Buffalo Flower smiled happily and sat down on the edge of Bill’s cot.

  Hawk nudged Marie. “Maybe we’d better get out of here.”

  Marie nodded. Before closing the door, Hawk glanced back to see Bill reaching up for the Mandan woman.

  In the days that followed, the mountain men who trapped and hunted in the region began drifting into the fort. Mackenzie had sent word of the attack, and they had left their traps and their Indian women to see what had to be done. In a week, Fort Union was filled with roistering mountain men, pleased by the sudden, unexpected rendezvous.

  Along with them came friendly Indians, Mandans and even a few Cree, all eager to sell their daughters or wives for whiskey or whatever trinkets the mountain men had to offer. On the flat along the river, there were horse races and shooting contests during the day. Inside the fort there was gambling of all kinds, mostly card games that seemed to go from dawn to dusk. At night jugs of raw, gut-scouring whiskey were passed around, along with many of the Indian women, all loudly eager to join in the revelry.

  The result was a rough, noisy carnival in which increasingly more brutal appetites were slaked. Meanwhile, the few settlers remaining in the fort cowered in their wagons, the men with their firearms at the ready, the bonneted women thoroughly outraged as they tried to keep their children from noticing the goings-on.

  At last Mackenzie called the mountain men to a meeting in one of his large storerooms. He wasted no time reminding them that unless they joined him in retaliating against the Arikaras, the fort would soon be overrun, not only by Arikaras, but by their Blackfoot allies as well. This warning of a possible alliance sobered the mountain men.

  Mackenzie’s plan was simple enough. The Yellowstone was not due to sail south for a few weeks, since the river was not yet high enough. In the meantime, Mackenzie proposed using the steamboat to transport the mountain men upriver where they could disembark and attack the Arikaras in their villages along the riverbanks. With the steamboat as an impregnable fortress from which the mountain men could sally at will, they would be able to wreak fearsome damage on the Arikara villages.

  Mackenzie reminded every mountain man there of the abortive campaign led by Leavenworth and Ashley only a few years before, vowing that this time they would leave the Arikaras a broken, repentant tribe—no longer a threat to the American Fur Company and no longer worthy allies of the Blackfeet.

  Mackenzie had placed a large map of the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers on the wall, showing the spot five miles or so upstream where the Yellowstone emptied into the Missouri. With a large rule, Mackenzie indicated an area five miles or so above the mouth of the Yellowstone where he thought a number of Arikara villages might be found. If they moved fast enough, he felt, they might be able to catch the Arikaras with their pants down.

  “You sure they’re up there?” Bill asked.

  “No, I am not.” Then he looked out over the mountain men. “Any of you men know for sure where they spent the winter?”

  “I think that’s about it,” said one fellow in the back.

  “You know this for sure, do you?”

  “Hell, no. It’s just what I heard. That land up there is all trapped out. Ain’t no beaver or fox left.”

  “So no one in here knows for sure if the Arikaras are up there?” Mackenzie said. “Is that right?”

  Not a single voice was raised to contradict him.

  “Looks like you’ll have to send a scout up there to make sure,” Bill told him. “Before we stoke up that steamboat and sail all the way up there.” Bill was well on the way to a full recovery, with Buffalo Flower’s assistance.

  “Guess maybe you’re right,” Mackenzie admitted.

  “Who you got in mind?”

  Mackenzie looked over at Hawk. “What about you, Hawk?” he asked. “You willing?”

  Hawk considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  “When do you want me to pull out?”

  “Soon’s you can.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “That would be fine, Hawk.”

  Until this meeting, Hawk had kept himself pretty much out of the way of the mountain men, content to sit back with Marie and watch. Now, for the first time, he could feel the rest of the men peering at him curiously. It wasn’t long before Hawk’s name was sweeping the room: the Golden Hawk.

  When he left the room a moment later, Bill told him. “Ain’t nothin’ you kin do about it, Hawk. You’re famous.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t much like it.”

