Son of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Native American & Aboriginal; Westerns

Synopsis

Action-packed western adventure from the author of Crow Creek Crossing.

Over a decade ago, a Shoshoni maiden loved mountain man Trace McCall. Her father did not approve of the union and stole her away—unaware that she was carrying the white man's child.

She married a member of her tribe to give her son a father, naming the child White Eagle. A war party of Sioux slaughters the Shoshoni camp, but the child escapes.

With no place to run, White Eagle decides to find his white father.

Release date: November 1, 2001

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 48

Sample

ACTION-PACKED FRONTIER FICTION FROM CHARLES G. WEST . . .

Medicine Creek

Bitterroot

Wind River

The Jason Coles Series

Cbeyenne JlkJtice

Black Eagle

Stone Hand

The Trace McCall Series

Cry of tbe Hawk

Mountain Hawk

Son of tbe Hawk

RISKY REVENGE

White Eagle’s heart was filled with grief and outrage over the death of his mother and grandfather. To steal away quietly unnoticed? Or to strike a blow for his people? He fingered the blade of his knife, his mind in a panic of confusion while he stared down at the snoring warrior. The man lay helpless before him, but what if he struck and he didn’t kill the Sioux? Suddenly the warrior’s eyes popped open, and White Eagle took a step backward, staring horrified at the Sioux.

“What is it?” the warrior asked, still half drunk and groggy with sleep. He reached for the edge of his blanket to pull it over his shoulders.

There was no time to think. Acting on instinct alone, White Eagle quickly knelt down and grabbed the blanket as if to help cover the sleepy man. Then he whispered, “Die, Sioux dog. . . .”

Son of the Hawk

Charles G. West

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

Booth Dalton sat watching the string of twelve heavily loaded mules as they filed through the narrow part of a rocky canyon some three hundred feet below. He squinted against the afternoon sun in an effort to study the four riders, each leading three of the mules. He shifted his position in the saddle slightly, contemplating the possibilities that might develop for an enterprising man like himself. He didn’t concern himself when the lead rider disappeared from his view, blocked out by the trees on the ledge. Booth knew where the canyon led. He felt no sense of urgency—there was plenty of time to decide how best to approach this unforeseen stroke of luck.

Just what in hell are four white men doing smack-dab in the middle of Injun country? And where the hell are they goin’? This wasn’t just Indian territory, this was the sacred hunting grounds of the Sioux nation. Booth knew he was taking a sizable risk himself just being in this part of the hills, but he had traded with the Sioux, and he figured that if they did catch him in the Black Hills, they might go easy on him. But this mule train moving through the pass below him might as well be carrying a big sign saying, Come and get us!

“The last of ’em’s goin’ outta sight. What’re we gonna do?”

Booth turned to look at Charlie White Bull as the chunky half-breed walked back from the rim of the ledge where he had been watching the progress of the mule train. Booth smiled to himself as he considered his witless associate. Charlie claimed he had been kicked in the head by a horse when he was a young’un, and that was the cause of his thoughts sometimes being a little behind schedule. Booth figured it more likely that Charlie had been kicked by that horse on a regular monthly basis, judging by the elementary level of the man’s reasoning. Most men would find it uncomfortable to have Charlie hanging around, but Booth found the simpleminded half-breed useful for any number of troublesome chores—such as slitting some miner’s throat.

“Why, what do you think we oughta do?” Booth finally replied, knowing what Charlie’s answer would be.

His face absent of all expression, Charlie answered just as Booth expected. “Go down there and kill ’em and take them goods.”

Smiling patiently, Booth chided his partner. “There’s four of ’em, and they all got rifles cradled across their saddles. You wanna just ride down there blazin’ away?” Charlie shrugged. “That might not be too smart,” Booth finished.

“Maybe you know what to do,” Charlie finally said, his phlegmatic facade never changing.

