Golden Hawk 3, page 4
Dawn broke. Hawk stirred, smelled Indian, and opened his eyes to see an Indian squatting beside him. The Bannock’s eyes were glittering with triumph and anticipation. There was even a trace of a smile on his impassive face. Hawk was sick with shame to have been surprised this easily. Three more Bannocks stood back behind the squatting Indian, watching eagerly with gloating black eyes.
Hawk sat up and threw aside his tarp. He saw then that the squatting Bannock was holding his Walker Colt in his right hand, its muzzle leveled on Hawk’s gut. Hawk was pleased the Indian had taken the weapon from his saddlebag, since he had long since run out of cartridges. He had been hoping to obtain cartridges for it at the fort. At the moment the big weapon was empty.
Hawk stood up. The Bannock stood up also. Hawk took a step toward him. The startled Bannock took a step back, his three companions doing the same. The Bannock stopped smiling and thumb-cocked the Colt’s hammer. He was a mean-looking fellow, with a big nose and a long, grim mouth, and he was surely preparing to blow a hole in Hawk.
But something was holding him back. What that was, Hawk could only guess. Perhaps his fearsome reputation. Whatever it was, Hawk was glad for it and now counted on it.
“What do you want?” Hawk asked.
“Iron Lips want Golden Hawk’s scalp,” the Bannock replied in rough but passable English. His grim face broke into an exultant smile then—one so wolfish Hawk almost laughed aloud.
“Has Iron Lips not heard of Golden Hawk?”
“Golden Hawk sleep like fool in lap of his enemies. He is a man, not bird. He not fly in air. He not terrible. He snore when he sleep and stink like any white man.”
“Reckon you’re right at that, chief.”
Iron Lips’ obsidian eyes became slits. The Bannock leaned closer. He gathered phlegm into his mouth and sent it at Hawk’s face. But Hawk had lived long enough among the Comanches to expect this tactic. Ducking easily aside, he let the phlegm snick past his shoulder, then aimed and spat in the Indian’s face.
He straightened up and smiled.
The three Indians behind Iron Lips were stunned. Hawk must have powerful medicine indeed to move with such speed and then to show his contempt for their chief in this manner—especially while the Bannock held a cocked revolver inches from his belly.
Trembling with fury, Iron Lips wiped his face. “Does Golden Hawk think I not dare kill him?”
“Hell, chief, You’ll kill me.” Hawk’s smile broadened. “If you can.”
At this challenge the Bannock thrust the Colt into Hawk’s gut and pulled the trigger. As the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber, Hawk twisted the big Colt out of the astonished Indian’s hand and in a slashing, upward motion brought it around against the side of the Bannock’s head with such force he cracked the skull.
The crunch of shattered bone filled the early-morning stillness. As Iron Lips crumpled, Hawk reached back for his throwing knife and threw it at the nearest Bannock. The blade sank deep into his throat, in the hollow just below his Adam’s apple.
The remaining two Bannocks turned tail and ran. Hawk bent and took his knife from the Bannock’s throat, snatched the hatchet from his belt, and then started after the two Bannocks. When he was close enough to one of them, he hurled the hatchet. Its blade crunched through his backbone and sank deep into the Bannock’s back just between his shoulder blades. The Bannock stumbled, then crashed to his knees and, still trying to run, plowed face first into the ground.
That left one Bannock still alive. Hawk kept after him and was soon close enough to hear the steady pat, pat of the Bannock’s moccasins. The terrified Indian, running full out down the broad game trail, looked back. Hawk smiled and drew still closer. Letting out a keen cry of despair, the Indian glanced back. By this time it was obvious the Bannock now believed all he had heard about the Golden Hawk.
Drawing within a few feet of the terrified Bannock, Hawk suddenly ducked to one side and vanished above him into the timber. Increasing his speed, he drew abreast of the fleeing Indian below him, then passed him, his side beginning to ache and his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. Ignoring the discomfort, Hawk plunged back down through the timber, returned to the game trail, and headed back up it for a few strides. Then he caught a low branch and swung up into a tree over the trail.
