by Karen Kay
At last, Swift Hawk looked over his shoulder. “I do not know where he is.”
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head. “Earlier, I sent him here. He was to warn the caravan of the approaching storm, and tell you that you were all to seek shelter. But he has not yet arrived.”
“You did? He was? You let him come here on his own?”
Swift Hawk bristled. “He is not a young lad that I should watch over him every moment of the day.”
She sighed. “Oh, Swift Hawk. Julian doesn’t really know what he’s doing. You know that. Alone, he…he could be anywhere. What if he’s injured somewhere?”
Swift Hawk frowned. “More likely he is lost.”
“But he could have run into some enemy tribe, or something.”
“Not today. There will be few enemies on the prairie when such a storm is about. And those who might be traveling would be scouts, and they would not harm him, since a scout will never fight unless he has to.”
“But I have to know what has happened to him. Where did you last see him?”
Swift Hawk shrugged. “It was on the plain, on the other side of that bluff,” he said, pointing. “Four, maybe five miles from here.”
“That far? Four or five miles?”
He slanted her a frown. “It would be hard for me to say exactly how far, as I have little experience with what these ‘miles’ are. But I think it might be close to that.”
“Still, that’s enough time to have returned. Oh dear, I fear he must be injured. Otherwise he would have found his way back here. And if he is injured, he may not be able to get to a shelter.” She hiccupped, and as Swift Hawk looked quickly around, he beheld that Angelia was distressed.
Suppressing a sigh, Swift Hawk drew his brows together. He would have to find the lad.
“If you insist, I will go and seek him. But first I must lead you and this caravan to safety.”
He listened closely to hear whatever she had to say in reply, but it was a long time before she spoke again. “I don’t care about myself or this caravan. I care about Julian.”
“Do not fret. I have told you that I will find him if you desire it, but first I must ensure that as many wagons as possible are brought to shelter. It is my duty.” He watched as she bit her lip.
“Injun! Injun!” Russell rode up beside Swift Hawk. “You’re needed in the coulee. Some of us are already there, but none’a us can find a way into it. Come quick like.” Turning his mount away, Russell rode off in a northeasterly direction.
Spinning around, Swift Hawk gave Angelia an apologetic look, then rushed to his pony’s side, untying the animal from the mule team. Taking hold of the buckskin reins, he jumped up to the pony’s back. Before he left, he spun around toward Angelia. “Ensure your mules and your wagon find safety. As soon as I help the rest of this caravan into the coulee, I will leave to find your brother.”
And he was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
“White man (said he), see ye that small cloud lifting itself from the prairie? he rises! the hoofs of our horses have waked him! The Fire Spirit is awake—this wind is from his nostrils, and his face is this way!”
Said by Red Thunder, a Native guide for George Catlin
George Catlin
Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians
“Do you speak this man’s language?” Raising his voice above the storm’s din, Swift Hawk asked this of Kit Russell as the man made to pass by him.
“What? Who? That Frenchie over there? I reckon I might speak a bit a’ it.”
“E-peva’e.” Using the gestures of sign, as well as words, Swift Hawk continued, “Come here, then, and ask Pierre where the woman is who rides with this wagon.”
“What? Is she gone?”
Swift Hawk nodded.
“What happened? Was she left behind?”
“I do not know that. Not yet. Perhaps you could ask the Frenchman.”
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 her team ’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 of race, 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 her attention 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, Swift Hawk 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?
However, carefully training his features into a stoic countenance, he urged his pony into a run. Amusing though she might be, if they were to survive this storm, quick action would be in order.
Bolting across the distance between them, Swift Hawk reined in his pony as soon as he became level with her. Leaning down over the pony’s neck, he asked her directly, “Are you having trouble?”
“Oh!” She glanced up at him. “It’s you. This darn mule won’t go anywhere, and now I’ve caught myself on this bush.”
“Haa’he, I see.” He smiled. “The dress will have to come off, I fear.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you not feel the wind around you, the grass and dirt being blown through the air? Have you not heard the crash of lightning? Felt the breath of the Wind Spirit on your neck?”
Her look at him was more than a little condescending. “I am not going to take off my dress, so set your mind to something else.”
He shrugged. “You may have to abandon your mule too.”
“I will not abandon my mule. Are you aware of how much he cost me?”
Swift Hawk’s look at her was nonchalant. “I am sure he was expensive, but to pay for him with your life seems a little excessive.”
