Russell nodded, and turning toward Pierre, engaged the man in steady conversation.
Shortly, however, Russell, his look hesitant, shifted back toward Swift Hawk. “Seems the little miss took a mule from herteam ’n’ left.”
“Ah.” Swift Hawk inclined his head. “It is as I suspected. Did you ask him where she has gone?”
“Yep. Already asked, but he don’t know. She can’t have gone far, though. Not in this wind.”
The two men stood feet apart, each man proud, each man taking his measure of the other. They were, for the moment, safe within the coulee. Around them, people huddled down within the backs of their wagons or lay beneath them. Here and there sat a person who had pulled his knees up to his chest, and with hands over ears, gazed outward.
Meanwhile above them, the winds shrieked through the grasses, their whitened tops bent over to the earth, flapping madly beneath the gale’s fury. Prairie rubble raced through the air. Above them flashed streaks of lightning, the accompanying clap of thunder threatening ever closer. Though it was only midday, the skies had turned as sickly black as a moonless night.
Russell said, “Reckon your job’s done here, Mr. Hawk, but I wouldna be goin’ out in that weather lookin’ fer that woman, if’n I was you.”
Swift Hawk barely heard the man. Already, he had spun away and was sprinting toward his pony. Spreading a trade-blanket and then a buffalo robe over the back of the animal for use as a saddle, Swift Hawk jumped up to his seat. Then, taking hold of the reins, he turned his pony toward Kit Russell. “If that be true, perhaps it is good that I am not you. I would ask that you tell Pierre to watch over the woman’s wagon and mules until I find her.”
Russell nodded once. Swift Hawk did the same.
It was an unusual exchange to witness, for something out of the ordinary had happened this day. Though, if asked, neither man would have admitted to liking the other, the emergency at hand had caused a masculine “all hands”, forcing Swift Hawk and Kit Russell to work side by side. Irrespective ofrace, both had needed the other’s help. And when it was over, and the wagons were settled in the coulee, both men had come away from their work with a grudging respect for each other.
In truth, Kit Russell owed Swift Hawk more than a simple vote of thanks, and most likely, he knew it. Though he might not have voiced it, it could probably be said that Russell would never call either Swift Hawk or Red Fox “Injun” again.
Grabbing hold of a piece of buckskin from a parfleche bag tied to his horse, Swift Hawk commenced to position it over the lower part of his face. Before he had finished securing it, he glanced at Russell and said, “If I do not return by nightfall, Red Fox will continue to hunt and scout for you.”
Russell again nodded. “We have the outriders too, I reckon. They’ll help.”
“E-peva’e,” said Swift Hawk, making a quick motion with his right hand, out and away from his chest, the sign talk for “good”.
With nothing more to be said, Swift Hawk set his pony to climb out of the coulee. Once on the high prairie, he dismounted and squatted to the ground, looking for Angelia’s prints. He ignored the wind that whipped his face, ignored, too, the noise that bawled in his ears, the dust that flew into his eyes.
Blanking his mind of all else, he let his attention expand outward, sensing his way to her, seeking a spiritual connection, being to being, that had nothing to do with the material universe.
He saw the trail. There were her footprints. She had walked her mule this way, through the grass, her path moving in a perpendicular fashion to that of the caravan.
Leading his pony by its reins, Swift Hawk followed that trail for a couple of miles, riding his mount at times when he could see that the trail led straight. After about three miles, he noted from the different indentations of her footprints that she had stopped to look at something. Something had drawn herattention to the north.
Swift Hawk gazed that way too, and there he spied a lone tree, which was set out on the prairie as though it had been put there by mistake.
Surely she wouldn’t go there. Not in a thunderstorm. Not with a twister threatening.
Even as he thought it, a streak of lightning shot to the earth, striking the ground at a distance of perhaps a half mile. The resounding crash and rumble shook the very atmosphere, and his pony, jittery in this kind of weather, jumped.
“Easy there, girl,” Swift Hawk coaxed. “Easy. We’ve seen storms like this before.Ne-naestse, come on, let’s find her and get to shelter before we are swept away.”
Swift Hawk’s attention centered once more on Angelia’s trail, which loomed straight ahead of him. There it was. The mule had bolted, heading north, straight toward the tree. Had Angelia followed it?
Yes, she had. Again, he could see her prints ahead of him, and he glanced off toward that tree. Didn’t she know that a tree was the wrong place to be in a storm like this?
That’s when he saw it—the flash of something pink. What was it? A piece of clothing? Whatever it was, it had caught on a branch and was flapping wildly in the wind.
Was she there? Or had she found her mule and gone on?
He hoped it was the latter, for a tree would give the Thunderer a fine target.
Mounting his pony, Swift Hawk steered the animal toward the tree. As he got closer he saw her there, on the other side of the hill, struggling with her mule as well as with her dress. The mule was sitting on its hindquarters, stubbornly refusing to budge, and Angelia, who had set her shotgun to the side, pulled wildly on the animal. Somehow her dress had also gotten caught in the thorns of a wild rose bush, and she tugged on her dress too.
Despite himself, despite the weather conditions, SwiftHawk grinned, shaking his head. Between this woman and her brother—both such novices to the prairie—Swift Hawk was discovering much amusement.
Did she not know better than to go near prickly shrubs and bushes? And especially so in weather like this, which would whip her full skirts every which way?