Near exhaustion and stumbling in fear and panic, the Bannock appeared on the trail below. As he swept under him, Hawk swung down, both feet striking the staggering Indian on the shoulders, crushing him to the ground. Hawk chopped his neck twice with the blade of his hand. The man went limp. Hawk then slung the Bannock over his shoulder and clambered back up into the pine, pulling himself as high as he could get. Then he sliced off a small scalp lock and wedged the unconscious Bannock between the tree’s limbs and clambered to the ground. Shading his eyes from the slanting rays of the morning sun, he looked back up at the Bannock to make sure he was still snug.
Hawk was breathing heavily. He was also smiling. He remembered Bill Williams telling why he had allowed a Blackfoot he had scalped to live. He had wanted the son of a bitch to spread the word that Old Bill was not to be messed with.
It was the same message Hawk wanted to leave as well.
Much later that same day, driving the Bannocks’ ponies before him and trailing their pack horses laden with the freshly killed and dressed game, Hawk rode past the blanket Indians clustered about the fort’s perimeter and entered the fort. Built by fur trader Nathaniel Wyeth in 1834, it had been sold to the Hudson s Bay Company three years later. The fort was not much to look at, but its walls were high and there were two blockhouses inside the fort and plenty of firing ports in the high walls, not only to fight off unhappy savages, Hawk judged, but to help those inside the fort handle those Indians come to trade who might have sampled too much whiskey before leaving the place.
Hawk headed for the large blockhouse in the far left-hand corner of the fort. On the flagpole in front of it hung the Hudson’s Bay Company flag, with its red cross and four rampant beavers. He was halfway to it when a group of mountain men recognized the Indian ponies Hawk was driving. Word passed quickly. Excited shouts were heard all about the enclosed area, and before long, Hawk was surrounded by a horde of mountain men, wide, pleased grins on their faces.
Hawk dismounted as a small man Hawk figured to be the chief trader and head administrator of the Hudson’s Bay Company hurried up to greet him officially. He was a seamed, milky-faced gentleman with sleeve garters and a boiled shirt and trousers so tight the bulge between his legs was downright embarrassing ... it was so small. His eyes blinked anxiously as he neared Hawk, and a lock of reddish hair had fallen over his forehead. Pushing through the growing crowd around Hawk, he approached with an outstretched hand.
“MacGregor is the name,” the little man said, his Scottish burr quite noticeable. “Nate MacGregor. On behalf of the Hudson’s Bay Company, I welcome you.” Then he looked eagerly behind Hawk at the laden pack horses. “And I note with exceeding pleasure the fresh meat you bring us.”
“And six Bannock ponies,” a mountain man reminded him, grinning like a possum eating yellow jackets.
“Name’s Thompson, Jed Thompson,” Jed replied.
“Hell, Nate,” someone in the back cried. “Don’t you know who that is? That’s Golden Hawk. He’s a friend of Old Bill.”
“Any friend of Bill is a friend of mine,” said the Scot. “How much do you want for the lot, lad?”
“The ponies?”
“All of them. We can use them for packing.”
“Don’t forget that fresh meat,” another mountain man cried.
“I say we ought to have ourselves a real barbecue,” insisted another.
“And then a horse race.”
“I didn’t come for a horse race,” Hawk said to Nate MacGregor, speaking loud enough for everyone crowding around to hear. “Jim Clyman and the party he’s leadin’ to Oregon need help. He sent me here to get it. They need plenty of provisions. His party’s trapped in deep snow in and they’re running out of food.”
“Then why in tarnation don’t they come back?”
“I told you. They’re snowed in. They can’t move their wagons.”
“Bible-thumpers among them?”
Hawk nodded.
There was a general mutter at that and then a steady buzz of conversation as the mountain men discussed the matter among themselves.
At last one of the mountain men broke from the group and approached Hawk. He was a big man; he stood a good six foot two in moccasins and probably weighed 220. He had large, full pale-blue eyes that appraised Hawk coolly, but with no apparent hostility. A white, puckered scar ran down the right side of his face.
