Savage Horizons Page 5

“Well, now, little warrior, how are you feeling?” The man knelt down and smiled, his eyes sparkling with kindness. If Blue Hawk had known anything about white men, he would have known this one was a jovial Irishman. But he was so filled with hatred for the strangers that he did not even notice at first how red the man’s beard and hair were. His mind only raged with tales of his mother, and he spit at the man, unable to think of any other way to express his opinion. At least his act showed that even in his helpless condition he was not afraid and would fight the awful things the white man must have in store for him.

  “Wasicus.” He hissed the Sioux word for white man through gritted teeth, and the red-haired man’s eyes widened in surprise. The other man, still mounted, chuckled as the one called Tom wiped the boy’s saliva from his beard.

  “I told you it was no use tryin’ to help that little wildcat,” the mounted man said. “Any kid that can take on two grown Chippewa and come out of it alive has got to be a lot to handle. You can’t take somethin’ like that home to Cora and Sarah, Tom.”

  The one called Tom only grinned, reaching out to pat Blue Hawk lightly on the shoulder to assure him he intended to help him, not harm him. “You know my Cora,” he answered. “She loves everything. She can’t even bring herself to kill flies. She’s never got over losing our baby, or the fact that she probably can’t have any more. Sarah’s a treasure, but still, the baby was a boy and Cora still thinks she’s let me down somehow by not giving me a son.” He studied the dark handsome young boy he had rescued. Yes, he wanted a son, but that was not to be. He couldn’t help wondering if there was some reason God had led him to this wounded Indian boy. “Maybe this little varmint will keep Cora busy enough to help her get over her depression. Sure’n it’s worth a try, don’t you think, friend?”

  “The little bugger will probably kill her first chance he gets and light out. And what about Sarah?”

  Tom grinned, standing up and walking to his horse to get out a canteen and a piece of cloth from his gear. “My little girl has more energy than all of us put together, and the curiosity of a cat. I don’t worry about that one, friend. I’d worry more about the boy being the brunt of that girl’s endless questions and stares. She’s a brave and daring child who doesn’t know the meaning of fear, that she is.”

  “So you think you can just pick up a wild Indian boy like some stray puppy and take him home to raise, I suppose?”

  Tom shrugged, walking back to Blue Hawk and kneeling down beside him. “We’ll see, Bo. I couldn’t very well leave him like we found him now, could I?”

  “Yes, you could,” Bo answered.

  Tom scowled at him, then wet the cloth he held and placed it gently against the ugly swelling on the side of Blue Hawk’s face. The boy tried to jerk away at first, but was tied too tightly. As the white man insisted on keeping the cloth against the swelling, Blue Hawk realized the coolness eased the pain. Blue Hawk looked up at the man curiously, realizing he only meant to help.

  The boy stared in wonder then at the red beard, amazed at its color. When he met the pale-skinned man’s eyes, he saw nothing of the evil horror he had imagined whenever he envisioned a white man. This man was middle-aged, with hair that hung to his shoulders from beneath a coonskin cap. His eyes were a soft light brown, and they reminded Blue Hawk of the gentle eyes of a puppy. The man was not ugly and his buckskins were clean and well sewn. Two knives hung from a wide leather belt around his waist.

  “So, my little warrior, perhaps it is good you are wounded for now,” the man said in a gentle voice. “If not, you would kill me before you realized that I mean you no harm.” He held the canteen to the boy’s lips and gestured that Blue Hawk should drink some water if he wished. The boy raised his head slightly and took a sip, then drank more, suddenly realizing just how thirsty he was.

  “Easy now,” the man told him, gently pulling the canteen away. He frowned as he corked it. “I’m wondering what terrible things you have seen, little warrior, to leave you orphaned and cause such a child to kill two grown men.”

  “Indians ain’t kids for long,” Bo said. “But it’s still hard to believe that one there could have killed both those men.”

  Blue Hawk looked at the man. Bo’s hair was a dark blond, and when he pushed his hat back, Blue Hawk saw that his hair had receded. He sported hair under his nose and the hair on his face was not thick like the red-haired man’s. It was bristly.