  “Don’t make no difference, hoss. You’ve killed too many redskins to go unnoticed—by these here fellows or by any tribe in the region. I been thinkin’. Maybe I ought to go along with you on this here scouting expedition.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t, Bill.”

  “Why?”

  Hawk smiled thinly. “It ain’t nothing personal, Bill. I just like to work alone is all—and besides, you’re not well enough yet. That wound’s takin’ a while to heal.”

  “I admit, it don’t feel so hot. But it ain’t near as bad as it was. I wouldn’t slow you down any.”

  I know that, Bill. But I told you. I like to travel alone. Besides, ain’t it been some time since you last visited Buffalo Flower?”

  Bill grinned. “Four years. But she’s sure makin’ up for lost time.”

  “Hawk!”

  Hawk turned to see Mackenzie hurrying to overtake them. The two men pulled up and waited for Mackenzie to join them.

  “Hawk, I’d like to speak to you before you set out, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Why not now?”

  “Fine. We’ll go to my quarters.” Mackenzie glanced at Bill. “You’re welcome to come along, Bill.”

  Bill declined and Hawk set out with Mackenzie.

  The office of the American Fur Company’s part owner was a spacious room in a large apartment built against the fort’s rear wall. One of its plastered walls was lined with books, and trophies of the hunt peered glassily down from the other. A stuffed fox and beaver sat on the fireplace’s mantel, and on the wall over the mantel hung the head of a great bull buffalo. The room’s rough flooring was covered with a magnificent buffalo robe. The rest of the office was furnished with sturdy, rough-hewn furniture polished to a high gloss by Mackenzie’s Mandan wife.

  As soon as they were settled, Mackenzie’s wife brought them glasses and a bottle of Scotch along with a large pitcher of water. As Mackenzie poured Hawk’s drink, he was pleased that Hawk did not ask for any water with it.

  “Now, then,” said Mackenzie as soon as Hawk was comfortable. “What’s this I’ve been hearing about you?”

  “I don’t understand, Mackenzie.”

  “The Indians call you Golden Hawk. And quite a few of the mountain men have heard of you as well. They say you were brought up by the Comanches. That true?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘brought up’. My folks took care of me and my sister until I was fourteen. From then until I was twenty-four, I was a Comanche slave, tending their pony herds.”

  “Then you broke away from them, did you?”

  “I did.”

  “What are you doing this far north, Hawk? It’s a long way from Comanche country.”

  “My sister was sold to a Comanchero. I’ve been looking for her. Last winter she was taken by Tall Buffalo, a Blackfoot chief. I was after him when I met Bill again. I’d met him a year before at Bent’s Fort.”

  “Word is there’s some Comanches still after you. Braves from that band you broke from. That true?”

  Hawk sipped the Scotch. “Yes,” he said.

  “My God, man. As long as you’re alive, you’ll never be safe from them.”

  Hawk shrugged. “My sister, Annabelle, is all I care about. I’ve got to get her back. I promised her.”

  “And you say she’s with a Blackfoot band led by Tall Buffalo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she might be a long way from here. Up north.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “I have a suggestion.” Mackenzie took a large swallow of Scotch.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I never heard of this Tall Buffalo, but as soon as the snows are gone, there’s a few Blackfeet come south to trade here. If you wait until late summer, maybe Tall Buffalo and his band will trail in here. He might even bring your sister with him.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  Mackenzie finished his drink. “It was just a suggestion, Hawk. But there is one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I would appreciate it if no Blackfoot concluded you were using this fort as a base. I wouldn’t like them bastards to think I was in league with Golden Hawk, the terrible scourge of the Indians. I am sure you understand my position.”

  “You still want me to go lookin’ for them Arikaras.”

  “From what I hear, I couldn’t send a better man.”

  Hawk finished his drink, went over once again with Mackenzie where he thought the Arikaras had wintered, then left his office. By this time it was pitch-dark, the sky overcast, no moon or a single star to light his way. The mountain men and the friendly Indians were still celebrating. As Hawk made his way across the grounds to his quarters, he was jostled constantly. Jugs were thrust into his face. Others grabbed him and pounded him on the back. Hawk did not like the feel of these heavy hands touching him; it still felt strange to undergo such greetings from people he did not know.

