Wings of the Hawk Page 3

  John Tracey was a tall, powerfully built man, and Jim looked to be the spitting image of him. Cameron, on the other hand, seemed to take after his mother’s side of the family. Handsome and gentle-natured like his mother, Cameron seemed destined to find his life’s work in accounting or clerical work of some kind. Though the two boys were directly opposite in nature, there was a strong affection between them.

  There was never any real decision to be made when John Tracey contemplated which son should accompany him in the wild country beyond the Missouri. Jim was eager to go. He had just turned thirteen that spring, but he was strong for his age and unafraid of hard work, and he was already dreaming of the far mountains.

  Young James McCall Tracey thought about these things as he stood facing the two grizzled trappers—and the image of his mother, a handsome woman, flashed through his mind. He could still picture her standing in front of their tiny house—Cameron by her side—watching tearfully as he and his father turned their mules toward the dusty road. He would have to go back as soon as possible to take them the awful news. So that all was not lost, however, he decided that it was important to recover the small pouch of dust hidden back at the cabin. It was small compensation for the loss of a husband and father, but by rights his mother certainly should have it.

  “I gotta go back and take care of my Pa,” the boy stated.

  “What fer?” Buck wondered. “I thought you said he was kilt.”

  “He was. But I need to go back and bury him. I can’t leave him for the buzzards.” He wasn’t sure he could easily find his way back. He had fled, running as fast as he could, much of the time at night. But maybe with the help of these two mountain men, he could retrace his steps. He could give his father a decent burial and recover the pouch. His mother would need that gold.

  Frank snorted. “I reckon you took leave of your senses, running around in these woods by yourself. I’m thinkin’ we’ve most likely spent more time in this hollow than we should have. With all the sign you left, I’d say it ain’t gonna be long before we have company.”

  “I’m thinkin’ the same thing, partner.” Buck got to his feet and picked up his rifle. “I ain’t even finished checking my traps.”

  The boy looked from one of them to the other, trying to decide what to do. “Well, I gotta go back and take care of Pa.”

  Frank slung his rifle on his back and motioned to Buck to lead out. “You better come along with us, boy.” He paused. “’Course you can go your own way. Ever’ man’s free to go his own way out here. But, from what I’ve seen, I don’t think you’ll make it too far on yer own. So suit yourself. Only, do it quick, ’cause we’re gettin’ the hell outta here.”

  Jim was young, but he wasn’t dumb. It didn’t take but a second for him to make up his mind. His scalp was a good deal safer with these two ol’ grizzlies. “I reckon I’ll be obliged to go with you, but I’ve still got to get back there to take care of my Pa somehow.”

  Frank was not without compassion and understanding for the boy’s concern for his father’s body. “First thing is to make sure we ain’t run up on by no damn Blackfoot war party. We’ll see which way the sun sets the next couple of days. Then, if things is quiet, maybe we’ll go back and find your Pa—at least, what’s left of him.”

  The boy’s education in survival began almost immediately, as Buck showed him how to cover his tracks as they traveled back across the hills to the creek where the traps had been set. Jim marveled at the way the two men made their way through the trees and along the open ridges. Though both of them were large and bulky in their loose-fitting hide shirts, they seemed to glide through the brush with a fluid motion, constantly scanning the forest around them, eyes darting from tree to tree, boulder to boulder, alert to all sounds and smells. It was obvious to him that Buck and Frank were fully at home in the mountains. And it was equally obvious that he was not. He knew from that moment that he wanted to become as harmonious with the country as they were. But it would not happen right away.

  During the first couple of days he was with them, he was constantly made aware of his ignorance of the forest and his greenhorn clumsiness—whether he was causing a minor landslide with a misstep on a rocky slope or breaking limbs while pushing through a willow thicket. They lived in constant danger of Indian attack. This was Shoshone country and, while the Shoshones had been somewhat tolerant in the past, they were beginning to feel the intrusion of too many trappers. It had been a mite safer when the two men had worked for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, but it was a damn dangerous situation for two free trappers. Keeping their scalps depended upon trapping the streams without the Indians knowing they were there.

