CHAPTER 15
He had not traveled more than about nine or ten miles when he came to a wide stream. He paused before crossing to let Rascal drink. Sitting there while he waited for the buckskin to satisfy his thirst, he suddenly became alert, distracted by a noise made by something disturbing the leaves of a serviceberry bush on the other side of the stream. He immediately drew his rifle and backed Rascal around, so he would be facing that way, ready to shoot, if necessary. He cocked the Winchester, even though he suspected he might be preparing to shoot a possum or maybe a large snake. It was difficult to determine in the late afternoon there in the shadows of the trees. Staring at the berry bushes, he was suddenly startled to see a young Indian boy get to his feet with his hands raised in the air. “Don’t shoot,” the boy spoke in the Blackfoot tongue. “We can do you no harm. We have nothing left to give you.”
We, he thought. “Who is with you?” He answered the boy, also speaking in the Blackfoot tongue.
“My father,” the boy answered.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Hawk said. “Tell your father to come out where I can see him.”
“He can’t. He is wounded, a very bad wound in his side. I pulled him back to hide behind the bushes when I heard you coming. I thought you were one of the men that attacked us.”
“What kind of wound?” Hawk asked, not entirely ready to believe the Blackfoot boy’s story.
“They shot him with a gun,” the boy said, “and left him for dead. They shot at me, but I ran in the trees.”
“I might be wrong,” Hawk said in English, “but I reckon you sound like you’re tellin’ the truth.” In the Blackfoot tongue again, he said, “Let me look at him. Maybe I can help.” He rode across the stream, eased the hammer back down on his rifle, put it back in the saddle sling, and dismounted. Just in case he was getting played, he rested his hand on the Colt on his side. He soon saw that the boy was in earnest. Looking helplessly up at him, the boy’s father was lying on his back, holding a bandanna tightly against his side in an effort to slow the bleeding from a gunshot wound.
As Hawk bent over him and gently moved the Indian’s hand from the wound, the suffering man’s eyes suddenly became wide open and he uttered one word. “Hawk?”
Taken by surprise, Hawk did not respond immediately. A picture of the little goblinlike man the Quaker survivors had called Frog came to mind. He wondered if the wounded man was commenting on the feather in his hat, like Frog had. “Yes, I am John Hawk,” he said, bringing a weary smile to the man’s face.
“Hawk, friend of Blackfoot,” the man said faintly. “Swift Runner,” he said to the boy, “Hawk is friend of Blackfoot.” He closed his eyes as if in peace, alarming the boy.
Hawk felt for a pulse and told the boy his father was just resting. He was not dead. “Swift Runner, is that your name?” The boy nodded. “Who shot your father?”
“Two white men,” Swift Runner replied. “They waited in ambush and shot my father and shot at me. Then they took our horses.” He studied Hawk’s face as the tall scout made a bandage from an old sheet he carried for that purpose. “I pretended I was hit, then when they were chasing our horses, I got up and ran.”
“You’re lucky to have gotten away, if it’s the two men I’m thinking about,” Hawk said slowly, thinking before forming his words. It had been some time since he had talked in the Blackfoot tongue. “You speak any white man talk?” he asked in English. When Swift Runner nodded, Hawk asked, “What is your father’s name?”
“He is Black Elk,” the boy replied, also in English.
“Tell me about the white men who shot you. Why did they shoot at you?” Hawk asked.
“They were waiting in ambush to kill us and steal our horses, I think,” Swift Runner replied. He went on to tell Hawk the entire circumstances that brought him and his wounded father back to this stream. He and his father were on their way to Lost Creek, hoping to find deer there. They were on the road that leads to Helena, and as they approached the creek, they were suddenly shot at by the two white men hiding in ambush. Black Elk was hit and told Swift Runner to play dead until the shooting stopped and their attackers went after the horses. When they were chasing the horses, he got up and ran to hide, hoping the white men would leave, and he could come back to help his father. “We had only our bows,” he explained. “We could not shoot back.” Black Elk managed to get to his feet with his son’s help and tried to walk back to their camp in the mountains. But it was too much for him, and he was barely able to get to this stream before he collapsed. “When I saw you coming, I pulled my father up under these bushes. I thought you were one of them.”
