Flight of the Hawk: The River Read online

  FLIGHT OF THE HAWK:

  THE RIVER

  A NOVEL OF THE AMERICAN WEST

  BOOK 1

  FLIGHT OF THE HAWK: THE RIVER

  W. MICHAEL GEAR

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  * * *

  Copyright © 2018 by W. Michael Gear

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Gear, W. Michael, author.

  Title: Flight of the hawk : the river / W. Michael Gear.

  Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, [2018] | Series: A novel of the American West ; Book 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017029710 (print) | LCCN 2017031526 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432840662 (ebook) | ISBN 1432840665 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432840655 (ebook) | ISBN 1432840657 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432840679 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432840673 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432840686 (softcover) | ISBN 1432840681 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Frontier and pioneer life—Fiction. | GSAFD: Western stories.

  LCC PS3557.E19 (ebook) | LCC PS3557.E19 F58 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029710

  First Edition. First Printing: January 2018

  Find us on Facebook–https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website–http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 22 21 20 19 18

  TO LLOYD AND JULIE SCHOTT

  IN APPRECIATION FOR THEIR

  CONTINUED

  SUPPORT AND BELIEF IN THE DREAM.

  THANK YOU BOTH!

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  A drizzling April rain fell on Saint Louis that morning in 1812. It speckled the slate-colored waters of the Mississippi; it stippled the stagnant water that pooled in the city’s rutted avenues. The wet spring had already turned the mud on 2nd and 3rd streets into a bog where horse manure, bottles, bits of wood, and paper scraps floated in narrow ruts left by wagon and cart wheels. Broken bits of old Indian pottery, fractured cooking stones, prehistoric charcoal, and even the occasional bit of brown bone dotted the mud where it had been churned up from wheels, feet, and hooves.

  Runoff trickled down Market Street in a jagged rivulet where countless feet had worn through the black loam, exposing the pockmarked limestone bedrock underlying the long hill.

  Men cursed and slipped through the black sticky mud. Horses plodded wearily, their legs stained by the ooze. Heads hung low, ears back, the beasts endured as water beaded and coursed down their flanks. Woodsmoke, in a rain-slashed blue wreath, lay heavily around the white lime-plastered homes of the old French. Drizzle cut the haze that hung low near the taverns, restaurants, and tents. Drops beaded and fell through the freshly budded trees that even now were giving way to the growing city.

  The ragged man walked up from the waterfront, climbing through the narrow defile, which had been hacked into the bluffs to allow easier access to the river. From under the brim of his faded brown felt hat, he glared at the gray skies. Walking carefully, his steps were those of a weary man hoarding his strength. His thin frame bent under the continuing drizzle, as if he bore a great weight. Long hair hung in unkempt dark-brown strands that matched the full beard hiding his mouth.

  He stopped as he reached the bluffs overlooking the broad and turbid waters of the Mississippi. There, the man turned to look back, studying the far shore through the drizzle. Visible as a black band of trees, Illinois was hazy, almost a fantasy vision through the mists.

  The ragged man’s brown eyes turned soft. His expression belied painful memories, regret, and a longing that mixed with weary relief. Just as quickly, the gaze turned wary as a broad-shouldered engage, or hired man, slopped his way up Market Street, following in the ragged man’s pooling footsteps. The brown eyes flickered with unease, then went wolfish as he almost crouched.

  The broad-shouldered boatman simply nodded as he passed, muttering a greeting in French. The ragged man watched him go before relaxing, allowing himself a deep-chested sigh. When he turned his attention back to the west, a new light of determination hardened behind his bearded expression.

  Manuel Lisa stood, hands behind his back as he stared out the large lobby window of the La Barras Hotel. He was dressed dapperly in a fitted indigo jacket; frills graced the end of his white sleeves. For the moment he ignored his companions, seated as they were in the padded French chairs that furnished the finest lobby in the city. The noted Missouri trader watched the occasional passerby who mucked his way through the avenue’s slop. He hardly noticed the ragged man slogging through the mud and sewage.

  William Morrison sat in one of the chairs, a glass of claret in his hand. The man’s voice was almost a monotone, and Lisa listened half-heartedly.

  “Given the embargo, we’re considerably short of the kinds of goods we really need to take upriver. With this talk of coming war with the English, our footing with the upper tribes will be tenuous at best. Lord knows how we’ll get along with the Osage, the Otoes, and the Sac and Fox—let alone the Sioux and Arikara. The Iowa have sent runners to their villages, stirring up the young men. It would be foolish to risk our necks, let alone the future of the Missouri Fur Company, when a war breaking out on the upper river could ruin us.”

  Old Auguste Chouteau’s voice cracked as he said, “Our sale of stocks helped but little. But seriously, Manuel, we are still woefully short of capital. I will not risk anything more. I will not see my profits dropped into a British maw and greedily snapped up.”

  Lisa pursed his lips and turned his black eyes on the old man. Chouteau had come upriver as a teenager with Pierre Laclède Liguest in 1764. It had been Chouteau who had moved the trading outpost of Saint Louis from the lowlands on the eastern shore to its present location; the city now stood safely on the high mound-studded bluffs above the unpredictable Mississippi’s floodwaters.