  Finally, when one enthusiastic reveler insisted on pouring rotgut down his throat, he lost his temper. Hawk kicked him in the shins and then struck him with a quick rabbit punch. As the fellow sank to the ground, Hawk backed away from him and realized, too late, that the reveler he had just rendered unconscious was the settler he had helped earlier, Thomas Cardwell. With a weary sigh, Hawk flung the man over his shoulder and delivered him to his wagon.

  Cardwell’s wife, Martha—no longer bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked—pulled her husband into the wagon. Hawk told her to tell Cardwell that if he saw him drunk again during his stay in this fort, Hawk would personally take off his head and hand it back to him.

  “Thank you,” whispered a grateful Mrs. Cardwell. “I’ll surely tell him.”

  Not long after, a weary Hawk let himself into the room he shared with Marie.

  There was only one window, covered with a heavy curtain fashioned from potato sacks. Stepping softly into the gloom so as not to disturb Marie, Hawk turned to close the door.

  Something sharp—a rifle barrel—struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head. He sagged, but managed to reach up and grab the neck of his assailant. In that instant he felt the greasy hair and smelled the unmistakable odor of Indian. A knee slammed up into his gut and he doubled over. Again the rifle barrel came down on him, this time crunching into his shoulder and slamming Hawk to the ground. He rolled over swiftly to get away from his assailant. Pulling the Walker from his belt, he fired up at his attacker. In the pitch-dark room the flash from the big revolver’s muzzle illuminated Walking Crow’s face. The bullet missed, slamming into the wall behind the Indian. As Hawk thumb-cocked and fired a second time, the Comanche vanished out the door.

  Scrambling to his feet, Hawk raced out after him. He dimly heard the swift fall of moccasined feet off to his right, but dared not shoot. There were still too many out roistering under the stars. He pulled up. Walking Crow would have no difficulty making it out of the fort—he would just be one more Indian among many.

  Hawk spun about and darted back into his quarters. Marie had been unnaturally quiet during his struggle with Walking Crow. Too quiet. He reached her bed and shook her. There was no response. His fingers fumbled with a match as he lit the candle beside the bed. He took one look at her pale, unresponsive face and groaned aloud.

  “Marie!” he cried, staring down at her in sudden horror.

  She did not respond.

  Peering close, Hawk saw the bruises left by Walking Crow’s fingers when they closed about Marie’s throat. Reaching down, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her, calling out her name desperately. He thought of the time he had wasted carrying that fool settler to his wagon. If only he had come straight to his quarters …

  Marie’s eyes flickered, then opened. Hawk released her. Color flooded back into her face. She looked up at him. “Hawk?”

  “Yes,” he told her softly. “It’s me.”

  “Oh, Hawk! I had the most terrible nightmare.”

  “It wasn’t a dream. It was Walking Crow.”

  “Oh,” she cried, reaching up for him.

  Hawk enclosed her hungrily in his arms. As they clung together, Hawk stroked her black Indian hair and promised her he would find and kill Walking Crow. Never again would she have to endure such a horror. But even as Hawk told her this, he remembered desolately another promise he had made to his sister, Annabelle.

  So far, he had not been able to keep that promise either.

  Chapter Five

  THE SHOT BROUGHT running feet. Captain Billings’ voice came through the door.

  “Hawk! Was that a shot I heard?”

  Hawk told Marie to lie still, then went out and told Billings what had happened. He returned to the still pretty badly shaken Marie and sat down on the bed beside her, comforting her as best he could. Meanwhile, the fort quieted swiftly as word of Walking Crow’s attack spread and the inhabitants went soberly off to their quarters—undoubtedly to sleep with loaded weapons under their pillows.

  The next day, as planned, Hawk rode out of the fort on his search for the Arikara encampment. He kept close to the Missouri’s banks, staying in the breaks and cedars lining it. Before nightfall he had reached the mouth of the Yellowstone. He camped without a fire and the next day hobbled his horse in a small clearing, looped a reata over his shoulder, and moved up the Yellowstone on foot.