Hawk was beginning to get a clear picture in his mind of what was supposed to have happened. The two men he pursued had set up an ambush that was intended for him. Thanks to Black Elk and Swift Runner’s unfortunate luck, they unwittingly might have saved his life. There could be no other reason for Booth and his friend to wait on that road in ambush. “Where is your camp?” he asked then.
“In the mountains the white man calls Big Belts.”
“Ain’t that a long way to go huntin’?” Hawk commented. No matter which part of that mountain chain their camp was located in, it was a long way from here.
“We have to go where the deer are,” Swift Runner answered.
“Reckon so,” Hawk said. He studied the wounded man now seeming to rest easily. And just by Black Elk’s reaction when he recognized him as a friend, he guessed that Black Elk felt that he would help them. Hawk thought about the two men who had been waiting for him in ambush, and he was more anxious than before to catch up with them. He knew he was not far behind them now. Maybe they had even set up their ambush again and he might not have a better chance to circle around it and get behind them. This business with the wounded man and his son would greatly delay any chance he had to settle with Booth right away. He knew he had no choice, however. “How far is your camp from here, seein’ as how you have to walk it?” Swift Runner said it would be more than half a day. Hawk took another look at Black Elk and shook his head. “I don’t think he can sit up in the saddle. We’d best make him a travois and my horse can haul him home.” The boy’s immediate reaction told Hawk how thankful he was for his help.
The next hour was spent chopping down two small trees to use as poles for the travois and some stout limbs to tie across them for the platform. The crude conveyance took all the rope Hawk had, plus some vines that Swift Runner found, to hold it together. When it was finished, however, Hawk spread his piece of canvas and his bedroll on the platform, then laid Black Elk on it. Rascal was a little uneasy at first, when the two poles were tied on each side of the saddle, but as soon as he understood what Hawk wanted, he was all right with it. With Swift Runner pointing the way and Hawk leading Rascal by the bridle, they set out on a journey that would ultimately take them a full day’s walk. It would result in the necessity to camp overnight before they would reach their destination. Hawk could have ridden Rascal, but he elected to walk with Swift Runner to make Rascal’s job easier.
While they walked together, Hawk learned a great deal about the Blackfoot man and his son. Like Hawk’s friend Walking Owl, Black Elk and his wife and son lived with a small village of mostly older people who were not willing to go to the reservation. The younger men had all gone north into Canada, but Black Elk and the other elders were not up to the bold attempt to live free again. Their only alternative was to keep a low profile so as not to attract the army’s attention. Hawk was very compassionate toward this group of people and had willingly steered army patrols away from old Walking Owl’s village more than once.
At the end of that day’s walking, they stopped beside a small stream to make camp. Hawk and Swift Runner lifted his father off the travois and settled him as comfortably as they could. Then Swift Runner gathered wood for a fire while Hawk relieved Rascal of his burdens. Their patient seemed in reasonable condition, all things considered, even to the extent of eating a little of the smoked meat Hawk was carrying. A special treat was the coffee Hawk provided. He had only two cups, so Black Elk and his son shared one.
As they sat by the fire after eating, Black Elk, in spite of his pain and discomfort, was curious about the man called Hawk. “I have heard of you,” he said. “There was talk among the tribes about the white man who lived with Walking Owl’s people many winters ago. He wore the feather of a hawk in his hat, and he came to help the people. It was said that this man’s medicine was very strong, and that the feather he wore was given to him by a great hawk, to be a symbol of his great medicine. And now the hawk has come in my and my son’s hour of need.”
