting the probing brown eyes of his natural son, reconsidered. “Whatever you want—you can call me father if you want to.”
Pleased, White Eagle sat back and accepted the cup of steaming black coffee from his father’s hand. “I am glad you came for me, Father. We will live in the mountains together.”
Trace raised his eyebrows as he turned to face the boy. “I kinda thought you might be anxious to get back to your mother’s people with Chief Washakie.”
“I want to stay with you.”
This option was not really one that Trace had considered. There followed a lengthy pause while he thought about the possibility. Finally, he said, “We’ll see. We’ll have to think about it.”
White Eagle smiled inwardly while he chewed the tough strip of meat. I will stay with you. There was a natural streak of determination in the boy—his mother would have said stubbornness—that he had apparently inherited from his father.