Cry of the Hawk

He started to turn the body over with the toe of his boot, but the swollen skin burst with a sickening hiss, emitting a horrendous gas that drove Jonah back from the corpse.

Taking a deep breath, he approached once more, again using his boot to turn the body over. At first the skin slipped and tore, already mortifying out here in the elements these past few days. But slowly the stiffened body moved, leaving slime on the toe of his dusty boot.

He swallowed hard, turning away, unable to stop his belly from lurching. He lost his breakfast as he stumbled away, his head swimming, gasping, spitting bile and vomit and stinging pain wrenching the center of him. Some of it clung to his lower lip, in his beard.

He realized he would never forget the smell of this place where his cousin had died.

He knelt there, several yards upwind from the blackened corpse, his back turned to what had once been more than just family—what had been a true friend these last years since they both had returned from a damned long war.

His stomach finally heaved its last into a pool between his knees.

Jonah wiped and wiped his beard again. Thinking only on how he had to bury what was left of his cousin.

Trying to remember now the words he should say over the grave. Words of love and forgiveness and everlasting peace.

Jonah realized he knew nothing of love and forgiveness … and damned well would likely never know anything of everlasting peace.

It wasn’t like he expected to find the warriors responsible for wrecking the train, but Shad Sweete led the soldiers north from Fort Hays anyway.

Not that he always did what he was ordered. No matter that General Hancock himself had telegraphed his dispatch sending this bunch out on the chase. Sweete could have refused. But there was no point.

That hot-blooded bunch had disappeared onto the prairie. Shad was sure of that. At least they would be disappearing like breathsmoke on a winter wind soon enough, what with this squad of Seventh Cavalry coming up from the south and Frank North’s Pawnee Battalion sweeping the country clear along the Platte River itself. It was North’s Pawnee who were going out to the scene of the derailed train. And likely, Jonah Hook would be with them.

Not that he was worried about Jonah either. The Cheyenne would be long ago gone from the countryside around Plum Creek Station by the time Shad Sweete led Captain Louis Hamilton and his two companies of cavalry to the scene.

There was no danger the Seventh would catch the warriors. Too far to travel for this bunch of plodding horsemen. And he doubted this bunch of cavalry had the resolve to find the guilty warriors anyway. Easier to jump the villages filled with women and children and the old ones too sick to fight. Much harder to track and follow the wild-roaming bands of young warriors ready to turn and spit in your eye.

Sweete knew his son would likely be among them. Riding with Roman Nose or Turkey Leg, Tall Bull or White Horse. Every bit as likely as the fact that the main bands of Dog Soldiers would soon be coming together for the fall hunt. Breaking up only after the first good cold snap, that first early snow foretelling of the harsh arrival of winter.

As certain as the sun rose each new morn, Shad knew his son would be in on that hunt this autumn. Like every year gone before, the bands would be laying in the meat that would see them through the winter.

Except that this year—the bands would be hunting some new game: two-legged game.

36

September, 1867

PE-TAH-HAW-EE-KAT is what they called themselves. Living Above Pawnee.

Company B, under newly promoted Captain James Murie and Lieutenant Issac Davis.

Each of the four bands of Pawnee had been formed into a formal company of scouts. Which meant that the army hired three white officers to command each company. In this case, the sergeant of Company B was one Jonah Hook.

Company B had just received orders to find the bunch that had destroyed the tracks west of Alkali Station. Hunting Cheyenne ranked right high on the list of what the Pawnee liked to do. And word had it that the Cheyenne were getting bold enough to make another raid on the track.

Frank North made it plain he felt the rumor was just that—not worthy of belief. But he determined he would ride out for Plum Creek with Captain Murie and Company B.

“I’ll be go to hell,” North muttered, the men around him stunned into silence.

“Sounds like you didn’t believe we’d find ’em. At least not this quick,” said Hook, his eyes scanning the far hills where at least 150 warriors sat their ponies, breaking the skyline.

Company B had just ridden down to the ford at Plum Creek, closing on the old bridge near the abandoned stage station, in no way expecting to find the Cheyenne so quickly.

“I truly didn’t,” North replied. “Captain, let’s get this bunch into battle order!”

Something easier said than done.