Cry of the Hawk

Moser sputtered, struggling to come out of the shallow stream, raising himself on elbows. His long hair sopped into his eyes as he hacked up the murky, gritty water, and he drew his legs under him. Moser slowly got to his knees, heaving, puking up river-bottom grit.

“I don’t know—”

“You’re in a heap of trouble, mister!” growled one of the soldiers.

“Looks to me like you’re the one staring down the bore of my pistol, soldier.”

“What’s he to you?”

“My cousin,” Hook snapped. “Now—you there, get down real easy and cut ’im loose.” He glanced at the growing crowd of soldiers and civilians on the streambank.

The trooper shook his head. “I ain’t a-gonna—”

“You’ll do, or I’ll wing you so you can’t sit a saddle for a month of Sundays!”

The soldier clambered down and pulled out a folding knife. He was cutting Artus loose when some new, loud voices drew Hook’s attention to the riverbank. A squad of armed soldiers bolted down the slope, piercing the gathered throng of curious spectators.

“Drop your gun, mister!” bawled a soldier.

Hook flicked him with his eyes. He wore three stripes. Red from the neck up and nervous looking, the way he chewed his lip.

“You best keep your finger away from that trigger, soldier,” said Shad Sweete.

Hook quickly glanced at the bank, finding the old trapper wading into the water.

“I ain’t taking my gun off these two until they cut my cousin loose,” Jonah growled.

“We’ll shoot—we have to,” said the nervous sergeant.

“They probably will at that,” Sweete said, measuring the half dozen soldiers.

“Then tell ’em to start shooting.” Hook turned his back on them, again facing the pair who had dragged Moser downstream. “They want to shoot a man in the back—they can start with me. But you remind them, Shad—that this big ugly Yankee here is gonna get a lead ball in the face before I go down.”

The eyes of that burly soldier who still sat his horse widened even more, flickering over the half dozen come to his rescue, then back to the bore of the Confederate’s gun. “Now …” His deep voice cracked, a slight squeak around its edges. “Now, let’s no one go getting fretful here, fellas. Sarge, suppose we just cut this man loose”—and he motioned to the kneeling Moser at the middle of the stream—“and we all call it a day. I figure he’s had enough. What say, Sarge?”

“Can’t do that, Henline,” grumbled the itchy sergeant. “Custer ordered punishment. So punishment it will be.”

“Cut ’im loose—like I told you!” Hook snarled, for a moment wagging his pistol’s muzzle down at the soldier with the folding knife who stood over his cousin.

“Don’t you move, soldier!”

Hook looked up to find Tom Custer loping down the grassy bank.

“There’s hell to pay now, Jonah,” Shad said with a sigh. “We got the general’s brother in the pot now.”

“This man is being punished for mutiny!” the younger Custer declared as he came to a halt in front of the half dozen soldiers, less than ten yards from Jonah and Artus.

“He’s being dragged through the river until he drowns, you stupid sonofabitch!”

Young Custer flared. “Drop your weapon, mister—or there’ll be a dead man in this river.”

“There’ll be two.” Hook slowly brought his pistol off the mounted soldier and pointed it at Tom Custer. His gut told him enough—that at least it was the smart thing to point your gun at the man doing the talking. “You and me, Custer.”

“What’s going on here, Tom?”

The lieutenant colonel appeared in the parting crowd at the top of the bank.

“Got us someone ready to die to cut loose one of the teamsters.”

“The man with the pistol—”

“I know damned well who he is,” Custer snapped at the sergeant. “Hook, isn’t it? One of Hickok’s guides.”

“That’s right, General,” Jonah replied.

“Tell him what’s going on, Jonah,” Shad pleaded.

“Don’t want your goddamned soldiers dragging my cousin through your goddamned river, General. He was trying to help the others you staked out—when he was caught and your men here tried drowning him.”

“I ordered the punishment for your cousin myself.”

Hook smiled. “Then it’s your brother going to die when your soldiers start shooting, General.”

“None of this warrants any shooting,” Custer said, his voice laced with strain.

“You had your own soldiers shot, General,” Hook said. “I think the shooting’s already started. Let’s just get it finished.”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Hook.”

“No threat. I just don’t figure I got much left to live for but family. That goddamned war you Yankees whipped on us caused me to lose my wife and children. Far as I know—all I got now is my cousin … this man you about drownded in this shithole river. So—you go and kill him, I figure you might as well kill me same time.”

“I don’t plan on killing anyone, Mr. Hook.”

“I do—and it’s gonna be your brother, General.”

For a long moment the sun beat down on that stretch of prairie river, while the water continued to riffle around the horses’ legs and Artus Moser’s bound and bloody body.

Finally. “Cut the prisoner loose,” Custer said.

“Don’t back down, Autie!” Tom said. “He ain’t got the nerve to shoot me.”