“Grizzly Pass is a far piece from here,” he told Hawk. “You think we can make it in time?”
“If we hurry.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“We could get trapped up there ourselves.”
“Does that mean you won’t help?”
“It don’t mean nothing of the sort,” he replied sharply. “There ain’t a man here wouldn’t walk barefoot over the coals of hell to bring Jim Clyman provisions. But that ain’t the problem. It’s the company he keeps. I’d rather herd chickens than try to guide pilgrims over that high country this time of the year.”
“That’s right,” another mountain man commented. “At least you can eat the chickens when the going gets tough.”
“If we don’t get provisions to them soon,” Hawk said, “they just might get hungry enough to start eating one another.”
That seemed to end the discussion.
The mountain men walked with Hawk to the rear of the fort, where he found a stable large enough to accommodate his horse and the Bannock ponies. MacGregor left Hawk then, and the big mountain man, who introduced himself to Hawk as Dick Wootton, showed Hawk to his own room alongside the trading post. There, Hawk was shown a tub; he had it filled and took a bath.
Afterward, he joined the barbecue the four Bannocks had provided.
Sitting alongside Wootton on a log while he tore into the shinbone of a young elk, Hawk asked the mountain man about Bill Williams, a mutual friend and fellow trapper.
Wootton sighed and shook his head. “He’s gone plumb loco, I figures.”
“What do you mean?”
Wootton took out his knife and began picking at his teeth. “Old Bill is now a full-time Ute. He’s their big chief and medicine man, from what I hear.”
“To the Utes?”
“Yep.”
“That don’t sound like Bill.”
“He was here last summer. I ran into him. He’s still got the staggers, but he hits what he aims at. Anyway, he told me the days of the mountain men are done and we might as well go Indian. He said he’s already tried going white and that didn’t agree with him.”
Hawk laughed. In his mind’s eye he saw again the raw-boned old reprobate waving him goodbye two years ago, his Indian squaw, Buffalo Flower, standing by his side. He must have abandoned her, Hawk realized with a slight pang. He could feel only affection for the jolly, round Indian woman who had tended him so closely during his fever.
And then Hawk thought of Singing Wind and became uneasy. “How long before we pull out?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“How many are going back with me?”
“There’ll be just the two of us. We’ll be driving wagons loaded with provisions. Nothin’ fancy, you understand, but plenty of grain and other goods, including a few barrels of flour and salt pork. And we’ll be leading a string of pack horses in case we get bogged down.” Wootton smiled. “We’ll be includin’ them Bannock ponies you managed to pick up on the way here. MacGregor is donating the pack horses and supplies on behalf of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Never thought I’d see the day that Scotchman would part with a nickel. Guess he’s tryin’ to make the HBC look good to us.”
“These provisions will look good to the settlers trapped up there with Clyman.”
“They will if we make it to them in time.”
They were up packing before dawn the next morning and set out just as the first shaft of morning light struck the Hudson’s Bay Company’s flag whipping in the chill wind. They pushed hard all that day and the next and were soon in snow so deep they had to abandon the wagons and load the pack horses, as they had expected. This took the greater part of a day to accomplish, and when they set out the next morning, they found it hard going. The Bannock ponies did not like being turned into mules, and they put up quite a fuss; but a day later they were resigned to their reduced status and, without setting up a ruckus, plodded along behind the other pack horses through the deepening snow.
Since their route took them within a mile of Hawk’s cabin, Hawk left Wootton and cut northwest to it. He was within sight of the cabin when he saw Singing Wind step out the door. She paused in the doorway for a moment, peering steadily in his direction, using her hand as a shade. He pulled up and waved. She waved in turn and ducked back inside the cabin. She reappeared a moment later with her beaver jacket and snow-shoes on, and started across the snowfield toward him.
