Golden Hawk 4 by Will C. Knott

Author:Will C. Knott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: comanches, adult western, david thompson, piccadilly publishing, pulp fiction western, blackfoot indians
Publisher: Piccadilly

Jumping into the water, Hawk waded alongside the dugout, then dragged it up onto the embankment and into the willows. Less than a week before, he and Running Moon had fashioned the dugout from a cottonwood log, hollowing it out by hand. That morning Hawk had been inspecting his beaver traps. Carrying his rifle, three fresh pelts, and the broad flat tails they both relished for their sweet meat, he proceeded across the lower meadow, passing the nearly completed cabin, then up the timbered slope to the lodge.

There was no smoke coming from the tepee’s flap. Running Moon had let the fire go out. That was odd. She was not a woman to be that careless. Hawk sensed danger. His nerve ends tingling, his belly tightening, all he could think of was Running Moon.

Dropping his traps and the pelts, he covered the last part of the slope in a crouch, slipping cautiously from tree to tree. Keeping his powder horn at the front, he popped two lead balls into his mouth. A third was in place with its charge of powder secured by a tallow-greased patch already firmly seated.

At the edge of the timber, Hawk waited, puzzled. He smelled nothing, heard nothing. But something was wrong. Had Indians attacked? Could a prowling animal have driven Running Moon away?

“Running Moon,” he called. “Are you there?”

There was no answer, only the dismal echo of his call. He studied the tepee. About six pelts hung outside near the entrance, stretched on willow hoops to dry, the flesh side turned up to the sun, all of them undisturbed. Dropping back into the woods, Hawk circled cautiously through the timber until he came out behind the lodge.

A side had been torn open. He was about to call again when he heard a heavy thumping and growling coming from within the lodge. Someone or some animal was inside it, trampling and smashing everything in sight. Hawk thought of Running Moon then and felt a deep, wild anger.

He stepped out of the timber. At the same time a full-grown male grizzly burst through the gaping hole in the tepee and with a fearsome roar charged him. Hawk lifted the Hawken to his shoulder in one swift, fluid movement and fired. The lead ball crashed into the bear’s left eye, ranged through its brain, and blew out the back of its head.

The grizzly was dead, only it did not yet know this. Still it came toward Hawk, the momentum of its charge hardly slowing at all. Hawk unsheathed his bowie and stepped toward the on-rushing grizzly, eager to finish off the beast with a stroke to its heart. But the bear sagged to the ground a few yards in front of him, then sprawled over onto its side, its mouth gaping open, its remaining eye already dull in death.

Hawk ran past the grizzly to the tepee and stepped through the hole. Running Moon was crumpled to one side, half-buried under an avalanche of gear and provisions. She was still alive and moved slightly as he knelt beside her.

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