“Maybe I do. Maybe I always know what to do—right, Charlie?” He didn’t expect an answer. “I always know how to git what we need without riskin’ our asses. Now mount up. We’ll just take a little ride across the ridge and wait for ’em on the other side. I’d druther they made camp so we don’t have to go chasin’ after them mules when the shootin’ starts.” He pulled his horse’s head around and pointed him toward the ridge. Talking more to himself than his stoic partner, he said, “I’m mighty curious to git a look-see in them packs. And I damn shore wanna git to ’em before the damn Injuns find ’em.”

Booth continued to marvel at this unexpected good fortune that had wandered deep into Indian territory on this late summer afternoon. He was pretty sure the four were prospectors looking for gold, but they were a long way from the gold strikes west of the Absarokas. Booth had long held a suspicion that there might be gold in the Black Hills, so it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise that some bold miners might be brave enough—or dumb enough—to prospect in the Indians’ sacred grounds.

Booth might have searched for the precious metal himself, but he and Charlie weren’t suited to the work involved in washing it out of the streams. Confiscating it, along with anything else he could get his hands on, from those who had labored for it was more Booth’s style. The two of them had done quite well by themselves by bushwhacking greenhorn miners. There was some gain from the dust their victims occasionally found, but the real profit was in selling the equipment and supplies to the other, more established miners. Booth considered himself an entrepreneur in the hunting and retailing field. He and Charlie would hunt for some tenderfoot with his back turned, kill him, and sell his goods at an inflated price. It had worked to perfection in the Montana territory until the miners around Turkey Creek became wise to the source of Booth’s inventory. He and Charlie had just managed to strike for Indian territory a step ahead of a vigilante committee.

Booth smiled again when he thought about how soon he was back in business—this time selling guns and ammunition to the warring Sioux. Old Iron Pony was anxious to get his hands on as many rifles as Booth could bring him, along with the powder, flints, and balls. But Booth was well aware of the fact that the Lakota chief wouldn’t tolerate the two in his country for one minute after the rifles they supplied stopped coming. Of course even the plunder Booth and Charlie provided might not be enough to save their hair if Iron Pony found out that Charlie was half Flathead. Booth had told the chief that his stoic partner was the product of the union between a white man and a Santee Dakota woman. He almost convinced Iron Pony that Charlie White Bull was his cousin, a thought that always amused Booth.

*   *   *

The four men led their mules through the narrow mouth of the canyon only to find a flat stretch of shale and gravel leading up to another line of pine-covered hills. The leader, Tom Farrior, raised his hand to halt those behind him. “I swear, Ned, I sure thought there’d be water on this side.”

Ned Turner pulled up beside Tom, concern etched in his face as he stood up in the stirrups and gazed all around him. “I did, too. We need to find a stream soon. It’s been a good while since these animals had a drink.” He paused to look around again before adding, “I could damn shore use one myself.”

While they considered the formidable line of hills dead ahead, the other two members of their party caught up to them. “What’s the trouble?” Anson Miller wanted to know. The afternoon sun was already beginning to settle over the mountains, and if they didn’t find a place to camp soon, he feared they’d be stumbling around in the dark.

Tom turned in his saddle to face both Anson and Jack Stratton. “There ain’t no water here. I thought there would be. It just seemed like a likely place, looking from those hills on the other side of the canyon.”

“Damn,” Jack Stratton murmured. The other three felt the same about prospects for making a dry camp.

Ned Turner, not being one to give up easily, pointed toward a long line of trees that led down from a mountain about five miles distant. “That looks like a stream coming down that mountain. I say we get a move on and—”

Before he could finish, Anson growled a warning. “We got company.”

The heads of the other three turned as one to follow the direction he pointed out. From a narrow ravine that led down from the eastern ridge that formed one side of the canyon they had just passed through, riders came into view. All four men instinctively grabbed their rifles.

“Keep your eye on ’em,” Tom Farrior warned as he quickly scanned the treeless slope to the west, looking for a likely defensive position.

“There ain’t but two of ’em,” Jack said. “They look like white men—leastways one of ’em does. The other one looks more like an Injun.” All four frantically searched the slopes on either side of them, fearful of having been surrounded by a swarm of hostiles.