Hawk knew that Black Elk was looking for validation of stories he had heard from others because he believed, as all Indians did, in the mystical powers of the earth’s wild creatures. It was not the first time he had been questioned by both Blackfoot and Crow about stories of the white man with the hawk feather in his hat. This was the first time, however, that he had heard that an actual hawk had plucked one of his wing feathers and given it to him. He didn’t have the heart to tell Black Elk that he usually found a feather lying on the ground, most likely the result of a fight with another bird. And he only stuck it in his hat because his name was Hawk. So he neither denied it or confirmed it, but said, “A man’s medicine may come from many things. Only that man can know from which it comes.” He thought that sounded pretty mystical, and evidently so did Black Elk, for he nodded solemnly and sank back on Hawk’s bedroll.
When morning came, Black Elk seemed to be some better, but Hawk thought he was still too weak to walk, especially since they would now be climbing up into the mountains. At this point, they were only a few miles from the village, according to Swift Runner, and he wanted to run on ahead of them to tell the people what had happened to Black Elk. “That would be a good idea,” Hawk said, “so they can be ready to help him. But I’m gonna feed you some breakfast first, so you can run fast.” So, after some coffee and deer meat, the boy helped Hawk settle his father on the travois and they set out on the last leg of their journey. After telling Hawk that the trail he had led him to would lead to the village, Swift Runner started out ahead of them and was soon out of sight. “I reckon I can see where he got his name,” Hawk commented to Black Elk, who nodded, smiling.
The entire village, which consisted of no more than four tipis, stood waiting for Hawk and Black Elk. It was a sight Hawk had seen on other occasions, one that always saddened him. Gaunt, gray-haired men and tired-looking women, standing at the edge of a clearing, staring at him as he led the travois toward them. He could see right away that Black Elk was the youngest man in the village, and little wonder it was primarily his responsibility to hunt for food to feed the village. It was also obvious that Swift Runner had told them that his father had been saved by the white man who wore the hawk feather in his hat, for their eyes were full of wonder. But Hawk imagined he could also see the disappointment in them as well for the fact that Black Elk and Swift Runner had not returned with fresh meat. He looked beyond the tipis to see half a dozen horses that, in spite of ample grass, looked to be in as poor shape as their owners. His thoughts returned to the mission he had accepted as his own, and the time he was spending away from that mission. It was poor timing, this encounter with a group of poor-devil Indians, who looked to be starving. Once again, he told himself he had no choice. He could not turn away from them without offering some help.
The people gathered around the travois when he led it into the clearing, anxious to see if Black Elk was all right, but equally curious to see the man Swift Runner had said was Hawk, friend of the Blackfoot. A woman Hawk learned later to be Black Elk’s wife came immediately to her wounded husband’s side and helped move him from the travois and into her tipi. When that was done, Hawk came out of the tipi to find Swift Runner standing beside an elderly man, waiting to introduce him. “This is Wounded Bear,” Swift Runner said. “He is our chief.”
“Wounded Bear,” Hawk greeted him. “My name’s John Hawk.”
“Welcome to our village,” Wounded Bear said. “I have heard of a man called Hawk who once lived with the Blackfoot.”
“I reckon that’s me,” Hawk said.
“Thank you for bringing Black Elk back to us.” He turned to smile at Swift Runner. “And Swift Runner, too. They do what they can to provide food for our village, but they have no weapons to hunt with but bows. And it is not always easy to get close enough to the deer and antelope to use their bows.”
Hawk didn’t have to pause to consider that. “Well, they have now.” He walked over to Rascal and untied the buckskin straps holding the Winchester ’66 rifle that had belonged to Tater Thompson. He handed it to Swift Runner, then took the Colt .44 and holster from his saddle horn, along with an extra cartridge belt, also property of the late Tater Thompson, and hung them on the boy’s shoulder. “You won’t have to get so close with these, the rifle, anyway. The handgun ain’t bad for small stuff, like rabbits and squirrels and such.” Swift Runner said nothing, but his eyes were wide with joy and surprise as he carefully turned the rifle over in his hands as if it were a magical thing. “You might notta fired a Winchester before,” Hawk went on. From the look in the boy’s eyes, he figured he probably hadn’t fired any kind of rifle or gun. “I can show you how best to use it. Your father oughta be up and be gettin’ around pretty soon, and then you can show him how to use it.”
