Cry of the Hawk

“It is the same among my people,” Shad replied. “While some want to put an end to your way of life forever, there are still many who would try to find a way for both white man and red man to live side by side, each in his own way.”

“In some men,” Turkey Leg came to the point, “there are both bloods at war.”

Shad saw the meaning more clear in the old man’s eyes than in his words. “You would mean a young warrior who has in his veins the blood of our two peoples?”

Turkey Leg nodded. A few of the older men grunted their assent. “You have been among our people for many winters. You came among us when there were few white men. Now I am told the numbers of white men in the east are greater than the stars at night.”

Shad smiled. “Sometimes I think there are more white men than there are buffalo chips on this great prairie.”

Most of the old men chuckled at the analogy. Shad felt the lightening of the mood within the lodge as the sun fell headlong into the west.

“Where is it I might find word of High-Backed Bull?” he asked bluntly.

“You worry about your son, don’t you?”

“As any father would, Turkey Leg.”

“This is good. A son must protect his parents. And a man must care for his children.”

“Your mother?”

“She is well. Thank you again.”

“We speak the same heart when we talk of family, Turkey Leg. There is nothing more important than family.”

The old chief knocked into his palm what ash was left in the pipe bowl after its fourth circuit of the lodge. The burnt residue he tossed into the fire pit at his feet before he removed the red stone bowl from the ash stem. Only then did he seek to fill the silence in that lodge.

“Your son, he has cursed his white blood. You must know this before you go searching to find him.”

“He curses the blood I gave him?”

“Yes. He swears his desire for vengeance on any white man—even if that white man is his father.”

Shad swallowed hard, as if the news were something foul. “My son, where would I find him?”

“He rides with the young warriors of Porcupine.”

“This Porcupine,” Shad began, careful not to sound too anxious, “he is war leader in your village?”

“He is of this band. But Porcupine is gone from us for now. He rode north to join the Dog Soldiers of Roman Nose.”

Sweete glanced at Hook, who was fervently trying to follow the sense of the discussion, even if he could not understand the words being spoken.

“I know of that one.”

“Yes. Many white men have heard of the Nose. But no white man has ever set eyes on this great warrior—and lived to tell of that meeting.”

“Tell me, Turkey Leg—where would I find Roman Nose?”

“Where one would find Tall Bull and White Horse—the Dog Soldier bands. That is where a man could find Roman Nose.”

39

October, 1867

“YOUR NAME’S HOOK, isn’t it?”

Jonah looked up from his coffee-making chores. The tall, handsome soldier came to a stop on the far side of the small fire where supper was beginning to roast. Jonah spotted the clusters on the collar.

“Have we met, Major?”

The soldier held out his hand as Jonah rose, dusting off his own.

“Not official, mind you. Joel Elliott. U.S. Seventh Cavalry.”

They shook, Hook suspicious. “I see. To what do I owe the honor of your come to call, Major? This go back to that time I was ready to shoot Tom Custer, don’t it? Go ’head and have you a set, where you can,” he said, waving at a nearby spot.

Elliott settled on a hardtack box, one by one slowly undoing the buttons on his tunic. As if he were searching for an answer.

“Suppose I only wanted to meet you—especially after that incident with your cousin—”

“He’s dead,” Jonah interrupted sharply, his suspicions confirmed.

The major appeared brought up by that, something short. “I see.” Then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Hook.”

“Jonah.”

“As much as you created a stir that day on the South Fork of the Republican … as much as Tom Custer has hated you ever since for holding him at gunpoint, I’ve got to say, and will admit this to any man who asks—I admire your sense of family. Your loyalty to family in the face of overwhelming odds.”

“Not overwhelming, Major,” Jonah said, dusting coffee grounds from his hands after he had dumped them into the boiling water. “It was just Tom Custer and me.”

Elliott smiled. “There were at least a dozen soldiers there, ready to put holes in you.”

Hook smiled in return. “Important thing was that Tom Custer understood that there was only one important hole—and that was the one I was fixing to put in him if he didn’t let my cousin go.”

“Like I said, as much as Tom hates you, and as much as the general himself doesn’t quite know how to deal with your brand of courage—I figured it was time for me to shake your hand.”

“Still doesn’t figure that I done something so special that a cavalry major come look me up.”

“You pour me some coffee, Jonah?” Elliott asked, watching Hook pull up two tin cups. “Sounds to me like you’re selling yourself short.”