Golden Hawk 3, page 3
“At last the female, she get anxious. She back hard into the big one and squirm and wriggle her hips. Like she say, Get going, mister. This awake the big one from his dream of pleasure and he thrust very hard for a while—and then the two are quiet again, until the big one tremble mighty and lunge forward and this time I think he come. His fur ripple all the way up his back. Again and again this happen as the old bear enjoy himself. Then for long time they stay as one. After a while, with the big one still inside her, the female begin to graze like she half-asleep. Sometimes her front legs collapse and she fall softly forward. She too is in a dream. At last, the dream is gone and the big one pull out and nuzzle the female’s face. Then they crop the grass side by side and maybe stay together for a week.”
“Only a week?”
Singing Wind shrugged, her eyes merry. “I do not know for sure. The female not want this old man around all the time, I think. Only long enough for him to give her cubs.”
Gazing into Singing Wind’s dark eyes, Hawk took her in his arms and smoothed her long, silken hair—as black as midnight—off her forehead, and began combing it with his fingers.
She reached up and hooked both arms around his neck. “And will you give me cub, too, Hawk?”
The question startled him. He frowned down at her. “Are you with child?”
“Not yet.”
He was relieved. A wife and offspring were out of the question for him, and he knew it.
She saw the relief in his eyes and frowned slightly. “Does the Golden Hawk not wish for a man child?”
“Someday, maybe.”
“Is it as they say? You are part bird, part man. That you devour your foes like the Great Cannibal Owl.”
He smiled at her. “You saw how I devoured Young Eagle. If you hadn’t blown out his backbone, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”
“Then you are not so terrible, after all.”
“I hope not.”
“Around the fire at night I hear the braves talk of Golden Hawk like frightened little boys. But I did not believe what they say about you. And I am glad I did not believe it. I would not like for you to change into Great Cannibal Owl while I make love to you.”
He laughed. “No chance of that.”
“It is your sister you search for, then. This is why you not want a man-child now. Is that not so?”
“It is so.”
She nodded, and Hawk could see that his tenacity in continuing his search for his sister only increased her respect for him. “I have heard of your search and that your sister has golden hair. Like you. Is this true?”
He nodded.
“Do you know which tribe has her?”
“The Shoshone. But for a year now, each band I find, they know nothing—or so they say.”
“What is your sister called?”
“Annabelle.”
“I like for you to find her. But there are many Shoshone bands in these mountains. Still, you must search for her. But perhaps you will never find her.”
“I know that, Singing Wind.”
She reached up and held her palm against his face lovingly. “Poor man. Poor Great Cannibal Owl.”
He held her hand against his face for a moment, then bent to kiss her on the lips. As she returned his kiss and thrust herself eagerly against him, he heard her murmur softly that she would maybe make a little owl with him, if he didn’t mind.
There was no more talk as both drank deeply of the other, and at the end of it, she clung to him, sighing softly, and told him to stay in her like the big grizzly. He did, and still coupled, they fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The weeks became months. Snows piled upon snows. Sometimes the snow-laden winds that thundered and beat upon the little cabin like some infuriated grizzly seemed strong enough to topple it off its ridge clear into the valley below. Through it all Hawk and Singing Wind slept entwined, oblivious to the storm as they battened to the warmth and security of each other’s body, leaving the bed only long enough to eat and keep the fire going.
After each storm would come the awesome silence and they would step out of the cabin to gaze up at the crystal-clear blue skies arching overhead and then squint painfully at the near-blinding fields of shimmering snow spread before them like an immense and immaculate tablecloth. It was unmarred by any tracks and broken only by the islands of timber on the massive flanks of the mountains encircling them. At such times, makeshift sunglasses fashioned of willow twigs tied about their eyes, they would break out of their cabin prison and venture out on the snowshoes Singing Wind had constructed for them. Once they caught a weasel frantically pawing through the snow to get at the mice he could hear tunneling under it. But the pickings were lean, and Singing Wind parceled out what was left of the elk with great care and skill. Hawk had never eaten better in his life, he reflected.