  There was a good chance that at that very moment Walking Crow was tracking him, waiting for a favorable moment to strike again. On the other hand, in the brief gun flash when Hawk had fired up at the Indian, he had seen the extensive and bloody bandage covering Walking Crow’s upper torso. And some of the blood looked fresh. Walking Crow, it seemed, had still not recovered completely from his wounds, and it probably hadn’t helped him any to come looking for Hawk and find Marie instead. Walking Crow might very well be holed up somewhere, licking his wounds—not quite ready yet for another round.

  On the third day after he started up the Yellowstone, Hawk came upon the first of four Arikara villages. They were strung along the Yellowstone’s northern bank for a distance of about four miles, each village larger and more extensive than the one before it. Even though many of their braves had recently returned from attacking the fort and the settlers nearby, there was not a single Indian lookout, not along the riverbanks or on any of the buttes behind the villages. The Arikaras appeared to be going about their business calmly and without concern. Obviously they were not the least bit worried about the American Fur Company or any force it might bring to bear on them in reprisal for their raid.

  Hawk realized now why Mackenzie was so nervous. A tribe who treated white settlers and trading posts with this much contempt could become very dangerous. Whenever an Indian found a tribe that appeared this weak and defenseless, that tribe became a constant and irresistible target.

  Hawk continued past the fourth village, but found no more villages. What he did find was a large herd of ponies, cropping the lush grasses under a long butte that paralleled the Yellowstone. And, again, there were no Indians guarding the herds.

  Hawk returned back down the river the next day, halting across from the largest Arikara village. At dusk, he slipped into the water and swam across. The lodges were not at all similar to those favored by the plains Indians. They resembled inverted bowls, with hides, bark, and occasionally mud used for covering. But as complete darkness fell over the land, light from the hearth fires within the lodges caused them all to glow softly. They looked like oversized lampshades sitting along the river.

  As Hawk moved along the bank, he almost stepped into a latrine ditch emptying into the river. Pulling back, he saw a robed Arikara approaching it. Ducking low and staying in the shadows, Hawk waited until the Indian tossed aside his robe and squatted over the ditch. Then he dropped his reata over the Indian s head and snapped the noose shut. The Indian gagged, then went silent. Hawk untied the loop and shoved the dead Arikara into the ditch. Then, wrapping the Arikara s blanket about him, Hawk strode boldly into the village.

  Shadowy figures flitted between the lodges. The only light came from that cast by the lodges. A few dogs ran up to sniff at him, but the smell of the dead Indian’s blanket was a familiar one and they trotted off. Hawk was on the lookout for any sign that these were indeed the Arikara bands that had attacked the fort.

  He found such evidence soon enough. Beside one lodge Hawk glimpsed the steamer trunk that had rested among Marie’s belongings when they left the wagon behind. Hawk walked over to the lodge, ducked low, and entered. When he stood upright, he saw, hanging from the lodge’s ceiling, the harnesses that had been taken from Marie’s two horses before they had been slaughtered.

  An Arikara brave sat cross-legged before his hearth. His two women, blankets over their heads and shoulders, were sitting to the rear. The older of the two was making a pair of moccasins; the other had a baby to her breast.

  With a grunt, the Arikara brave threw off his blanket and stood up. Hawk threw off his own blanket, revealing his soaked buckskin clothes and long blond hair. At the same time, he reached back and flung his knife. It thunked softly into the Indian’s chest. With the handle of Hawk’s blade protruding, the Indian collapsed back silently, his anthracite eyes regarding Hawk with stupefaction.

  Stepping over the fire, Hawk snatched the infant from the woman’s breast and put one finger to his lips, instantly choking off their screams. Like the dying brave, the women stared at him fixedly, their eyes wide in terror. Hawk put the baby down on the floor, rested one foot gently on his belly, then ripped down the horse harnesses and bound the two women, gagging them as well.

 

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