Seeing the signs of joy in the faces of the people gathered around him, Hawk knew that he could have made no other decision—Booth would have to wait. A smiling Wounded Bear stepped forward to thank him again. “I am ashamed that I cannot prepare a feast to honor you. The hunting has not been good here, and Black Elk has had to travel farther and farther to find game.”
“No problem a-tall,” Hawk replied. “I’ve got a little bit of food with me. We’ll just cook that up. I expect my horse will be glad to get rid of it.” He untied the bundle of smoked venison Rascal had been carrying and set it on the ground. It caused a wave of excitement to rise among the small gathering of people when he spread the hide out to reveal a still sizable pile of smoked meat. He realized the people were on the verge of starvation as they hurried to prepare the meat. It caused him to make another time-consuming delay in his anxious pursuit of Booth and his partner. He looked at Swift Runner, still holding the rifle as if it were a living thing. “Why don’t you and I head out in the mornin’? I think I know where we can find some deer.” He was thinking about the herd of deer the cavalry patrol had frightened near Hound Creek between this chain of mountains and the Little Belt Mountains. “The place I’m thinkin’ about is less than a half day from here, and you can get a chance to see how that rifle shoots without wastin’ a lot of cartridges.” His announcement was too much for them all to contain and a happy cheer resulted, bringing the women tending Black Elk’s wound out of the tipi to see the cause.
It was impossible for Hawk not to share their joy as every one of the Indians gathered around him stepped up to touch his arm or shoulder, nod happily to him with most repeating the one word, “Hawk.” Black Elk’s wife left her husband’s side to express her thanks for bringing her husband and her son back to her. She introduced herself as Walks Along. Before it was over, Hawk had contributed almost all the supplies he had with him and apologized for not having more. He donated flour, salt, and coffee, keeping only enough strips of jerky to keep him alive until he got to Helena, or some trading post along the way. When he asked if there was a trading post closer to them, he was told there was only one, Bodine’s. Wounded Bear said that the man, Bodine, was not very friendly to his people, even when they had money or hides to trade. Hawk didn’t tell them of his experiences with Bodine.
A big fire was soon burning in the center of the clearing and before long there were strips of smoked venison roasting over it. With the flour Hawk furnished, the women made pan bread. There was enough for everyone to get a share. Afterward, Hawk was invited to sleep in Wounded Bear’s tipi, so he spread his bedroll inside and passed the night there. Up early the next morning, he found Swift Runner waiting for him with two horses that belonged to Wounded Bear, one to ride and one to pack meat. With Wounded Bear and several others there to see them off and wish them good hunting, they set out at once for the east side of the Big Belt Mountains.
* * *
After a ride that Hawk estimated to be close to ten miles, they came out of the hills near Hound Creek. There were no deer to be seen, but there was plenty of sign that suggested it was a regular feeding and watering spot for them. Hawk decided to put the horses out of sight and wait in hopes deer came out of the mountains to the creek, thinking there was a good chance of it. While they waited, he gave Swift Runner a little training on sighting and firing his new rifle, so if deer did show up, the boy would be ready to actually shoot at one. Swift Runner had no problem holding the rifle properly and aiming it. After Hawk was satisfied that the boy wasn’t likely to shoot him or himself, they settled back and waited. As the sun came up and it grew later and later, Hawk was afraid they had not picked a good spot. But just before he suggested they should move farther around the mountain, one lone buck came out of the trees above them and stopped to sniff the air. Hawk counted ten points on the antlers. He was not a young buck. Swift Runner immediately raised his rifle to his shoulder, but Hawk took hold of the weapon to stop him from shooting. “Wait,” he whispered. “There should be more.” Swift Runner understood and nodded apologetically. At the boy’s young age, he was an experienced hunter. But he was so eager to fire his new weapon that he forgot to wait for the does that were waiting in the trees for the all clear from the buck.