  “You saw the bodies,” Tom answered. He sat studying the boy a moment, fingering his beard. “They were recently killed compared to the other bodies there, and their blood was all over the boy and his tomahawk. We know the Chippewa have been at it lately with the Sioux and the Cheyenne. What puzzles me is that the boy’s clothes and weapons are Sioux, but it was a Cheyenne camp we found him in. His own people must have been killed. See the marks on his cheeks?”

  Bo scowled. “Looks like he got in a fight with a bobcat.”

  “Those are marks of sorrow, scratched into his cheeks with his own hands, I’d guess. Poor boy. Must have come across those two Chippewa and decided to get his revenge—or maybe they attacked him. Either way, it’s a damn brave boy we’re looking at, Bo. A real warrior. I admire him, and I feel sorry for him.”

  “You’re too softhearted for this land, Tom Sax, you and Cora both. Why you brought a frail woman like that to these parts, I’ll never understand.”

  Tom turned away, saying nothing. No one but he and Cora knew why they had left Saint Louis. “It’s pretty country, Bo, and I’m born to wander these forests and trap beaver. I never could live the conventional way, you know. My Cora just happens to love me enough to put up with it.”

  Bo dismounted and walked over to stare down at Blue Hawk, who still watched them with distrustful eyes. “What do you think of them blue eyes, Tom? It’s a fact he’s not all Indian.”

  Tom squinted and studied Blue Hawk. The boy knew the man was wondering about his eyes, and he wished they were not blue. How he hated having a white man’s eyes. If not for the eyes, no one would ever know he had any white blood in him.

  “Hard to say.” Tom kept fingering his beard. “Most Indians out this far haven’t seen much of white men yet, especially not the Indian women. But there’s no mistaking some white man was through here a few years back and set his eyes on some pretty little Indian maiden… and this little warrior is the result. Those blue eyes set in that Indian face sure make him a handsome one.” He pointed to his own chest then. “Tom,” he said to the boy. “Tom Sax. Tom Sax.” Then he pointed to Blue Hawk, but the boy said nothing. He pointed to himself again. “Tom Sax.” He pointed to Blue Hawk again.

  “Blue Hawk,” the boy finally mumbled in his own tongue.

  “What did he say?” Bo asked.

  “I think it means Blue Hawk,” Tom replied. He pointed to Blue Hawk again. “Blue Hawk,” he said in English. “Blue Hawk.” He bent closer. “I’m wondering just what kind of Indian you are, boy. Your clothing and weapons are Sioux, but the name you gave me is Cheyenne and we found you in a Cheyenne camp. That pretty necklace you wear looks Cheyenne. How about it, boy? Are you Sioux—Santee? Dakota?”

  The boy recognized the words and nodded, hope brimming in his eyes. Maybe this man was going to take him to his people.

  “Then you’re not Cheyenne,” Tom added.

  Blue Hawk nodded again. “Shahiena,” he spoke up, using the Sioux word for Cheyenne. “Dakota.”

  Tom Sax removed his hat and scratched his head, frowning. “Now which in the hell are you—Sioux or Cheyenne?”

  Blue Hawk nodded to both, and Bo laughed. “Reckon somehow he’s both, friend, with a little white blood in there someplace. I’d bet it’s French.”

  Blue Hawk’s eyes darted to the man at the word French. He knew his white father had been called Frenchy.

  “Frenchy! Wasicus!” He spit again.

  Tom Sax chuckled and shook his head. “Well, there’s something about white men he sure doesn’t like. I guess I’ll have to wait till my Cora
teaches him some English before I know.” He stood up and walked back to his horse, putting away the cloth and the canteen. “We only know enough Cheyenne and Sioux to barter a little, but maybe between the two of us, Bo, we can learn a little from him as we go along, figure out a way for us to understand each other.”

  Bo returned to his own horse and both men mounted. “I don’t know why you’re doin’ any of this, Tom Sax. You’re crazy, far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’m only doing what Cora would want me to do, my friend. It’s a savage land, that’s sure, but it doesn’t have to make savages out of us.”

  “Well, that there boy is a savage, mark my words.”

  “It’s my problem. We’d better get moving. We have at least two weeks of riding ahead of us before we reach Fort Dearborn, and I’m missing my Cora.”

  “We didn’t get enough skins this time out. And the kid is slowin’ us down. We could do a little more trappin’ on the way back.”