A little after the New Year, after a five-day blow that brought the snow about the cabin almost up to the roof, they set out after a small herd of buffalo moving blindly up the frozen stream, driven this high by the ferocious winds of the past week. All of them were white with snow, their muzzles dripping ice, their massive humps unusually thin, and so weak that they looked ripe for the plucking as they tottered about, their hooves making it doubly difficult for them as they struck the frozen surface of the stream beneath the snow. As Hawk and Singing Wind left the bank and started down the ice toward the small herd, he was thinking of a buffalo robe for himself and perhaps also a buffalo rug for the cabin floor.
There were not more than ten buffalo in all, with a huge old bull in charge. As they approached, the bull moved over and took a stance between them and the rest of the herd. Big though he was, the winter had shrunken him, and there was an air of desperation about him as he lowered his massive head and pawed uncertainly at the ice.
Hawk pulled up; Singing Wind did too. She had her bow and a quiver full of arrows. Hawk had his rifle primed, his powder horn over one shoulder, his bullet pouch over the other. His bowie was in its sheath in his belt; the Walker Colt was back in the cabin, since he had run out of cartridges. Bringing his powder horn to the front in a handier position, he popped two lead balls into his mouth. A third was already in place, its charge of powder secured by a tallow-greased patch firmly seated by the thrust of his hickory rod.
The bull lowered his head and charged. Hawk swung up the Hawken, laid the sights on the chest just under the muzzle, hoping for a lung shot. As he squeezed the trigger, the almost dainty legs of the massive beast slipped out from under him and he went down, the round carrying harmlessly over his head. At once, however, the bull scrambled to his feet and kept coming, gradually building up speed on the treacherous ice.
“Get away, Singing Wind,” Hawk cried as he poured powder down the rifle barrel and spat a lead ball after it.
Instead of running off, however, Singing Wind fitted an arrow to her bowstring and swung wide, to catch the charging buffalo in his side, in case Hawk were to miss his next shot. Having no time to argue with her, Hawk rammed home the load and lifted the stock to his shoulder. By then the bull was less than thirty yards away. Sighting this time on the head, Hawk squeezed the trigger.
The Hawken misfired.
Peering anxiously past the acrid smoke, Hawk saw the great humped beast nearly on top of him as one, then two of Singing Wind’s arrows slammed into his side. The shafts staggered the bull momentarily, but they had struck nothing vital and slowed the furious brute only slightly. It was too late for Hawk to reload and he no longer trusted the rifle. Spitting out the last ball, he kicked off his snowshoes and dived to his right.
The bull charged past him, trying to hook him with his horn. It took a while for the animal to stop and turn around on the snow-covered ice, and by that time Hawk was on his feet, legging it through the deep snow toward the riverbank. He saw Singing Wind cutting toward him, her bow still held ready.
They both reached the steep riverbank at the same time and found themselves struggling through enormous, overhanging drifts. Hawk glanced back. The bull was bearing down on them with malevolent determination, Singing Wind’s two arrows still protruding loosely from his flank. Hawk took Singing Wind by the waist and flung her ahead of him up the embankment; then, holding his rifle’s heavy barrel like a club, he turned to face the massive, red-eyed thunderbolt bearing down on him.
Abruptly, a shot rang out from above. The buffalo veered, a steamy gout of blood spurting from his nose. Wobbling under the impact of the bullet, he slipped on the ice and went down, his hind legs kicking feebly. A moment later they were still.
Hawk turned to see who had fired the shot.
A bearded mountain man was standing on the embankment above him, a long-barreled Kentucky rifle in his hands, a curious grin on his face.
“My name’s Jim Clyman,” he said to Hawk. “And who the hell might you be?”
“Jed Thompson.”