The snow was so deep by this time that Hawk had been forced to dismount and break a path for his horse. Singing Wind met him in the middle of one particularly deep drift. They caught hold of each other and spun about in the snow like two kids, laughing crazily, and for that moment Hawk knew only an incredible warmth as he pulled Singing Wind close to him. At last, with his horse nudging him anxiously, Hawk stood up and brushed himself off, helped Singing Wind brush herself off, then continued on with her to the cabin.
As he stabled the horse, Singing Wind threw fresh logs on the fire. When Hawk entered a moment later, they were thundering in the hearth, sending waves of heat to every corner of the cabin. It was obvious Singing Wind had been waiting for this moment. As soon as he entered, she hurried over to a trunk in the corner. Lifting its lid, she drew forth the buffalo robe she had been working on. She had finished it.
“Take off your clothes,” she told him. “Then I see if you like it.”
He did not argue with her, especially when she drew close and helped him to accomplish the task. When at last he stood naked before her, she glanced down mischievously and laughed to see what had happened while she was undressing him.
She told him to turn. He did so. Then she lifted the robe onto his shoulders and helped him put it on. He found it surprisingly light. As he tied the sash, he was amazed at how warm and comfortable it was.
“This is a wonderful present, Singing Wind,” he said, turning to face her.
“You like it?” Her eyes shone with pleasure as she contemplated him.
“Yes,” he said, smiling warmly down at her. “I like it. Very much, Singing Wind. I will wear it always whenever I am in my lodge and the wind howls outside.”
She blushed with pleasure at his words. “I am glad you like it. Now you take it off and we make love.”
Hawk held the robe open for her. She stepped out of her buckskin dress in an instant, her dark pubic patch already gleaming, then ran to him, pressing herself eagerly against him while he closed the buffalo robe about them both. For a long, delicious moment he crushed her silken, long-limbed body hard against his. Then he opened the robe, lifted her in his arms, and carried her over to the bed.
They ate at midnight, Hawk as famished as a wolf in springtime, after which they slept in each other’s arms until dawn. They made love again before getting up. He could not get enough of her incandescent breasts, the eager thrust of her thighs, the feel of her silken arms closing about him. She devoured him with her lips, clinging to him fiercely as they loved like two savages at the dawn of time. There was no history for either of them now—no past, no future—only this full-throated wildness where nothing mattered but their own feverish intent.
They were drunk on each other.
After a huge breakfast, which Hawk ate wearing his new buffalo robe, he dressed and made ready to leave, admonishing her repeatedly to be careful and not to stray too far from the cabin, nor to let anyone close she did not know. He was leaving his Walker Colt with her. At the fort he had obtained paper cartridges and percussion caps for the weapon, and he took pains to show her how to load it. He was not worried about her ability or her willingness to fire the weapon.
Earlier, he had related his encounter with the Bannock hunting party and now he told her to be particularly careful of any Bannocks that happened by, no matter how friendly they might appear.
“Don’t trust them,” he said. “Those devils might be looking for a way to get even.”
Singing Wind laughed. “No Indian would dare harm Golden Hawk’s woman.”
“Please, Singing Wind,” Hawk pleaded gently. “Be serious now.”
“All right. I be careful.”
She sobered then and he could see in her eyes how much she appreciated his concern for her.
They said good-bye finally, and the hot pressure of her parting kiss was still on his lips, reminding him of her, when he turned in his saddle, waved, and kept on over a snow-capped ridge.
When he looked back again, the cabin was out of sight behind a clump of timber. He felt a sudden strange, sick emptiness, shook it off, then hunched his shoulders and urged his horse along the spine of the ridge where the snow was not so deep, hoping to overtake Dick Wootton by sundown at least.
When he caught sight of Wootton finally, it was late the next day, and the big mountain man was already in sight of Grizzly Pass. The twin peaks hung suspended in the distant sky on either side of the pass like towering nuns, their white habits gleaming against the bright-blue sky. Wootton pulled up when he heard Hawk’s shout and seemed glad for the rest. The pack horses were strung out behind him. On a far ridge that ran parallel to Wootton’s course, Hawk thought he saw a wolf pack slicing down through the snow.