When no more riders appeared anywhere around them, Tom cautioned his partners to be ready, anyway. “We’ll just see who they are and what they want. Keep your rifles ready.” It was mighty surprising to meet a white man in this part of the territory, and Tom was especially leery of one riding with an Indian.

Booth Dalton affixed his most engaging smile in place and waved his arm back and forth as he and Charlie made for the four men now sitting motionless, watching their approach. He was well aware of his best asset in his chosen line of work, an amiable facade that betrayed no hint of ill intent. It had been said by one of the miners in Turkey Creek that Booth had the face of a Methodist minister and the guile of Satan himself. The same miner originated the rumor—false though it may have been—that Booth was a man who might backshoot you, but he would give you the Lord’s blessing to send you along. In simple fact, Booth had no religion—no notion of God, Man Above, the Great Spirit, or any other symbol of a world beyond this one. It seemed simple logic to him that, if there was a God, He wouldn’t have made men like himself and Charlie. The only truth he accepted from the Bible was, “From dust thou art, to dust returneth,” and he reckoned that he had returnethed more than a few to their origin.

“Hallo, friends,” Booth called out once he was within earshot.

Tom and his partners made no response to the greeting but continued to watch the two closely as they approached. He glanced briefly to each side again, watchful for any sign of treachery, but the barren little valley appeared to be deserted save for the six of them. The two strangers were an odd pair. The white man did not wear the trappings of a mountain man, dressed as he was in black trousers, broadcloth shirt, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. His companion, a solid-looking block of a man, riding a gray pony with an Indian saddle, was definitely an Indian, or a half-breed. The beaming, openly friendly face of the white man contrasted with the sullen countenance of his companion—a face devoid of expression, discouraging even the seed of a smile.

“Boy, am I glad to see some white faces,” Booth exclaimed as he and Charlie pulled up before them. When there were no more greetings from the four miners other than a couple of nods, Booth pretended to take no notice of their suspicious stares. “I’m Booth Dalton,” Booth went on, “special aide on Indian affairs to the Secretary of the Interior.” Making a sweeping gesture toward Charlie, he said, “This here is my guide. We’re on our way to Fort Laramie.”

Booth paused, beaming brightly, as he evaluated the effect of his story upon the four cautious miners. It evidently had the effect he wanted, for Tom glanced at Ned Turner briefly, and both men relaxed a bit. “Tom Farrior,” Tom responded courteously, still a bit leery of any white man in this wild country. His three companions nodded politely but said nothing. “What brings you alone in these parts? Don’t you know this is Injun country?”

Booth laughed good-naturedly. “Indeed I do, sir, and might I add that you do well to question anyone you meet in these hills. This is dangerous country, and my guide and me wouldn’t be west of the Cheyenne River if my packhorse hadn’t broke his hobbles and run off the other night. Most of our supplies and a packet of important dispatches for the post commander at Fort Laramie was on that horse, so we’ve been trackin’ him ever since.” He paused again to judge the effectiveness of his story. Pleased to see more of the stiffness dissolve from the faces of the four, he silently congratulated himself—he kinda liked the idea of being an aide to the secretary.

“Well, Mr. Dalton,” Anson Miller offered, “we ain’t seen sign of no packhorse. Leastways, it sure didn’t come through that canyon behind us.” Jack Stratton nodded his head, agreeing.

Booth grimaced and shook his head as if perplexed. “I guess we’re just gonna have to give it up for lost, and hard luck at that. We’ll just have to make do with the supplies we’ve got in our saddlepacks, won’t we, Charlie?” The half-breed did not respond. Booth turned back to Tom. “You fellers look like you’re fixin’ to do some prospectin’. I’ve heard there’s some color in some of the streams in these hills, but I feel it my duty to warn you that you’re in some country that the Injuns are mighty particular about. So you boys best be real careful. Keep a sharp eye all the time, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep a guard over your animals at night.”