  The old French had hated Manuel at first. A Spaniard by birth, he’d managed to claw his way up through the layers of Governor ’Delassus’s Spanish bureaucracy, driven by sheer willpower, audacity, and cunning. In the end, Lisa had bribed enough administrators to obtain the coveted trading license with the Osage. Whisked it out from underneath the Chouteaus, actually. Then came the Americans and free trade. Old Auguste, his brother Pierre, and young Auguste Jr. had seen the returns of Lisa’s 1807 Missouri Expedition.

  Suddenly, Manuel Lisa was a man to be joined rather than fought. A notion that brought Manuel a wicked sense of amusement.

  Unconsciously, his gaze strayed to the full-length mirror at the side of the room. He looked that part, and dressed to show his affluence. With a tanned hand, he adjusted the creamy cravat at his throat. Thick dark hair rose from his head, framing a smoothly
shaven face, straight patrician nose, and thin mouth. Only in his dark eyes did his true character show: He enjoyed the fierce strength staring back at him with burning challenge. His body was compact—that of an athletic man of middle age and average height. When he moved, his body rippled with a supple power and grace.

  “I thought it was the war talk,” Manuel said easily, his voice crisp with accent, irony in the honeyed tones. Cowards! he thought. The St. Louis Missouri Fur Company was top-heavy with men too cautious for their own good.

  He then asked, “Who will invest when the potential of war with England looms so large? Why should men venture capital to maintain our connections with the upper river?” He paused for effect. “Why? For profits! For the future. If we surrender the river to the British, to John Jacob Astor, or, even—through our negligence—to chaos itself, with whom do we trade in the future?”

  The others stared at him through wary eyes.

  “Answer me that.”

  “Things are too uncertain,” Chouteau stated in a tone that defied rebuke. He laced his bony and age-spotted hands over his ample belly and leaned back in the overstuffed chair.

  “Bah!” Lisa spat back. “That’s the time to act with certainty. Either we act boldly, in our best interest, or we lose the upper river tribes and their trade forever.”

  He felt his temper rising. Fools! They would cut their own throats—and his. Didn’t they understand? They must show a strong front—or the promises of British traders like Robert Dickson would sway the river tribes from American trade.

  Lisa glanced back out at the street. The ragged man had stopped. He studied the La Barras Hotel intently. Out of what looked like habit, the bedraggled fellow glanced either way, as if careful of being observed, before he climbed the steps from the muddy thoroughfare. Lisa saw a trickle of water run from the brim of the worn felt hat. The man’s coat consisted of patched deerskin. He tried to wipe the mud from the rags that bound up his holey boots; water leaked from them as he squished toward the door.

  An image of brown, Lisa thought, looking at the fellow.

  Curious. What would the vagabond be doing coming here? The La Barras was the finest hotel in Saint Louis. Surely not the place for a destitute wretch like this.

  Then again, at the edge of the frontier it was difficult to judge a scarecrow man like this one. The wilderness had a leveling effect on men. For all Lisa knew, this walking scarecrow might have a roll of Spanish gold coins in a pocket or pouch.

  Inside the door, the man pulled his hat from his head, revealing wet-plastered hair. His gaze darted around the room as if to catalog it and the men present. Lisa met the searching eyes, and held them. The man nodded, as if to himself, and took a deep breath.

  Lisa figured him to be somewhere past thirty—worn and abused by the world, while at the same time resilient, wary, and defiant. Manuel tried to fit the fellow into a category: Woodsman? Engage? Hunter? Farmer? No, none of those. All kinds came to Saint Louis: the last American outpost beyond the wilderness of Indiana, Illinois, and Kentucky.

  Morrison was speaking again, but Lisa ignored it, trying to determine what it was in the ragged man’s demeanor that held his attention. Something about him spoke of quality, of some driving desperation and haunting fear that folded in on the nervousness the brown eyes tried so hard to hide. The ragged man seemed to find himself, walked firmly across the floor, ignoring the trail of water and mud he left behind.

  “Mr. Manuel Lisa?” The cultured voice behind the matted beard was startling.

  “I am he,” Lisa admitted, bowing slightly, his curiosity rising. “How may I be of service?”

  “I heard you would be here today,” the brown man said, beard hiding his smile. “I also understand you have an expedition about to ascend the Missouri River. I would like to make an application to be employed in your service, sir.” The brown eyes didn’t waver.

  “By coincidence, whether we have an expedition or not is currently a topic of discussion, given the talk of war.”

  The brown man’s brows tensed, his voice softening. “If you don’t, sir, you’ll lose the river forever. You know that, don’t you?”

  Lisa nodded. “I do, indeed.” He shot a hard glance at Morrison.

  Lisa ignored the water dripping from the man’s coat and beard. So, this scarecrow of a man would hire on as an engage? Given his thin frame, he looked as if he’d collapse an hour into the hard work of moving a keelboat.