“The one they call Golden Hawk?”
Hawk nodded and started up through the drifts after Singing Wind. As he did so, he turned and looked back at the herd to see the remainder of its members moving on up the river, walking carefully, almost delicately on the slippery ice, not a single one of them looking back at the dead bull.
Once on the riverbank, Hawk shook Jim Clyman’s hand and thanked him for that shot. Then he introduced the mountain man to Singing Wind.
Clyman looked her up and down approvingly. “Flathead?” he asked her, in a friendly fashion.
She smiled, pleased at Clyman’s perceptiveness. “Crows take me captive when I very young.”
Clyman looked back at Hawk. “Reckon you two’d be the ones livin’ in my cabin.”
“Your cabin?”
“Yep. You didn’t think God built it, did you? But that’s all right. I ain’t been in these parts for close on to three years. So you’re welcome to it. Looks mighty cozy and I see you patched the roof some.”
“It needed it. I chinked up the chimney, too.”
“And did a good job, too. You rest up awhile and I’ll give you a hand skinning that beast.”
“Thanks,” Hawk said. “Go on up with Singing Wind then while I go back for my snowshoes.” He grinned. “If there are no more buffalo down there, I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Jim Clyman was already a legend. He had heard about Hawk, but then so had Hawk heard about him—from his friend Bill Williams.
Jim Clyman was not as tall as Hawk, but his bulky frame was solid enough. His face was so completely covered with a black beard that all that showed were his eyes, his rosy cheekbones, his nose, and his broad, tanned forehead. The beard went clear past his Adam’s apple, and his hair covered his neck from front to back. He looked like a dangerous wild animal, until you gazed into his great piercing blue eyes. His voice was a soft, pleasant rumble, and as he talked, he filled the cabin with fragrant pipe smoke.
The two men swapped stories far into the night. Only just before it was time to turn in did Jim Clyman mention what had brought him back to this valley and his long-abandoned cabin.
“Pilgrims,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “The more they come, the stupider they get.”
“What do you have to do with them?” Hawk asked.
“That’s what I’m doin’ here in the first place, Hawk. When I passed earlier, I saw smoke comin’ from the chimney and knew there was someone living here. I’m mother hen to a flock of white settlers heading for Oregon and the Promised Land. The stupid critters insisted on going through despite the winter snows.”
“You couldn’t convince them not to?”
“They got themselves a fire-breathin’ parson who’s in charge of the whole operation. Him and God almighty. He’s the one providin’ the wagons and provisions, so when he tells his flock to shit, they all squat.”
“Where are they now?”
“That’s just it. They’re about five miles deeper in the mountains, trapped in and nearly out of everything ’cept bibles. They can last another week or so, I figure—if I can keep them from losing their heads.”
Hawk frowned. “There’s no tradin’ posts nearby. Where could they get fresh provisions?”
“Fort Hall, maybe.”
“How far is it?”
“Two, maybe three days’ journey. A week at the most. Will you go, Hawk?”
“Me?”
“I can’t go myself. If I leave them poor fools too long, they’ll start eating one another. I swear. They’re as wild a bunch of fanatics as I ever did see, Hawk. Some are decent, God-fearin’ folk, but most of them are red-eyed maniacs, filled with fire and brimstone—closer to the devil than to God, to my way of thinkin’.”
“I’ll leave tomorrow. But you got to promise one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Take Singing Wind back to the settlers with you. I don’t want her left here alone.”
“Of course.”
Singing Wind had been sitting close to Hawk. Hearing her name mentioned, she glanced with a frown at Hawk. He told her in Crow what he had just asked Jim Clyman to agree to, and why.
“I not need this Jim Clyman to take care of me,” she told Hawk emphatically.
“Just go with him,” Hawk urged her.
“Why?”
“Maybe you can help him shoot some fresh game for the settlers”.
“No,” she told him. “Let him shoot fresh game. When you return, I will be here. I will have fine buffalo robe for you.”