“I reckon that’s good advice, all right,” Tom said. “We know we’re in dangerous country. We aim to be mighty careful.” Booth certainly seemed to have an honest face, and Tom had no doubts that the man was who he said he was. “What we’re looking to do right now is find a place to camp. You run across any water back the way you came?”

Booth smiled warmly. “Matter of fact, we did. There’s a suitable spot to make camp about two miles on the other side of that ridge. It’s gittin’ late—me and Charlie was fixing to find us a place to camp, too. We could camp together, if it’s all right with you gentlemen.” When there was no immediate response to his proposal, he continued. “I’d be happy to offer my protection in case we have any Sioux visitors. Charlie here is the younger brother of old Iron Pony himself, so the Sioux won’t hardly bother nobody ridin’ with him.”

This seemed to encourage a favorable reception from the four miners, and the atmosphere suddenly became free of tension, jovial in fact, as Booth cordially shook hands with each man. As far as Tom was concerned, it was a stroke of luck to run into Mr. Booth. It might not be a bad idea to ask for some token from his guide, something that would identify the four of them as friends to the Sioux in case they were unsuccessful in avoiding a war party after they parted company with Booth.

True to his word, Booth led the small mule train to an ideal camping spot in a grove of trees beside a clear stream that fairly sparkled with the last faint rays of the setting sun. Tom marveled that Booth had been able to stumble upon it because it had been necessary to cross a ridge and ride down an almost hidden ravine to reach the stream. He supposed that Booth’s somber guide had found it. There was a little more excitement among the four prospectors when they looked back up the mountain toward the source of the rushing stream. Without discussion, the four of them decided it to be a likely spot to start their search for gold.

When advised that his camping companions had decided to set up a permanent camp on the spot, Booth seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, now, I’m mighty happy that I could show it to you. Maybe, when you strike it big here, you’ll remember ol’ Charlie and me.”

It was a lighthearted camp that night. Tom and his friends found Booth Dalton to be a most entertaining guest, full of stories about the frontier—some of them possibly true—tales of the California territory, and mining towns in between there and here. Iron Pony’s younger brother remained apart, whether from cold detachment from white men or some other reason—Tom couldn’t say. But Mr. Dalton was a close friend to them all before it was time to unroll their blankets. Still, Tom did not feel it wise to discard all caution. When it was finally time to bank the coals for the night, Tom took Ned aside. “I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about from Mr. Dalton, but it might be a good idea for one of us to have one eye open all night.” Ned agreed, and they quietly worked out a guard schedule with Jack and Anson, so that only three of them would be asleep at any time during the night.

Meanwhile, Charlie White Bull was showing signs of impatience to see what manner of plunder the prospectors’ pack train contained, so Booth found it necessary to remind his associate once again that he would be the one to decide the proper time to strike—and Booth was in no particular hurry now since Charlie had not turned up any sign of Sioux in the area. He reasoned that the job would be a whole lot easier if the four men came to accept him as a friend. If it took a couple of days to reach that point, he was content to bide his time and enjoy the company of four pleasant companions. After cautioning his half-breed partner to be patient, and not to try anything during the night, Booth retired to his bedroll, content in the knowledge that there would be a sentinel on guard all night to protect and watch over him. Of the half-dozen men in the camp, only Booth and Charlie enjoyed a full night’s uninterrupted sleep—snoring peacefully while the four prospectors took turns watching them.

When morning came, Tom awoke to find Booth already up and preparing to set a kettle on the fire to boil coffee. Glancing around him, he saw that his three partners were still huddled under their blankets—including Jack Stratton, who took the last watch during the night. After watching Booth for a few moments, Tom said, “We’ve got a coffeepot that might be a little easier to work with than that kettle.”

If Booth was startled by the sudden voice behind him, he didn’t show it. “Good morning,” he offered cheerfully in response. “That might work a little better at that. I had me a good coffeepot, but a Blackfoot warrior put a hole in it when we was attacked last spring on the Missouri.” He waited while Tom got the coffeepot and handed it to him. “I’m aiming to get me another one—just like this one,” he said, smiling. There was a smidgen of truth in his story. He had discarded his coffeepot after it received a bullet hole. But the rifle ball that did the job had come from the flintlock of a miner Booth had left for dead—and he did have plans to replace the pot with the very one he was now holding.

