Cry of the Hawk

The crumpled rail cars lay on both sides of the track like a child’s toys. From a distance, they looked like something he had carved for Jeremiah or little Zeke. Tiny railcars scattered along the ruin of its rail bed.

With all his might, Jonah Hook hefted the memory of his two boys from his thoughts.

Enough to think on now. Knowing the chances were good that he would find his cousin somewhere out here.

For the past two days, he had asked after Artus every chance he had, whenever Lieutenant James Murie stopped his small detachment of Pawnee scouts. Major Frank North had assigned Jonah to Murie, because the ex-Confederate knew a good measure of sign language as well as some of the Pawnee tongue.

“After that time we chased Cheyenne and Arapaho with General Connor, I spent a winter learning what I could from a Pawnee gal,” he had explained to North and Murie.

“You’re hired, Mr. Hook,” said the major.

“I can track and am a pretty fair marksman,” he had gone on to explain.

“Major North said you were hired,” Murie reminded.

“Just like that?”

“By talking with Bear Runs Him over there,” North said, pointing at one of the Pawnee sergeants, “you’ve showed your worth. Now, Murie here will get you squared away with the McPherson quartermaster. We’re likely to have something for you to do soon enough.”

And they had. As soon as word arrived of the attack on the train, along with orders telegraphed from General Hancock, Major North dispatched Murie and his squad of fifty scouts to explore the ground near the derailment and see what they could come up with for clues to who the war party might be.

All Jonah knew was that his cousin had pumped away from the repair station the afternoon before the derailment along with another man named Harris. Bound for a break in the wire somewhere west of there. With every passing mile, Jonah had prayed the two had made it past the scene of the destruction long before the warriors had arrived to rip up the track and stage their ambush on the train. He prayed Artus was long gone west of the scene, unable for the moment to get word back east that they were safe because of the downed line. After all, Artus would have no idea that his cousin was come looking for him ….

The fires were out now. Likely the warriors hadn’t stayed around long enough to make sure the rail cars were completely destroyed. But the autumn rains of the past two days very likely put out the smoldering wreckage. Just charred hunks of twisted, toppled—

“Over here!”

Murie was hollering at him in English. Likely found something the lieutenant wanted him to ask the Pawnee to look at.

Hook slowly turned the body over with his toe. The man was too damned fleshy, downright fat, to be Artus. What there was left of the man. It wasn’t the first time he had seen work done like this.

“They say it was Cheyenne, Lieutenant,” Hook explained after asking the warriors who had committed the butchery.

“The arms … cut like they are?”

“You’re learning.” Hook looked up as a trio of Pawnee riders loped onto the scene. They had gone on ahead, following the tracks to scout for prints, sign, anything worthy of attention.

“You come. Now,” one of the older Pawnee said. His long braids nuzzled his cheek above the blue tunic the Indian scouts wore above their breechclouts and buckskin leggings.

“Find something?” Hook asked.

“Come.”

The scout motioned, then reined his pony about as Jonah raised himself to his saddle.

Through the string of low hills they rode along the gaping iron rails pointing their way west, toward the far blue mountains of Dakota Territory.

“Two more,” said the Pawnee scout, breaking into Jonah’s reverie. He was pointing at the wreckage of the half-burnt handcar as he reined up near the other two Indians on the ground.

Hook slowed his horse, but he kept on, passing the three Pawnee. The first body was clearly not Moser. He sighed with little relief, the bile stinging the back of his throat. This was nothing new, no sir. Not the mutilation anyway, nor the heat bloating and the way the insects had been drawn to the blood and gore. Every wound, as well as the open mouth and eyes frozen wide in horror were now home to the wriggling maggots and larvae of the green-bottle flies … it was enough to turn any man’s stomach. It would not be long before the wild dogs of the prairie would find this place of death.

Jonah dropped to the ground, letting go the reins, and walked slowly forward, down the side of the graveled roadbed. He spotted the second body, laying face down. The ground around the body had soaked up the blood in several spots, especially beneath the head.

What was left of the head anyway.

He swallowed down the acid taste, afraid he would lose his belly then and there beside the puffy, swollen, blackening body.

It could be Artus, he thought. He hated himself for even thinking it as he circled around the remains. Get upwind, he told himself.