Hawke's Pride, page 21
Jeb met Hawke at the kitchen door, a worried frown on his face. "Susie is mighty sick, Hawke. She's runnin' a high fever."
"What does Rue have to say about it? She's the doctor around here."
"She don't seem to be around."
"She's got to be here somewhere." Hawke pushed past his father. "She wouldn't go off and leave the child alone for too long, even if Susie was well. Maybe she went to the necessary."
"Well, she's not in the house, and I didn't see her around the stables when we rode in. Course I didn't go lookin' in the… here." "Let me take a look at Susie, then I'll go scare Rue up."
In the parlor, Hawke looked down at the little flushed face and laid a palm on her forehead. Pa was right, she was burning hot. "I wonder why Rue hasn't been bathing her with cold water to keep the fever down?" he mused out loud.
As if she had heard Rue's name, Susie stirred and whimpered, "Auntie Rue. I want Auntie Rue." There was a glaze of delirium in the blue eyes she turned on Hawke. "Bad witch took her away."
"She's out of her head with fever," Jeb fretted as he left the room for a basin of cold water.
Susie continued to toss restlessly, muttering, "Uncle Hawke is hurt."
"I'll go look for Rue now, Pa," Hawke whispered when Jeb returned with the water, a washcloth floating in it. He was worried himself now by the child's wild rambling.
"Yes, do that, and hurry up," Jeb said anxiously. He noticed Tommy's pale face then, and said in a normal tone, "Not that I'm worried about Susie, you understand. I just think that she'd rest easier if Rue was here."
Hawke went first to the necessary. The door stood open. Almost at a run, he went to the stables next. Inside he walked the length of the stalls until he came to the last one, the one that belonged to Beauty. It was empty. Had Rue taken her and gone for help, looking for him? She would never go to the Meyers ranch for assistance, and she didn't know where her other neighbors lived. He still hadn't gotten around to taking her visiting.
Hawke walked back outside and around the stables and corrals, studying the hoofprints there. He picked up the mare's prints right away. They were easily recognizable, the left front shoe having a wide notch in it. It was clearly defined in the sandy soil, and he followed it away from the churned-up corral area and onto the untrampled stone and grass.
His heart gave a jerk. Now there were two sets of hoofprints. Rue wasn't alone. And whoever was with her was on the heavy side, or at least heavier then Rue because the new set of prints bit deeper into the soil. For some reason, she had ridden away with a man.
It was no Indian, of that he was sure. The red men didn't shoe their horses. Who could she be with? Not Josh. His foreman had been with him all morning; in fact, he could see him and the others riding in right now.
Hawke hurried back to the house and walked into the parlor. When Jeb looked up from sponging Susie's face he said, "Pa, I have a feelin' that Rue may be in trouble. For some reason she has ndden off with someone. She would never leave the little one unless she thought it necessary, or she was forced to."
Jeb stood up, alarmed. "You're goin' after her, of course."
"Just as soon as I can saddle a horse. In the meantime keep bathing Susie and"—his eyes fell on the jar of salve—"maybe rub some more of this on her chest." He handed the small jar to Jeb.
"I will, son, and I pray that you find Rue quickly. It looks like a storm may be brewin'."
In less than ten minutes Hawke saddled a horse and was following Rue's trail. He could tell that the two mounts he tracked had run flat out. The length between the hoofprints indicated it. Wherever Rue was going, she was in a hurry.
Hawke soon noticed that, surprisingly, the tracks led straight toward his line shack. Who could have taken her there, and why? Anxious to find out, he nudged the mount, sending him into a gallop. In twenty minutes the shack came into view.
Nothing stirred around the crude little building when Hawke thundered up to it. He spotted Rue's small bootprints before he sprang from the saddle and rushed into the shack, calling her name.
Only silence greeted him. The small fourteen-by-fourteen-foot room was empty. He swept his eyes over the area, and it seemed the same as the last time he'd seen it. The day he had told Lillie that he would no longer be meeting her there, that their affair was over.