  “The boy needs help, and I’ve been away too long as it is. We have enough to sell at the fort to get by on. Once we get the boy settled with Cora and Sarah, we’ll head out again.”

  “I say we should have hunted up another tribe and dumped the boy off.”

  “What tribe? With the warring among the tribes and taking sides between the British and the Americans, we can’t be sure what to expect if we go any farther north or west. We’ve already come much too far this time to be sure our own hides are safe. The Chippewa are angry, Bo, and they’re sworn enemies of the Sioux and Cheyenne. It looks to me like most of the Sioux and Cheyenne in these parts have been wiped out. So what would I do with the poor kid? Besides, we’re low on supplies. It’s time we headed back.”

  Blue Hawk felt the travois start moving again, and his heart ached for Black Antelope and his beloved aunt, Small Hands. He sensed he would never see his homeland again, and a terrible ache swelled in his throat. He bent his neck and saw that he still wore the blue quill necklace and the rabbit’s foot. At least the pale-skinned man with the red beard had not stolen them.

  He looked up at the sky and could tell by the sun that they were headed east. He had never been anywhere east of the deep woods where he had been raised. Small Hands had told him that many white men lived in the lands where the sun rose. Where was this white man taking him? He felt both frightened and excited. Already he had done more than any Indian boy his age, for he had killed two Chippewa warriors. Now he was headed east with white men. Again he must be very brave, but that would be easy; he was a man now.

  Chapter

  Four

  FOR three more days Blue Hawk slipped in and out of consciousness, unable to even sit up until the third day without excruciating pain. Through it all the white man called Tom fed him, gave him water and carried him from the travois to the woods to relieve himself, holding on to the boy so he wouldn’t pass out. The man’s concern and gentleness confused Blue Hawk, who had convinced himself since he was old enough to remember that white men were cruel and not to be trusted.

  By the fourth day, as he sat near the campfire eating fresh fried trout, he began to realize that just as there were good and bad Indians, there must also be good and bad white men. And he knew that he must learn which men to trust and which ones not to trust. It seemed to be the eyes that usually told the story, and the first time he had looked into Tom Sax’s eyes, he had sensed that he was a good man.

  A few white men’s words began to make sense to Blue Hawk, like “go” and “come,” “yes” and “no,” “eat,” “sleep” and “good morning.” Neither Tom nor Bo touched Blue Hawk’s belongings, and they took good care of his old horse as they traveled to whatever mysterious place they intended to take him. Blue Hawk had been too sick those first few days to try to run off, and now he was farther east than he had ever been in his life. He had no idea where he was or in which direction to run. These men were being kind to him, and if he ran off alone he might encounter enemy Indians, for his father had often told him there were many other tribes of Indians in the “great and mysterious beyond,” some even more ruthless than the Chippewa. And there was always the chance of encountering white men who were not as kind as Tom Sax and the one called Bo.

  By the time Blue Hawk was well enough to flee, there was no place for him to go; and his attachment to the one called Tom was growing stronger, making him wonder at times if he wanted to leave at all. In spite of the man’s red beard and white skin, Tom Sax reminded Blue Hawk of his Sioux father. Like Black Antelope, Tom was brave and strong, apparently honest and kind, a man Blue Hawk sensed could handle himself well in danger. Tom was a capable man, but one who had the same gentleness in his eyes as Black Antelope had had when addressing Blue Hawk.

  On the fifth day of their journey, after making camp late in the day, Sax pulled out a long rodlike object from a boot on his saddle. Blue Hawk had eyed the instrument curiously many times, wondering if it was some kind of white man’s weapon. “I guess we’re far enough out of the most dangerous Indian country to use our guns again, don’t you think, Bo? We’re low on meat.”

  “I reckon,” Bo replied. “If you’d fired that thing a few days ago, you’d have attracted every redskin devil for miles and we’d both be hairless.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe not.” Tom looked at Blue Hawk and held up the weapon, grinning at the wonder on the boy’s face. “Musket,” he told the boy. He held it out and Blue Hawk reached for it hesitantly. Tom let go of it, and the boy nearly dropped the gun, surprised at how heavy it was. Tom laughed jovially and took it back from him. “Want to see how it works?”