Hawk did not like it. The thought of leaving Singing Wind alone in this cabin for any length of time filled him with foreboding. But he did his best to shake off the feeling, for if any woman could take care of herself, Singing Wind could. Hell. She had already saved his life.
Reluctantly, he agreed to let Singing Wind remain in the cabin and wait for his return. Then they bid Jim Clyman good night and retired for the night.
Despite Jim Clyman’s presence in the open cabin’s far corner, Hawk and Singing Wind made love that night with a passionate intensity Hawk knew he would never forget.
Chapter Three
JIM CLYMAN WAS at great pains to give Hawk all the directions he would need to get to Fort Hall. And as Hawk passed each landmark Jim mentioned, his admiration for Jim Clyman’s knowledge of this rugged high country grew. So as not to exhaust his horse, Hawk alternately rode him, then broke ground for him, resting the animal often and keeping to the ridges as much as possible.
Throughout the first day he trudged across what seemed an interminable landscape of gleaming white snow. He saw no game of any sort, not even tracks. But early in the second day, when he was moving along a long ridge, he caught sight of elk and mule deer spotting a distant mountain flank. Against the naked snowfield, they looked forlorn and vulnerable. But they were well out of range of his Hawken.
Later that same day, as he was breaking a path for his horse through a considerable drift, he caught sight of five Indians riding single-file about a mile ahead of him. They were Bannocks, four of them—a small hunting party from the looks of it. They had two pack horses, one of which was already carrying the dressed carcass of a small elk.
Hawk was not pleased. He knew the Bannocks as a crafty, treacherous tribe that could never really be trusted. Although, like the Shoshone, they boasted of never having killed a white man or harmed a settler passing through their lands, Hawk knew that they were not above welcoming settlers into their encampments and then robbing and killing them all—breaching a tradition of hospitality honored by all Indians, Plains and mountain alike.
Like Hawk, the Bannock party appeared to be heading for the lower valleys. Hawk decided he did not want trouble, so he pulled up and remained where he was until the Bannocks had disappeared beyond a heavy stand of timber. When he set out again, he kept high in the timber, well above the route the Bannocks had taken. He had no desire to mess with this Bannock hunting party. He had another mission, more important than taking Bannock scalps.
And when he was finished, he wanted to return to his cabin . .. and Singing Wind.
That night he camped deep in the timber and ate cold jerky washed down with fresh chunks of snow so as not to risk a fire that might alert the Bannock party. It was a cold night, and when he awoke the next morning, he found himself nearly buried in snow, the trees about him lost in a pale haze as a steady snowfall filtered down through the pines.
Every joint in his body creaked as he stood up, stretched, and shook out his bedroll. The back of his horse was covered with snow, and he did not saddle it until he was positive the animal was as dry and warm as his brush could ensure. Fortunately, Hawk had made it a point to sleep on the saddle blanket. As a result, the blanket was dry and almost warm when he flung it over the horse’s back.
Emerging from the pines an hour or so later, he found the snow already beginning to let up as the cloud cover broke apart overhead, revealing large patches of blue sky. By noon Hawk was once again riding across pristine fields of sun-washed snow that grew less deep with each mile he dropped toward the plains. By the end of the day there were only a few scattered patches of snow left. With the towering, snow-capped mountains at his back, the next day he caught sight of the Snake River. Fort Hall, according to Jim Clyman, was only a day and a half’s journey farther on down the river, just above the mouth of the Portneuf.
That evening he left the riverbank and entered a patch of timber to make camp. He shot a rabbit and, for the first time since leaving his cabin, dined on fresh meat washed down with hot coffee. Based on Jim Clyman’s directions, Hawk fully expected to reach Fort Hall by nightfall of the following day.
Nearly drunk with exhaustion, the rabbit meat sitting heavily in his stomach, Hawk edged his bedroll closer to his dying campfire and slept.