He scanned the room again. There was no sign of a struggle, no overturned chairs or messed-up bunk bed. He went back to the door and stared down at the ground, then ground out an oath.
There was a set of footprints leaving the place, but large ones. Beyond no doubt, they belonged to a man. His heart hammered painfully. His wife had been carried out of the building. By whom and why? His mind raced with questions. Did he have an enemy who would harm his wife to get back at him for some imagined hurt?
Hawke couldn't think of anyone who would take their spleen out on Rue. He knew that there were some men who didn't like him for some reason or other, but they were honorable men, who would never hurt a woman for any reason.
Anxiety coiling in the pit of his stomach, he left the shack and climbed back into the saddle. Rue was indeed in trouble.
When Hawke picked up the tracks with the notch in one shoe, he thought it odd that the mounts now walked. Why the almost leisurely gait, when before they were in such a hurry? Also, he was sure that the new set of tracks were put down by a different even heavier rider. These cut much deeper into the sandy soil. For some reason Rue had been turned over to someone else. He hurried his mount along, afraid to speculate why.
After a half hour tracking, a worried frown marred Hawke's face as his anxiety grew. The two mounts were headed straight for the mountain. Why? Only renegade Indians, wolves, and eagles lived in the wilds.
Suddenly he grew faint. An Indian had Rue. It was the only logical answer. The man was riding a stolen horse, one that still wore shoes.
But how had Rue been lured to the shack? he wondered as he kicked the mount into a fast, hard gallop, his eyes never leaving the trail. They can't be too far ahead, he told himself. The prints are too fresh. He glanced around at the westering sky. The day was far advanced, and lowering clouds were darkening the sky.
"I hope that Indian village isn't too far up the mountain," he muttered, urging Captain on. He must find Rue before night set in—and before she was ravaged by a bunch of braves.
Hawke had ridden close to an hour when he came to a river. The tracks led into it, and he steered his mount after them. It was a fast stream, but not deep, only a few times coming up to the horse's belly as he waded in a straight line toward the opposite bank.
The blood suddenly pumped faster in Hawke's veins. The mountain was only about a mile away. He could see the top of it looming above the spruce and pine. "Damned if it doesn't look like it's snowin' up there," he swore softly as the horse lunged out of the water and onto the rocky, sandy shore.
Hawke swore again. The tracks he'd expected to see were gone. Rue's captor must have angled the mounts to the left or right, and not moved in a straight line as Hawke had.
Sighing, for time lost, he rode back and forth along the edge of the river, looking for where the two mounts had left the stream. He found a few tracks, but they were days old. "Damn!" He slammed a fist on the saddle. The bastard had followed the river. Maybe for a mile or so. And had he gone up or down stream?
Hawke sat wondering what to do. Precious time could be lost looking along the river, especially if he searched in the wrong direction. And the deepening gloom brought on by the threatening storm would soon make it impossible to see the tracks if he did find them.
Finally he reined the horse toward the mountain. He had a better chance of picking up the trail there. He jabbed Captain with a heel, and keeping him at a run, Hawke came to the foothills in a short time. He reined in sharply at the sound of crackling brush. Had he come upon them already, and was there a gun trained on his heart?
He relaxed when he caught a glimpse of a deer bounding off through the trees. He urged the stallion on, telling himself to get control of his nerves as he rode the edge of the foothills, his eyes fastened on the ground.
After only a few yards he found the familiar hoofprints. They followed a narrow trail, and he steered Captain after them, checking his gun, seeing to it that it was handy to his touch. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have to use it.
After several hundred yards the trail led to a yellowed-walled canyon that opened up into the mountain. As Hawke rode, the air became cold, brittle, and sharp. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, muttering that for sure a blizzard was corning. He was thinking that he must find Rue and get her home before it struck when he saw the glow of a campfire in the almost total darkness.
He reined in. It would be best not to ride in any further. Most likely there were sentries posted about. He would better escape notice on foot.
