As a wagon train heads to the American West in the late 1800's, a fast paced collision course develops between a fair maiden, a dashing new cavalry officer and a teenage indian brave, named Little Yellow Hawk. Violence, romance, treachery and danger lurk around every corner. Fort Washington and its inhabitants face an onslaught of emotional battles complicated by a sinister plot. Life and death decisions become more frequent as the indian attacks increase. Settlers are murdered, and seek refuge in Fort Washington as the action culminates in a final assault. Little Yellow Hawk is a hero of remarkable courage and honesty. He rises to the occasion, time and time again, providing the reader with an insight into the growth process and maturity that an indian brave confronts, and ultimately conquers.

LITTLE YELLOW HAWK

By Bill Walters

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Bill Walters
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-5626-5

Chapter One

Swinging upside down, slowly, back and forth, was making the blood rush to Little Yellow Hawk's head. He knew he was in trouble, oh, was he in trouble; first, with his mother, for venturing too far outside the safety perimeter of their camp. Then more trouble for trying to kill a deer without his father's permission. But this trouble meant nothing at all because it looked like he might never get the chance to be in trouble again, before these crazy-acting men killed him. They were holding a long, curved sword, with a double yellow tassel hanging from the handle. Each time Little Yellow Hawk swung close to one of them, the one with the curved sword held it up close to his throat, pretending to cut him. He was afraid they were going to stop pretending pretty soon.

It had all started earlier that morning. Little Yellow Hawk's sister, White Moon, was teasing him about not yet being a brave. Little Yellow Hawk had just turned 17, and anytime now, he could be tapped out for his ordeal. The ordeal was his possible initiation into male adulthood as a brave, a warrior, a man! White Moon said, "You know, we don't have much food left, but the other young braves will surely kill some deer or maybe even a bison for us." Little Yellow Hawk said, "I can shoot my arrows as straight and true as any of them." She continued, "You are not a brave. You talk like one sometimes, you walk like one sometimes, but you are not a brave, you are still unproven." Oh, that made him so very upset. He didn't enjoy being upset with his only sister. If he hadn't loved her so much, he would have tried to paddle her backside.

White Moon was 14 years old and already a classic, beautiful Indian maiden. Little Yellow Hawk had been her protector and always been there for her as they grew up together. Whether she desired that protection or not, he still supplied it in every aspect of their childhood years. White Moon acted like she was upset with her brother at times, but she cherished him, even though she loved to tease him at every opportunity.

Little Yellow Hawk knew she was right. He was not proven, and not even tapped out to enter the initiation and ordeal process. His turn had to come soon, he hoped. It had been a particularly harsh and brutally cold winter. None of the tribe had starved, but food supplies were quite low and now that it was spring, it was time to hunt. Any food sounded good, but fresh meat was the talk of the camp. Little Yellow Hawk's mother had told him just last night, "I know you are getting ready to become a man, but we also need firewood as much as meat. So Little Yellow Hawk, let the braves do the hunting, and you do the wood gathering."

Right then, as Little Yellow Hawk's mother was speaking, he was planning his hunt for the early morning hours. All winter long he had worked hard and perfected his arrow making techniques. He had pounded out some great arrowheads. He had gone out, on snowy, miserable days and made a large snowball. He had placed it in a tree about five feet up from the ground, and taken shots from all angles. He steadily progressed from missing it all together, to consistently exploding the ball of white frozen water. Over those months, he made the snowballs smaller and smaller until they were about the size of a human head. Not that he planned on shooting human heads, but he knew eventually his prowess as a brave with archery skills would be tested. Cherokee braves were expected to provide for and defend their people. Their technical skills at arrow manufacturing and shooting skills were proudly recognized through the entire Indian nations. They were a proud tribe who did not provoke others or seek war. However, if threatened, they were a tough, speedy, and formidable foe with whom to contend.

Little Yellow Hawk had spoken to his father, Black Bear, and told him of his adventures, shooting all the man-sized snowballs. His father had firmly yet softly grunted and said, "Ice balls do not shoot back." Little Yellow Hawk felt immediately saddened and began to walk away, with his head lowered. Black Bear said, "Sit down, little one." He then told Little Yellow Hawk about being a brave. He said, "Shooting your arrows straight and true, bringing back meat to our camp, defending our heritage are all very important. But they are not what being a brave is all about. Little Yellow Hawk rapidly replied, "But father, you do all those things!" "Yes," his father said. "That is true, but those are my duties, my actions, not my inner feelings. Those things do not make a brave. Inside here, (thumping his chest), this, is what makes you a brave. How you see yourself in the world, and your respect of Mother Earth. Also, how you do not give up, how you respect and what you respect, and most of all, what you continue to try, even after you have failed." Little Yellow Hawk had not understood. He wanted to understand. He respected his father so very much, but just did not understand the words his father had shared with him.

The next morning Little Yellow Hawk awoke quite early, even earlier than he had planned for the past several days. Quietly and deliberately he placed double his normal amount of arrows into his soft quiver, and then snuck out of the camp. No one saw him as he crept away toward the sunrise. He easily ran about two miles from camp and saw a small rise with tall grass.

"This rise is absolutely perfect for ambushing a deer or even a wayward buffalo," he thought. He lay down in the grass at the edge of the plain area at the west end of the rise, and waited. The sun arose majestically and became increasingly warmer, and he fell fast asleep. Jerking awake, he quickly opened his eyes and immediately saw the deer. A rather large deer was casually grazing only about 30 feet in front of him. Could he possibly be so quiet, that it wouldn't move? He didn't think so, but thought he would try anyway. He slowly brought up his already notched arrow and as he did so, the deer raised its head, but was looking in the opposite direction. Little Yellow Hawk let the arrow fly and it hit the deer in the intended target, the right shoulder. The deer bounded two steps, dropped to its knees, then rose and began to sprint away. Little Yellow Hawk fired another arrow, but missed high over the rapidly disappearing head. He started running after the deer with his bow in his right hand. The deer was heading to a small stand of trees, and then abruptly collapsed. Little Yellow Hawk warily approached the deer, which was now still, but still breathing and gasping for life. Little Yellow Hawk suddenly felt terrible. This beautiful deer lay dying and he had taken its life. He must remember, he told himself, that this was survival; that his family needed meat to survive, to live and to flourish. Little Yellow Hawk watched as the deer finally took its last labored breath. Still, he had been taught by his father that a deer can thrash its steel-like hooves and become like arrows and slash a man's legs open. He waited, but there were no more breaths; the deer was truly dead.

Little Yellow Hawk laid down his bow and unsheathed his knife to dress out the deer. He knew that his father would be proud of him and his mother would be pleased with the abundant fresh meat. His mother would readily utilize the beautiful fur on the deer and make many fine sets of moccasins for everyone in the family, and others if enough was left over. Maybe his parents would forgive him for leaving the camp without their permission.

Little Yellow Hawk...