  The boy just stared as the man poured black powder into the end of the gun, then held out a hard, round ball for Blue Hawk to see before dropping it into the end of the long gun. “It’s not always easy to hit your target with these,” he told Blue Hawk, “but we’ll see what we can do. This one is a flintlock, a little better than the old matchlocks.”

  Blue Hawk understood little of what the man was saying, only realizing that Tom Sax wanted to show him something. Sax pounded a rod into the barrel, then motioned for Blue Hawk to follow him deeper into the forest. The boy hung back as they walked, wondering if perhaps the man meant to harm him with the strange weapon. He watched as Sax crouched down by an old log, then Blue Hawk stepped warily closer. Sax motioned for him to crouch down beside him, and no sooner had the boy done so when he realized Sax had spotted a rabbit sitting on its hind legs not far off. Its back was to the men, and since the animal was upwind of them, it apparently did not realize they were nearby.

  Sax put a finger to his lips, signaling Blue Hawk to be still. He pointed the strange weapon then, balancing it on the log and aiming it at the rabbit. Moments later the weapon seemed to explode, and Blue Hawk jumped back, then ran farther away, his heart pounding. Sax only laughed, pointing at the rabbit. Blue Hawk looked and saw that the rabbit lay dead. He followed Sax as the man walked up to the animal, and Blue Hawk knelt down to study it closer. It’s head had a bloody hole in it. He looked from the rabbit to the weapon Sax had called a musket, then reached out and touched the weapon, jerking his hand back quickly at the warmth of the barrel. He wondered if the musket might turn on him and explode again, making a hole in his hand like the one in the rabbit’s head.

  Sax chuckled again, blowing smoke away from the end of the barrel. “Come on, let’s clean our rabbit and eat it.” He winked at Blue Hawk, picking up the rabbit and handing it to Blue Hawk. The boy took the animal and walked back with Sax, staring at the weapon, thinking what a powerful and magical thing it was. He marveled at the exciting new things he was learning from this white man and wondered if Tom Sax was the only white man who could do magic.

  * * *

  As the journey east continued, Blue Hawk watched when the men stopped and checked iron traps for more beaver. He became familiar with the strange contraptions and though had never seen them before, he had heard about them from Black Antelope. He realized that these two white men must be some of those who ca
ught beaver and sold the skins to other white men. He had heard enough to know the furs must be of considerable value to white people, and he wanted to tell Tom Sax he had heard of these traps, that his own white father had used them. There were many things he wanted to tell Tom Sax about himself, but he could not speak the white man’s tongue.

  Still, in spite of the language barrier, Tom and Blue Hawk set up a form of communication for day-to-day living, and Blue Hawk became more comfortable and less fearful on each day of his journey eastward, although he had refused to show any fear in front of Tom Sax. He was still somewhat suspicious, for they had not yet reached their final destination, and Blue Hawk had no idea what was in store for him. Perhaps the white men would make a slave out of him.

  The boy’s apprehension grew as they moved farther and farther from his homeland, leaving behind all that was familiar. Blue Hawk recognized no landmarks now, and after more than three weeks of traveling, a new smell invaded his senses, the smell of water. Blue Hawk sensed something very different. His instincts told him the smell was not from just one of the many small inland lakes that dotted this land. This smell filled the air with a sweet dampness that suggested a very large body of water. That night, when they made camp, he could hear an odd rumbling sound in the distance, and the smell of fresh water permeated the air and teased his curiosity. He did not sleep well that night, for something new and, for the moment, menacing lay waiting not far ahead.

  The next morning Tom Sax led the boy to a high bluff from which Blue Hawk stared in awe at a great body of water that stretched far into the horizon and beyond. His eyes widened at the huge, crashing waves. White birds he’d never seen before soared over the water, crying shrilly and occasionally diving down to the water, moving up again with fish in their beaks.

  A chill swept through Blue Hawk. “Maxe-ne hanenestse,” the boy muttered softly, his voice full of worship.

  “Yes, it is a great lake,” Tom Sax told him, smiling at the boy’s enraptured look. “The Chippewa and other Indians around here call it Michigama. We call it Lake Michigan.” The man pointed out over the waters. “Lake Michigan.”