Hawke slid to the ground and secreted the mount behind a tall boulder. After briefly laying a palm across its nostrils, a signal that Captain mustn't whinny, Hawke began his approach to the fire.
He was as silent as any Indian as he moved from boulder to boulder, coming ever closer to his destination. It was strange, he thought, that he hadn't seen anyone standing guard. Indians weren't stupid. They had to know that stealing a white woman was the worst offense they could commit. Did they honestly think that their village was that well-hidden?
The moon passed from behind a cloud just as Hawke crouched behind a brush thicket, only feet away from the fire. It shone fully on the braves, who slept in a drunken stupor, and the others who sat bleary-eyed, unaware of anything around them. His eyes scanned the area lit by the fire, searching for Rue. When he saw no sign of her, he could only assume that she was in one of the teepees scattered about.
But which one, and who was with her? His chest knotted in pain at the thought of some brave claiming her slender body. "With a mingling of fury and helplessness that he had arrived too late spinning in his mind, he dropped down on all fours. He would reconnoiter the shabby village, peer into every teepee until he found his wife. And God help the man he found her with!
Hawke had crawled but a short distance when he froze into place behind a large rock. For suddenly from out of the darkness came a small figure, advancing with short, straight steps, right toward where he crouched. "When the lad drew opposite him, Hawke stood up.
In the dim moonlight Hawke recognized the boy, who backed up in alarm. He had seen Rue give the Indian some cookies one day. Now, he thought, how do I go about not frightening the child more than he is already? He desperately needed the information the youngster could give him.
Making himself relax and erasing the harsh look he knew must be on his face, Hawke spoke quietly, "Little brave, I mean you no harm. I am lookin' for my wife, the one with the golden hair. Her mount's tracks led me to your village. Have you seen her?"
The boy stared at him a long minute and Hawke had the feeling that he was debating whether to answer the paleface. As the seconds ticked by and he was about to give up on the child speaking, Hawke wondered what to do about him. He couldn't let him rouse the camp.
He was thinking that he would have to tie and gag the youngster, when abruptly the little brave spoke. "A fat man brought Rue here, her hands and mouth tied. He tells Chief she is for sale. He wants much money for her."
A fat man, Hawke's eyes narrowed in thought. The only fat man he knew was the storekeeper in Jackson. Certainly it wasn't him. To his knowledge, the man never left his place of business.
"Did your chief pay him the money?" Hawke asked the boy, who watched him warily.
"No. Wise Owl's son say he wants Rue for his woman and offers the fat man six horses for her." The boy rushed on as though to get through the whole story. "The fat man grow angry, say no, that he will take Rue somewhere else and sell her. The brave puts his knife in the man's heart. He is dead." He jerked a small thumb at the large, crumpled heap in the shadows.
His face grim again, Hawke barely glanced at the dead man. Whoever he was, he was glad the bastard was dead. "Which teepee is she in?" His voice was hoarse with emotion.
"Rue is not here." The boy reached into his ragged jacket and pulled out a piece of rope.
"I cut her free."
A wave of weakening relief swept over Hawke. "I owe you, little brave." He clasped the narrow shoulders. "If ever I can help you, it will please me greatly. Now, in which direction did she go, and is she ridin'?"
"I could not get the mare to her," the boy replied. He lifted an arm and pointed upward. "She went up the mountain."
"Up the mountain?" Hawke looked stunned. "Why would she do that?"
The lad shrugged his small shoulders and pointed to his head. "I think she was all mixed up."
Hawke wanted to yell at him, to ask why he hadn't turned Rue in the direction of home. Instead, he sighed heavily. What was done was done. The important thing, she was no longer a prisoner. He debated asking the boy if the brave who wanted her for his woman had spent any time with Rue alone. He decided then that he didn't want to know. The important thing was that he must find her before the storm broke.
Little Star watched Hawke fade into the darkness, a pleased smile on his face. He had done as his friend, Rue, had asked him. He had sent her man off in the wrong direction.