  Where he sat ensconced in the depths of his chair, Morrison smiled with amusement. Chouteau—more knowing in the ways of men—sipped his brandy carefully.

  Lisa fingered his chin, fully aware of how painfully thin the man was. “Thank you for your interest, sir. I wonder, however, if you understand the nature of river travel? It is the most dangerous of work. Fifteen or twenty hours a day, day in, day out. There are no Sundays, no holidays. You will pole, cordelle, or row a fully loaded keelboat for almost two thousand miles. You must take orders at any time, under any circumstance. Failure can mean your death. Most Americans do not like such work and consider me a despot. They bristle at the need for authority and discipline.”

  “I am well aware of that, Mr. Lisa. I am conversant with the strains and perils of the wilderness. I am willing.” The voice was sure, steeled with resolve.

  “This is not Ohio or Kentucky,” Lisa said seriously. “Have you ever been west of the Mississippi? The frontier is different in the far west. Harder. Remote.”

  The brown man nodded in agreement, those knowing eyes never leaving Lisa’s. “I have been west of the river, Mr. Lisa. I know how different it is. I know Texas and Arkansas.” A wry smile could be seen through the beard as the man hesitated. “And some other places farther west. I’d like to see the upper river.”

  “I see,” Lisa said softly. “Why do you want to go with me? If you know those places, Robert McKnight and James Baird are putting together an expedition headed to Santa Fe that will pay more. The work will not be so hard.”

  “Because, you are the best, Mr. Lisa. No one knows the Indians or the river better. I do not wish to go to Santa Fe with McKnight and Baird. I have no desire to rot in a Spanish jail.” Again the faint smile played at his lips. “And believe me, sir, they’re going to see that jail before they’re done.”

  “Manuel,” Morrison protested, “he does not look fit for the voyage. He seems—”

  “It has been a hard winter.” Chouteau waved a dismissive hand. “A man cannot be judged until he is tried by the river.”

  “But to ascend the river, an engage must be a stout man,” Morrison declared.

  Lisa ignored them, skeptical himself of the man’s constitution. “What is your name?”

  “Call me Tylor. Spelled with an o instead of an e,” the ragged man said, his gaze drifting to the side. “John Tylor.”

  Lisa introduced his partners and studied the smooth manner Tylor assumed. The bow, the proper diction. Here was no barbaric frontiersman despite his appearance. “Your demeanor is that of a gentleman, Mr. Tylor. Are you . . . How did you come to such a dire appearance?”

  “Poor judgment and circumstance.” Tylor’s posture stiffened.

  “It happens.” Morrison spoke easily, and made a dismissive gesture.

  Tylor’s eyes flashed a look of thanks.

  “You say you have been west before, do you have any experience with the Indians?” Lisa aired a sudden suspicion. “The British are going to stir up trouble with the tribes. They have a lot to gain if we go to war.”

  Chouteau had caught the concern in Lisa’s voice, adding, “There are many agents on the frontier right now, Mr. Tylor. The British are everywhere. Do you have a sympathy for them? Perhaps—”

  “I have no sympathy for the British, sir. I give you my word.”

  Lisa thoughtfully scuffed the carpet with his polished boot. “Our problems with the British will be secondary. Rather, it is the Indians we must deal with first. British influence will be felt there. If war comes, the Siou
x will have much to gain. The Pawnee are very powerful. If they were incited to raid the river? Who knows?”

  Tylor surprised him again. “The Pawnee won’t be trouble. Not this year, anyway.” Tylor’s eyes were distant. “Long Hair and Sharitarish are feuding for control of the Grands and the Skidi. They’ve been at each other’s throats since Sharitarish gained power in 1809. They’ll split the Pawnee down the middle, and the situation will deteriorate.”

  Lisa’s heart raced. Who was this man? “William Clark has been apprised of that. He has called the major chiefs into Saint Louis for a conference this summer.”

  Tylor nodded in understanding. “So there will be no Pawnee pressure on the river. If they don’t come in to palaver with Clark, they’ll be too busy raiding each other to cause you trouble. With the head chiefs at war, opportunities for status will occupy the young men. The result will be confusion, which means they’re not going to be warring with the Omaha and Kansa. That’s good for trade.”

  “And the Sioux?” Lisa interrupted, prying.

  Blank eyes met his. “I don’t know the Sioux. My dealings were farther south.”

  “I would think, given your experience, that we should have met. Or at least I should have heard of you, Mr. Tylor,” Morrison mused.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Tylor returned too easily. “It’s a large country—as you no doubt know.” He ended with a slight bow.

  Tylor’s measuring eyes shifted back to Lisa. “Mr. Lisa, do I get that job?”

  Lisa quieted a sudden doubt. “See Mr. Reuben Lewis about an outfit and an advance on your wages. Prepare yourself for at least two years in the wilderness. I suggest that you enjoy Saint Louis, Mr. Tylor. It will be a long time until you see it again.”

  As soon as Lisa said it, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Premonition?

  “Thank you, sir.” Tylor bowed. “I take it we are still to leave on the first of May?”