After a few minutes, the buck squealed his signal, and he was joined by a party of four does and one young buck. “Wait till they stop to drink,” Hawk whispered, raised his rifle, and set his front sight on one of the does. “You take that young buck. All right?” Swift Runner nodded. When the deer went down to the edge of the water and stopped to drink, both hunters pulled their triggers. Hawk knocked one down, cranked another cartridge in, and downed a second one, while Swift Runner’s shot hit the young buck in his haunch, crippling him. The rest of the deer bolted across the creek with the wounded buck trying to hobble after them. With a third cartridge already in the chamber, Hawk quickly brought the buck down.
“I did not kill him,” Swift Runner cried out, disappointed with his performance.
“You did good,” Hawk said. “You hit him and that’s real good for your first shot with that rifle. You just haven’t gotten to know that rifle yet. I’da most likely done the same thing if I was shootin’ that rifle for the first time. Let’s go put ’em outta their misery.”
* * *
Since the deer hunters were but a few hours’ ride from the Blackfoot camp, Hawk decided to throw the carcasses on their horses and take them back there to skin and butcher. He figured they might as well go where there was plenty of willing help to prepare the meat. He had in mind delivering the supply of fresh meat, then saying a quick farewell, anxious to get back on Booth’s trail. With Swift Runner’s help, he loaded the buck and the smaller doe on the extra horse. The other doe was loaded onto Rascal with him.
When they rode into camp, the reception was as he expected from the near-starving people. Everyone was eager to help, so all he had to do was unload the deer and Wounded Bear’s people did the rest. He stood and watched for a few minutes while Swift Runner talked excitedly about the place to find deer so near their village. Ready to leave, Hawk prepared to say good-bye to old Wounded Bear, but he was delayed when the women of the camp came to thank him. Each one was eager to thank him for his help. Waiting for the other women to thank him, Walks Along, Black Elk’s wife, wanted to thank him again for bringing her husband and son back to her. “I wish that I could cook you a really fine meal to show you how much I appreciate your kindness.” She shook her head sadly, then said, “But we have had no flour, or salt, or sugar, or cornmeal for a long time. And we used what flour you had last night.”
Before she could go further, he interrupted. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that. I’m just sorry I didn’t have more to give you.”
She looked as if she was about to cry, and he knew he would be uncomfortable if she did. So, he quickly told her it was time for him to go; he had to get to Helena right away. Everyone else seemed to be caught up in the skinning and butchering of the three deer, so he said, “Take care of Black Elk. I hope he will soon be on his feet again, so he can hunt with Swift Runner.” He turned and went directly to his horse, climbed up into the saddle, and wheeled him back toward the path he had first entered the village on.
So busy were the others that they took no notice of him as he rode down the path, with the exception of one. Wounded Bear raised his head in time to glimpse the tall man on the buckskin as he disappeared into the trees. Then his attention was captured by the sight of a hawk flying across the clearing to a perch in the top of a cottonwood tree. He knew it was a sign—the medicine of the hawk was strong as iron. A random thought crossed his mind, and he wondered if he were to go to the trail now, would there be a man on a horse? Or was it the hawk he had seen overhead, no longer in the form of a man?
“Damn . . . damn . . . damn,” Hawk kept repeating as Rascal found his way back down the narrow path. “I’ve got business to attend to. I can’t waste any more time in these mountains. There’s no tellin’ if Booth and his partner are in Helena or gone on somewhere else without leavin’ a trail for me to follow.” Rascal understood his dilemma, but as usual, made no comment. “Here I am only halfway done with what I set out to do, and I’ve only recovered one fourth of the money that belongs to Donald Lewis and his people,” he went on, knowing he was losing the argument. “Oh, to hell with it,” he finally cursed, wheeled Rascal off the path, and rode up through the trees until he reached the back side of the clearing where the horses were grazing. Without getting out of the saddle, he rode into the small herd, grabbed the bridle of the horse Swift Runner had ridden on the hunt for deer, and led it back the way he had come. Then he continued on down the path, leaving the Blackfoot village to enjoy their celebration.