Rue's breath came in labored bursts as she ran along, loose sand and gravel dragging at her feet. The painful stab in her side spread upward to her breasts and she could hear the loud beat of her heart.
Finally she stopped and sat down on a large, flat rock, utterly exhausted. As she rested a moment, chewing on a piece of pemmican, she realized that she had no idea where she was going. She only knew that she was putting distance between her and the husband who no longer needed her, who never wanted to see her again.
When her breathing slowed to almost normal, Rue rose and started on. The rocks in her path were sharp, uneven, and slippery under her boot heels. Nevertheless she moved swiftly, sometimes sitting down and sliding on her rear.
At last she reached the bottom of the foothills and sat down again. She didn't know if she could go on as she listened to the sough of the wind in the trees. She shivered as she felt the ominous quality of the gloom surrounding her. It was as though it waited for her to die, all alone.
She firmed her lips against the thought and dragged herself to her feet. She stood a moment, looking down the long stretch of valley. Only a distant growth of pine offered a place where she might spend the night. She felt in her jacket pocket on the odd chance she might find a sulpher stick. She couldn't believe her good fortune when her fingers found three beneath a wadded handkerchief At least she would have a fire. All she had to do now was find the strength to reach the stand of trees that was a mile or so away. Feeling much better and more in control, Rue started out, stumbling a bit, faint from fatigue.
As she staggered on, it grew colder and blacker and no wind disturbed the stillness. Then out of that opaque, obscure grayness came snow. She peered ahead. Surely that clump of trees wasn't far off She felt like she had been walking for miles.
Rue plodded on, her head bent against the snow pellets stinging her face and soaking her bare head. She was vaguely aware that the storm quickened and that the wind had come back, growing into a howling gale. She could not see a foot in front of her as she forced her feet to move on. She must find shelter and soon. Her strength and fortitude were almost spent.
Her legs became leaden, and she knew that soon they would refuse to move. When she tripped and fell beneath a large pine, she was too weak to gather wood and start a fire. The waiting wilderness closed round her and she slept, the snow covering her in a white blanket.
As Hawke followed a winding path, the only way Rue could have taken, as the forest was too thick to move through, it began rapidly to change underfoot. When the horse stumbled over an outcropped rock and almost fell, Hawke was compelled to go more slowly. If the animal should break a leg and have to be shot, its rider would never get off the mountain alive.
The air grew colder and Hawke worried if Rue wore her heavy jacket. Pray God, he'd find her soon.
His concern increased when huge snowflakes came fluttering down. In a short time the snow was clinging thick and heavy on the fir trees and blanketing the ground with several inches. He rode on, his teeth set and his eyes on the ground. Rue's footprints should start appearing in the snow any time.
The air had turned biting cold when Hawke heard the rattle of a disturbed rock. He pulled the horse in, peering ahead. Was it a wild animal poking around, or a man? If man, was he white or red?
He was ready to ride on when he felt the singe of a bullet pass over his head. Captain spooked at the sound, and while Hawke fought to control his horse, there came a thud in his thigh, followed by a searing pain. His hand shot to his Colt as he peered around, trying to penetrate the double gloom of snow and night. He spotted an Indian then and thumbed the gun back as with a yell and a leap the fierce-faced brave came at him, his scalping knife in his upraised hand.
Hawke's finger squeezed the trigger, the Colt jumped, and his enemy lay in the snow. He twitched twice, then lay still.
The world grew dim for Hawke then and he reeled in the saddle, fighting back the blackness that sought to envelop his mind. He had to get down this mountain and send others to search for Rue.
He managed to turn the horse around, and as the animal began the descent, Hawke fell forward on its neck, groaning his pain in Captain's rough mane and gritting his teeth to hang on.
Old trapper Adams lowered his tired body into his favorite chair and stretched his stockinged feet to the crackling fire dancing up and down in the fireplace.
"Dog," he said, tamping tobacco into a clay pipe, "there ain't nothin' like a cheery fire on a cold night." The big dog's tail whacked the floor as if in agreement.
