Beyond the Mountain

A Wounded Hawk Story

Ron Lewis

© Copyright 2017/22/24 by Ron Lewis

Cover Art by Shiloh Young

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Beyond the Mountain

It wasn’t easy being a half-breed in the world of the white man. Wounded Hawk pulled his coat up around him against the air, which chilled overnight. Might be winter’s knocking on fall’s door, Hawk reasoned. The half-white, half-Indian felt something more than frost in the air. He peered around the stable. Yeah, I’m right, he thought, as the owner glared at him.

If Hawk weren’t a deputy US Marshal, he wouldn’t have been allowed to board his horses here. The hotels had rejected him, each of the desk clerks holding up their hands as he entered as if to stop him, before informing him, “We don’t allow Injuns or breeds in here.”

Their hospitality, or lack of, forced Hawk to spend the night in an empty cell at the Estes Park, City Marshal’s office.

Having delivered a prisoner to their marshal, Hawk’s duty was done, and to hell with this place. All the Indian wanted to do was get on the road and back to Golden City and shake the dust of this town from his boots. The residents had not tried to disguise their disgust at him. Wounded Hawk was used to the treatment, though still, it stung. He had prided himself on not letting the insults affect him, but lately, the words bothered him.

Leading his horse and pack mule out of the stall, Hawk headed toward the stable doors. A belligerent thought moved through his head as the untrusting eyes of the stableman continued to bore into him. Hawk settled on a kindness, pulling a silver dollar from his pocket. Resting it on his thumb, he flipped it to the man.

People are uncomfortable with folks who differ from them. The color of the skin, strange habits, or different clothing from the norm causes all sorts of reactions. Give them something they can relate to, something to make you more like them, and well, sometimes, this makes all the difference.

“Thanks. You took excellent care of them,” Hawk said.

The man caught the coin, opened his hand, and stared at the tip, which doubled what he charged for boarding the animals the two days they had been there. He looked at the Indian, and his eyes softened. Maybe this redskin ain’t so bad after all, he reasoned.

“Been a pleasure,” the man said in an abrupt change. “That mustang paint your’n is about the best I seen fer years.”

“Well, you fed them well,” Hawk told him. “Brushed them down. Even my cantankerous mule.”

“Well, Marshal, anytime ya’re in Estes Park, be pleased for ya to board yer critters with me,” the man said. “You might have a tad trouble finding a room for your’nself…” stopping, the stableman considered his words, “this being a resort community for the snobby rich folk, an’ all.”

“Don’t I know it, friend?” Hawk agreed, taking his leave of the man. He moseyed down the street, leading the two animals, smiling to himself. He’d turned a man in fear of him into someone not sure what to think. His affability was his greatest weapon against the ingrained bigotry of the 1860s. He wanted to say goodbye to the city marshal before he hit the trail.

“Daylight’s a burning,” Hawk muttered as the town square clock banged out a chime followed by nine bells. “Damn, late start.”

Further down the main street, Horace Ghent watched as a man unlocked the bank door. Two or three people who had been waiting shuffled inside the building. Observing the street traffic, no one else appeared to be heading that way, except for a feller way off, leading a horse and mule. Horace reasoned now was as good a time as any.

“Okay, boys,” Ghent said, “let’s take her to the dance. Obie, you know your place.”

The six men rode their mounts out of the alley, dismounting in front of the bank. Obie stood holding the horses while the five others went inside the building. Obie Meriwether stared at the women walking down the street. He smiled at each and dipped his hat like his momma taught him. Standing on the mucky road, he appeared out of place, holding six horses with a hitching post right in front of him.

As Marshal Wounded Hawk grew closer, this kid struck him as strange, especially with the man standing right in front of the bank. He led his horse and mule, kept his head down, not wishing to raise suspicion, passed the bank, and stopped at the first hitching post on the next block. Hawk tied his animals to the post and mounted the wooden sideboards. Leaning against one support for the overhanging cover, he studied the young man intently from under the wide, flat brim of his hat.

A young boy walked out of the general store near him, gnawing on a horehound candy stick. The Indian gazed at the boy and wagged his finger for him to come to him. The boy hesitated. The man calling him wasn’t someone he knew, and he was an Indian dressed in buckskins. But he had a badge on his chest. How odd, the boy thought, stepping over to Hawk.

“Yes…?” the boy said, adding, “sir,” as an afterthought, to respect the badge, not the man.

“Hey, kid. Go to the city marshal’s office and fetch Marshal Larkin,” Hawk said in a hushed voice. “Be right quick about it.” He handed the boy a nickel, and the lad tore off down the boarded sidewalk to the Marshal’s office.

That was a preview of Beyond the Mountain. To read the rest purchase the book.

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