Cry of the Hawk

Bullets sang through the air, their music brutally yanking him back to surviving in battle once more. But there was no clear battle line. The Cheyenne had spread out on their front, half heading toward the riverbank, and the others hurrying toward the low, chalky bluffs. Already among them were the first of the Pawnee, cutting off the escape of those Cheyenne who stayed atop their ponies.

Most of the enemy had dismounted and were turning their animals loose before wheeling around to find cover and return the Pawnee fire.

The cries of animals and men were loud in his ears—nothing new, for he had been blooded all the way from Pea Ridge to Corinth where the Yankees found him in that scooped-out depression he had crawled into when he could not retreat—not with that bleeding leg wound that seeped his juices in a greasy track across the forest floor.

The Yankee army surgeons had told their prisoner his leg would have to come off. But he had refused their suggestion of help by knife and saw.

“Better to die soon with two legs, than to die the slow death of a cripple prisoner of the Yankees, with no hope of running for it,” he had told them, gritting his teeth on the pain that tasted like sucking on a rusty iron nail.

Instead, Jonah had requested whiskey and got brandy instead, along with sulfur to pour into his own wound. Two days later he dug the Union minié ball out while the surgeons watched, unashamedly amazed at the Rebel’s grit. Pinching that smear of lead bullet up between his fingers, and slowly opening the pink purple muscle with slow strokes of a surgeon’s straight razor, Hook swallowed down more and more of the pain with each heartbeat. Along with more of the brandy he asked for, and poured into the wound when he finished—then promptly passed out.

Jonah found a target ahead, climbing the low bluff just in front of him. Lining the warrior in his sight, a sudden rustle of brush made him glance to his left as a warrior sprang from the alders and willow, yanking up his captured rifle.

There was no time to think, or aim. Jonah whirled and pulled the trigger as he saw the warrior’s muzzle spit a burst of orange. Like jagged teeth scraping across his flesh, the bullet stung his upper arm at the same instant the Cheyenne was catapulted backward into the underbrush.

Jonah stood there, breathing deep, slowly climbing down from the saddle, gripping his bloody arm. Never had he killed anyone so close. The Indian lay there, not moving while Hook quickly glanced at the long, bloody track parting the sleeve of his blue army tunic. He didn’t like wearing Yankee blue anyway.

“Arrrggghhh!”

He had time only to spin, finding a second warrior leaping over the dead body, a small-headed tomahawk held high in the air. Hook met the charge with only his muscle, pushing the weapon into the air with his empty rifle. Both men tumbled, the warrior falling forward, Hook collapsing backward with the force of the collision.

The warrior sailed on over, sprawling on his back as Hook arose, swung the carbine, and connected in the Cheyenne’s rib cage full force. Air exploded from the warrior as he reeled backward, clawing for the knife at his belt.

With a shrill growl that rose to become the Rebel yell, Hook charged the ten feet separating them, driving the rifle butt into the Indian’s chest. The knife dropped. Hook smashed the butt into the Indian’s jaw.

The warrior collapsed, his mouth spurting shiny crimson across his yellow face paint, splattering his chest. He growled back, like a wounded animal, dragging feet under him, preparing to rise.

Taking the rifle barrel in both hands, Hook swung it just as he had battered axes at trees in both the Shenandoah Valley back in Virginia, and on that land he cleared to build a home for Gritta and their children. That quiet, narrow valley back home.

Blood splattered on him as the buttstock cracked against the skull.

The Cheyenne collapsed like a damp lampwick.

Jonah Hook stumbled backward one step, then two. And on the third, he collapsed as the creeping darkness washed over him.

10

August, 1865

“GREAT GOD A’MIGHTY, Jonah—you blooded yourself in this scrap!”

Hook blinked his eyes, things watery at first, then slowly swimming clear. Up there blotting out a big chunk of sky hung Shad Sweete’s gray-bearded face.

“Take ’er easy. Looks of it, you had yourself a real tussle.”

Jonah sat upright with a jerk, wincing at the wounded arm. Near his feet lay a warrior, blood drying on the side of his head and face.

“He dead?”

Sweete smiled. “As dead as he can be. You whacked him hard enough to drive him on into the Other Side.”

“Other Side?”

Sweete poked his hands beneath Hook’s arms. “Where the Cheyenne go when they die. After taking a long walk in Seyan—that star road up overhead in the nightsky.”

His knees felt weak. “Sweet heaven.”

“You got the idea, Jonah.”