  To earn his way, Jim helped them work their traps. Buck showed him how to set a trap at the bottom of a beaver slide, set the notch-stick, angle the bait stick over the trap, and daub a little castor on it to attract the beaver. He also helped with the cooking and keeping the camp orderly, while Buck undertook to improve his skinning and butchering skills.

  “I don’t never want to see you waste a critter like you wasted them three beaver,” Buck said. He showed him how to skin a beaver so that the plew was undamaged. He also showed him how to make better use of the carcass. “If you’re of a mind to eat a beaver, the meat’s all right, cuttin’ off strips like you done. But you throwed away the best part.” He then demonstrated how to boil the beaver’s tail in a pot of water until the skin was soft enough to slit with a knife and peel. Then he took what was left and buried it in the ashes of the fire to bake. When it was done, he watched with amused satisfaction as Jim sampled it. “See what you could have been eatin’?” he said.

  “I didn’t have no pot,” the boy stated dryly.

  “Reckon not,” Buck said, scratching his head. “Next time you run off from Injuns, carry a pot with you.”

  * * *

  On the evening of the second day, after the horses were seen to and Frank had made a wide circle around their camp to be sure there was no sign of any Indians close by, they settled down by the fire. The boy listened silently as the two trappers discussed their season to date.

  “I don’t know what you’re a’thinkin’, partner, but I figure I’ve ’bout trapped out that creek I’m workin’,” Buck said.

  Frank nodded solemnly and resituated the wad of tobacco in his jaw to give him some room to talk. “Yeah, I reckon we’re ’bout done here. I’m thinkin’ maybe we ought to work our way back over to the Sweetwater, maybe Wind River.”

  Buck nodded his approval, then added, “Maybe so.”

  Frank spit in the fire and waited for the tobacco juice to sizzle. Then he cocked an eye at Jim. “You still set on going back to see to your pa?” When Jim nodded that he was, Frank went on, “I reckon it’s safe enough to go find your cabin now. I don’t think that bunch that kilt your daddy would hang around there very long.” He scratched his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “How many did you say there was?”

  “I saw about a dozen at the cabin,” Jim replied. “And there was four more up on the ridge.”

  “Sixteen—twenty at the most,” Buck said.

  “I wonder what they were doing up here. That don’t sound like no big war party.” He looked at Jim again. “Were they wearing paint?”

  The boy thought for a second before replying. “Yessir, they were.”

  “War party,” Frank said. “What I can’t figure, though, is who were they after? There ain’t no village anywhere around here for them to be raiding. You reckon they come up here just to get his pa?” This last he directed at Buck.

  “Don’t hardly seem likely,” Buck replied. He glanced at Jim. “More’n likely it was just bad luck you folks was camping where you was.”

  Nothing was said for another few minutes while Frank sat there thinking about it. Unable to come up with a reason for a war party to be in this part of the mountains, he decided to let it go. “Injuns don’t need no reason to make up a war party. Anyway, if you’re still of a mind to go bury your pa, we’ll st
art out in the morning.” He shifted his gaze toward his partner. “That all right with you, Buck?”

  “Hell, why not?”

  * * *

  After all their traps and plews were loaded onto three of their packhorses, Frank arranged the rest of their possibles on the other one, leaving room for Jim to ride in front of the load. They set out for the narrow ravine where Buck had found the boy. A quick look around told them that Jim’s camp had not been discovered, for there were no prints other than theirs from three days before. Satisfied that they were not about to encounter hostiles at any second, Frank and Buck decided it was safe to try to pick up Jim’s trail, old as it was, and find the cabin. The boy helped some. He remembered some landmarks from his flight, enough to indicate a general direction. With that to help them, Buck and Frank soon headed across a grassy flat at the base of a steep hill. The boy remembered the place and pointed to a large boulder jutting out of the face of the hill. He had stopped there to rest and regain his breath. They continued on in this fashion for the better part of the day—Jim remembering some point of reference, and the two trappers scouting until they found his tracks. By the end of the second day on the move, they made camp in country that was familiar to the boy. He had hunted this part of the mountains, so he knew that the cabin was only three or four hours away.