Just then, Tom noticed that Charlie White Bull’s horse was missing. “Where’s your guide?” he asked, glancing toward the horses and mules tethered in the trees.

Booth’s smile broadened. “I sent Charlie out a little earlier to see if he couldn’t git us some fresh meat. I noticed that you boys weren’t packin’ anything but salt pork last night—and I know I ain’t had nothing but jerked buffafo for a while. Figured we all might enjoy a little fresh meat.”

“Why, that sure sounds good to me,” Tom replied, a second or two before another thought occurred. He quickly glanced in Jack’s direction and was met with an expression of puzzled bewilderment on his young partner’s face, as Jack threw back his blanket. How the hell did he get outta here without you knowing it? Tom wondered. The knowledge that the guide had been able to untie his horse and ride out without anyone taking notice bothered Tom more than a little. After thinking about it a second, he also realized that Booth had said he had sent Charlie to hunt. That meant that the two of them were awake and talking while Tom and his partners slept unaware. He shot Jack an accusing look.

Tom remained a bit uncomfortable knowing that the half-breed was missing. Mr. Dalton seemed jovial enough, however, serving coffee to the four prospectors as if he were the host. Tom’s concerns were lessened somewhat when, after half an hour, a single shot was heard about a mile off in the distance.

“Well, boys,” Booth announced, “that’ll more’n likely be breakfast.” He looked around the fire, grinning at each man in turn. “Charlie don’t hardly miss. I’m thinkin’ we’d best rig us up a spit to roast the meat on.”

Just as predicted, the half-breed returned with a fresh kill draped across his saddle. They spent the day in camp, calling it a holiday, while they stuffed their guts with strips of roasted meat from Charlie’s white-tailed deer. Tom was beginning to believe his suspicions of their new friends were completely unfounded. It would be hard to imagine a more congenial companion than Mr. Dalton. After a while one even became accustomed to the stoic presence of Iron Pony’s younger brother. Tom was glad that the two had decided to stay with them a couple of days—he would be sorry to see them start back on their way to Fort Laramie.

After the second night, Tom and his partners became wholly convinced that Mr. Dalton and his guide were no more than honest men involved in honest work. Ned was certain that Lady Luck herself had caused the two to cross their path because Booth spent a generous amount of his time educating the four novices on the proper methods of placer mining. Having nothing to qualify them as gold prospectors, other than desire and the money to equip themselves, the four men had counted on compensating for their lack of knowledge with hard work. To Tom’s delight, they found Booth Dalton to be a veritable gold mine of information on the subject of mining. When Tom wondered why Booth didn’t try his own hand at prospecting, he was advised that Booth felt that serving the government in his capacity with the Department of the Interior was much more gratifying. Tom wondered what Annie would think now if she could know of their good fortune.

It had been troubling to Tom that his young wife was not more supportive of this venture to strike it rich. Although she had argued that it was risky to invest what money they had on what she considered a pipe dream, Tom was convinced that her real concern was being separated from her husband after only three months of marriage. She had journeyed as far as Fort Laramie with him, and had remained there with Ned’s wife Grace. Tom missed his wife, but he was convinced that prospecting was the only opportunity he had to amass enough to set Annie and himself up with a farm of their own. And now he was even more certain that he had made the proper decision, what with Mr. Dalton’s glowing reports of likely signs of gold throughout the Black Hills country. Why, we might be back at Laramie well before the two months I promised, he thought as he spread his bedroll and checked it for uninvited critters. Mr. Dalton had promised to draw them a map in the morning, showing over a dozen promising streams for prospecting.

