Cry of the Hawk

It was a good sound, reassuring, a sound claiming that in some manner of thinking all things were made right at this moment in his world. But Jonah knew they were not. There were pieces of his life left unraveled, like the hem to one of Gritta’s long dresses snagged on her heel and slowly unfurling with time.

Time lost. Never to have those minutes, hours and now years back again. Time.

And he didn’t know how to stop it. How to repair the damage. How to make it good as new. At least make things almost as good as they were before he marched off to fight the damned blue-bellies when he should have been home to mind the fields and fight off the bullyboys who came in to tear his family asunder.

His kidneys hurt from the pounding they had taken in the running battle. Jonah slowly rolled onto his side, drawing his legs up to ease that pain at the small of his back, knowing by morning, he would be needing to relieve himself. It hurt to even think of that—what with the hammering his body had taken in the fight and the ride back. He closed his eyes and thought on that rutted, muddy road leading down among the trees, and at the end stood Gritta, her poke bonnet at the end of her arm, waving … waving him on ….

It was damned cold later when the urge to piss would not be denied. He snorted quietly, seeing the breath before his face turn silver in the late starshine. Blinking his eyes clear of grit, Jonah glanced at the east. The autumn nightsky was gray there. The land coming to life far off … somewhere over Big Cobbler Mountain in Virginia it was morning now. Soon to be over the homestead left behind in Missouri. Right now it was light enough that a man could tell the baggage from the sleeping Pawnee rolled in their blankets or cocooned in the Cheyenne’s abandoned buffalo robes.

He was warm enough and did not want to stir, but damn if his kidneys and bladder would let him wait any longer.

Jonah struggled to his feet, cold as they had grown in the boots. He shuffled his clothing around him and buttoned the wool mackinaw clear up to his neck, blowing in his hands as he strode off several yards. While he unbuttoned his fly and was spraying the ground, Jonah gazed at the dozen horses grazing here and there among the scattered baggage. Perhaps he could find some Cheyenne coffee to boil. Get a fire started and find a pot or kettle. As empty as his bladder was at last, Jonah figured he could drink a mess of coffee—

One of the Pawnee yelled out, falling at the crack of a rifle. As Jonah took off, his fly still unbuttoned, the scouts came out of their blankets and robes behind him. The two other camp guards were already on their feet and coming on as well. But Jonah was going to get there first.

As he drew his pistol from its mule-ear holster, the gray horizon north of their position suddenly sprouted a weaving mass of horsemen, surging down on the Pawnee. At least two dozen. No, more than that now. At least three-to-one odds, he figured. Who was to know, he argued with himself, his breathsmoke disappearing as quickly as his lungs ached with each step into the cold, seeping darkness. All he cared about was his little piece of it. Three of the horsemen were peeling off from the rest, heading for the wounded Pawnee picket who struggled to crawl backward, his hand gripping the side of his hip, dragging the useless leg.

On instinct Jonah fired. Not so much aiming into the dark, but sensing where he ought to point the weapon at one of the trio of screeching horsemen.

A yelp answered the bark of his pistol. A body tumbled backward off the rump of a pony with a thud, and air was driven from his lungs as the warrior landed on the grassy sand.

Jonah’s eyes stung from the bright muzzle flash, and as they cleared, he found another target bearing down on him with a horrifying scream. A war club raised overhead. Pony knees coming up and hammering down like steam pistons. Hooves clawing at the sandy soil, sending dark clods flying into the gray light of morning coming. Nostrils swollen wide as it carried its rider closer and closer still to the white man.

Behind that faceless, formless rider came another, turning off to claim the wounded Pawnee.

Jonah met the Cheyenne horseman as he swept low off the side of his pony. He caught the warrior’s arm with the war club in it, yanking so hard as the pony tore by that Jonah heard a distinct snap, a yelp of pain, and the thud of the warrior striking the ground.

Jonah whirled, firing … then firing again as the third rider closed on the wounded Pawnee. Another screech of surprise, perhaps pain. The pony Hook had wounded suddenly skidded to a halt, reared wildly, and spun about with its rider holding dearly to the withers.

“Stay down!” he shouted, then realized he had yelled in English. Jonah couldn’t remember the Pawnee words. Even the one for down.