  Before the sun was directly overhead the next day, they stood on the bank of the stream across from the partially burnt cabin. Jim started toward it at once, but Frank grabbed his mount’s bridle and held him back.

  “Let’s just take a little look here. We ain’t in no hurry.” He and Buck sat there looking over the clearing and the slope behind the cabin for several minutes.

  Jim, impatient to get his father’s body in the ground, pressed the two old grizzlies to act. “Come on, there ain’t nobody there.”

  They didn’t move. “Boy, one of the first lessons you need to learn if you’re thinkin’ on keepin’ your scalp in this country, is not to get in too big a hurry. Injuns’ stock-in-trade is lookin’ like they ain’t there.” He continued to sit motionless for a few minutes more. Jim noticed that he was watching the horses closely. When the horses showed no signs of sensing others in the vicinity, Frank nudged his mount forward and entered the water. Buck followed, motioning for the boy to trail behind.

  Passing around the sluice box, Frank’s horse shied away from the first body, still lying half in the water. Frank calmed the animal, holding him steady while he dismounted to take a look. The body was badly decomposed already. He glanced up at Buck, who was still in the saddle. “It’s a pretty piece of work, all right.” As Jim urged his packhorse up the shallow bank, Frank called out to him. “Boy, are you shore you wanna see this? Me and Buck can take care of your pa for you.”

  Jim hopped down from the packhorse. “I’ve done seen ’em once already. I reckon I’m man enough to take care of my pa.” It was brave talk, and strictly for their benefit. Inside, Jim could feel his innards twisting in knots as he forced himself to approach the body of his father, still propped against the tree. He was not prepared for the ghastly sight and had to turn his head away at first, stifling the convulsions that threatened to overcome his stomach. Fighting to calm his emotions, he looked again on the shattered form that had been his father. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you, Pa,” he whispered, knowing that it was a useless apology. His presence would have hardly mattered in the results of the savage attack.

  He was not aware of Buck standing behind him until he felt the old mountain man’s huge hand on his shoulder. “It’s a mighty hard lesson to learn, boy. Let’s git him in the ground and be gone from this place.”

  Jim nodded and moved aside at Buck’s gentle tug on his arm, and Frank stepped in to help Buck with the body. All but two of the dozen or so arrows Jim had seen on that fatal day had been removed. The two that remained were only broken shafts, the arrowheads obviously having been embedded too deeply to remove. Buck examined the shafts carefully, then looked at Frank. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  Frank nodded solemnly. “Blackfoot.” He unconsciously raised his head a little and looked around him. “Mighty strange to see a Blackfoot war party around these parts. I don’t like that a whole lot.”

  While the two men carried John Tracey’s body to the edge of the clearing, the boy fetched the shovels from the side of the cabin, where they still lay. As Buck would point out later, “Injuns ain’t got no use for shovels, otherwise they’da stole ’em.”

  Since the body was already stiff, and impossible to straighten, it was necessary to dig the grave a little wider at one end—a picture that would always remain in Jim’s memory. Once his father’s body was in the ground and covered with dirt, Jim could breathe a little easier.

  “Who’d you say this boy was?” Buck asked as he and Jim worked on the second grave.

  “His name was Henry Brown Bear. He hooked up with us at Deer Creek Crossing on the Platte.” Jim paused to consider the premature ending of the half-breed’s life. “He wasn’t much older than me.”

  When Henry had been laid to rest, Buck took the shovels and strapped them on one of the packhorses. “Ain’t no use leaving three good shovels out here.” The Blackfeet had taken everything else of any value. Buck was quick to add, “’Course, these here shovels is naturally yours, boy.” Jim seemed not to hear, as he stood still, staring at the graves.