*   *   *

Of the four partners who started out from Fort Laramie, Anson Miller was the loudest snorer. He could probably outsnore the other three combined. Ned Turner had expressed concern that Anson’s snoring might be heard by a passing Sioux war party and be the cause of all their deaths. Worse yet, Anson was always the first one asleep, usually deep in his slumber almost as soon as he pulled his blanket over his shoulders. Anson maintained that he only snored when he rolled over on his back. So it had become a ritual with the other three to place a large stone or stick of wood behind Anson’s back as he lay on his side, figuring it would prevent him from rolling over.

All four of the partners had eaten heartily, and after a long evening of conversation about prospecting and planning for the beginning of their search for gold, everyone turned in later than usual. Consequently no one bothered to place a rock behind Anson. The fire was no more than a bed of dying embers when Anson rolled over on his back. Within seconds, his mouth dropped open and the first nasal bass tones rumbled up his windpipe. He had issued no more than two or three notes before a beefy hand was clamped tightly across his open mouth, causing him to snort briefly before Charlie White Bull’s razor-sharp skinning knife laid his throat open from ear to ear.

Held firmly by the half-breed’s powerful hands, Anson Miller’s life drained from his body, his arms and legs thrashing helplessly while his last breath bubbled from his severed windpipe. Charlie glanced over at Jack Stratton’s bedroll where Booth was performing the same execution. With two members of the prospecting party disposed of, Charlie went to the other side of the fire to slit Ned Turner’s throat.

When Charlie reached down to clamp his hand over Ned’s mouth, Ned awoke and yelled, causing Charlie to struggle with him before subduing his flailing victim with a knife thrust deep in his belly. Awakened by the struggle, Tom opened his eyes to discover Booth standing directly over him. Alarmed, Tom asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Why, nothin’,” Booth replied, smiling, “nothin’ at all.”

While Tom fought to rid himself of his blanket, Booth pulled his pistol from his belt and put a ball in Tom’s forehead, killing him instantly. He stepped back as Tom’s body slumped back to the ground.

“Waste of lead,” was Charlie’s stoic comment, as he cleaned his knife blade on Ned’s shirt.

“Quicker,” Booth replied simply. He would not have wasted a bullet if Tom had not awakened before he could slit his throat. Since he did, Booth saw no reason to struggle with his victim, risking a wound himself. Pausing to reload his pistol, he said, “Now wasn’t that a sight better than chargin’ into four men with guns like you wanted to do the first day?”

Charlie grinned, transforming the somber face into a comical brainless facade. “I reckon.”

“Let’s git some sleep,” Booth said, “we can take inventory of our goods in the morning.”

Charlie was not ready to retire yet. “I wanna take the scalps now—so I can dry ’em in the morning.”

Booth shook his head, exasperated. “What the hell do you want ’em for, anyway? You can’t trade ’em.” He watched for a minute while Charlie sliced the skin around Anson Miller’s pate. “I swear, Charlie, I ain’t never gonna make a civilized man outta you.” Booth pulled his boots off, rolled up in his blanket, and was soon on his way toward the peaceful sleep of a man satisfied after a good night’s work. Other men might have been a bit uneasy going to sleep while a brainless half-breed was loose with a bloody knife. Booth wasn’t worried in the least. Charlie was like a child in most ways, and he would be lost without Booth to tell him in which direction to start every morning.

Most of the following morning was spent stripping the bodies of all useful items and pulling the packs apart. Booth was a little disappointed to find no more than a couple of kegs of black powder and a likewise small supply of flints and lead. There was a large quantity of dried beans and salt pork, as well as several tins of smoked oysters, one of Booth’s favorites. Of course there were mining tools and other supplies, but the item that delighted Booth most was a silver pocketwatch that Annie Farrior had given Tom as a wedding present. He rewound it and held it up to his ear, a wide grin on his face when he heard the steady ticking of the timepiece. THOMAS L. FARRIOR, LOVE FROM ANNIE, was the inscription on the inside cover of the watch. It brought a wide grin to Booth’s face. Charlie, until then busy pulling Anson Miller’s shirt from his body, paused to watch Booth wind the timepiece—regretting the fact that he had not found i