  “We’d best lay some rocks over ’em to keep varmints from digging ’em up,” Frank said. “There’s a big pile of rocks over there next to the crick.”

  Jim, still intent upon his father’s grave, suddenly remembered. “I’ll get ’em,” he blurted and moved quickly toward the pile.

  “It’ll take more than a few,” Frank advised and started after the boy.

  “That’s all right. I wanna do it,” Jim insisted, hurrying to get to the stack of rocks before the two men.

  Seeing that the old trappers were not going to let him do all the work, he climbed up on the pile and started heaving rocks down behind him. “Here’s some good heavy ones,” he said and tossed rocks down for them to carry. Then he pulled some of the rocks from the side of the pile, near the bottom, until he uncovered a long, flat stone. When both men had their backs to him, carrying rocks to the graves, he lifted the flat stone and pulled out a small hide pouch from beneath it. Glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure he was not being observed, he stuck it inside his shirt, letting it ride on his belt. Then he picked up a rock and carried it to his father’s grave.

  Most of the afternoon had passed by the time the bodies were laid to rest, so they decided to make camp there for the night. “If that’s all right with you, boy,” Frank said. “If you feel a mite nervous about staying here . . . I mean, if it don’t set too well with your daddy being in the ground and all. . .”

  “It don’t bother me,” Jim interrupted. “I ain’t got nuthin’ to fear from Pa—alive or dead. It’s the damn Injuns I’m worried about.”

  “Good, then—’cause we got good water here and grass for the horses and wood handy for a fire. You don’t have to worry about the Injuns, boy. They’ve done their work here. There ain’t nuthin’ here they want. Buck, let’s get the packs offen them horses.”

  Buck looked at the boy, then back at Frank. “Why in thunder didn’t we take the packs off when we first got here, if you was aiming to make camp, ’stead of letting the dang horses stand around toting ’em all day?”

  “Dammit, ’cause I didn’t know we was gonna take all day to put them two under the ground. Why didn’t you think about taking the packs off?” He started toward the waiting horses.

  Buck dutifully followed along after him. “’cause you was the one giving all the orders—like you was the booshway of this dang outfit.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, I reckon if we had to wait for you to decide on what we oughta do, we’d still be working for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company!”

  “So now it was your idea to be free trappers!”
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br />   Jim could not help but smile. The two partners argued all the way over to where the horses were standing.

  When they were all settled in for the night, and had had a supper of coffee, beans, and salt pork, the three sat around the fire to let the grub settle. Frank cut a chew off of a plug of tobacco and passed it to Buck. Buck helped himself, then before passing it back, asked Jim, “Have you took up the habit yet?”

  Jim curled his upper lip. “No, I ain’t. I tried it. Pa give me some once. It makes me sick.”

  Buck chuckled. “You ain’t supposed to swallow it.” He paused a few moments while he worked his chew up to a spit. Then he shot a brown stream into the red coals of the fire. It was followed almost simultaneously by a stream from Frank. “I expect, if you stay out here very long, you’ll more’n likely learn to chew. They ain’t no women, so tabacky is the next best thing to a tit to chew on.”

  “Well, I reckon I got time before I have to think about that,” Jim replied.

  Frank lay back, propped on his saddle, studying the boy while he talked to Buck. The kid had a lot of gumption. Watching him the past three days, Frank could tell he had the right kind of sand to make it in the mountains. He certainly wasn’t afraid of work. He damn near picked up everything Buck knew about trapping beaver in two days. ’Course, it’ll take considerable more time to learn half of what I know. He thought about it for a while, then interrupted their conversation. “Boy, what have you got your mind set on doing now? Going home?”

  Jim didn’t answer right away. He thought a few moments about the situation he was in. “I’m obliged to go back to St. Louis and tell my ma and my brother about Pa.” He was quiet a moment, then, “I reckon I kinda like trapping beaver, and there’s something about the mountains that kinda gets under my hide. I don’t know, but before I do anything else, I need to go see my ma.”