“Oh, would you stop lecturing me and get down here and help me?”
“I will, but if I come to your aid, I will cut away your dress. Do you not see that it is caught, not once, but many, many times? So much is it ensnared that it looks as if the bush is wearing your dress.”
“Very funny. Now, I tell you, the dress will come away, I’m sure of it.”
“Haa’he, perhaps it might, if I had the entire day to unravel it. But it would take much time—time we do not have. Or have you not noticed that you stand close to a tree, on a hill?”
“So?”
His gaze at her was surprised, and he coaxed, “In the middle of a lightning storm?”
“Yes?”
He sighed. “The tree will attract the attention of the Thunderer, I fear.”
“Pshaw! The lightning is still very far away. We have time.”
As if to give emphasis to Swift Hawk’s words and make her a liar, a streak of lightning flashed above them, the instant crack through the atmosphere so loud that both Swift Hawk and Angelia recoiled from it. Swift Hawk leaped off his pony and ushered Angelia to the ground, the bush straining against her dress.
As soon as the danger was over, she glanced up at him and sat up. “Very well. I see your point. Would you please cut the dress away?”
In an instant, Swift Hawk was up on his knees, and drawing his knife, he stripped away the outer material of the garment. Even that wasn’t enough. Her petticoats had become entangled with the thorns, as well.
“Swift Hawk, you must hurry.”
“Haa’he. I know.”
“No, you don’t understand. That last strike of lightning—I think it struck this tree, for the top of the tree is on fire.”
“I know. I hear it.”
“Then please, do hurry.”
“I am. Perhaps it would be easier if you simply stepped out of these petticoats.”
“I…I…I am afraid that modesty would not…” she stammered. “Just hurry.”
“Haa’he.” He glanced up at her. “Brace yourself.”
She did.
Reaching out for the bodice of the garment, he tore at her dress with such force that the linen chemise, as well as the petticoats, ripped all the way down the front. That it left her standing in no more than her lacy drawers was more than a little disconcerting to Swift Hawk’s equilibrium, and he found his gaze riveted to her chest.
He stared at her, there, for much longer than a gentleman should, until at last she brought her arms up to cover herself.
Her action caused him to offer, “I did not mean to expose you so completely.”
She glanced away from him. “So you say. But, Mr. Hawk, I fear modesty must take a backseat to the urgency of leaving here. Perhaps you have not noticed how quickly the tree behind you begins to burn.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. Alas, it only went to illustrate how exquisitely a woman could affect a man. Of course Swift Hawk knew the tree was afire, but even so, he had been and was still fighting with himself, trying to take his gaze from her.
“Haa’he,” he said, at some length, staring away from her at last. Getting to his feet, he picked up his knife and her shotgun and hurried toward his pony. “Come, you are right. We must be swiftly away.”
Jumping up and straddling his pony, he settled himself and reached an arm down to help her up as well.
“But my mule…”
Swift Hawk straightened away and glanced over his shoulder. “Haa’he. Yes, your mule. We will try to bring it with us, but if not, I fear we must leave it. For as you can see, we now have not only the Wind Spirit at our backs, but the Fire Spirit, as well. Quickly, jump up behind me.” He pulled her up onto the seating until she too was straddling the pony.
No sooner had she situated herself than Swift Hawk realized his mistake in rushing to free her from that bush. He should have taken his time, no matter if it had required the entire day.
Perhaps burning alive or being beaten to death by a storm would be better than the agony of feeling the imprint of her breasts against his own bare back…and knowing there was not a single earthly thing he could do about it.
Angelia had never felt so exposed, nor so alive.
At present, Swift Hawk was negotiating his pony through the winding buffalo paths. Since the prairie grass accommodated so many vines and growth, going through it was nearly impossible. She was nestled against Swift Hawk’s back, her arms around his waist, her legs against his own. Behind them, to the right, to the left, even in front of them, lightning flashed, boomed and sent a feeling of terror through the air, while the wind roared and howled like some ghostly apparition.
Out of necessity, they had left her mule behind. Swift Hawk had tried to lead it, but after several attempts at budging it, and no suc
cess, they had been forced to abandon it.
Luckily, the gusting winds had blown out the fire from the tree before it had become a threat to life and limb. But such strong gales as this had broken many of the tree’s limbs and branches, with the result that sticks and leaves went flying through the air like misguided arrows.
The lightning never ceased, either. Bolts crashed around them, into the ground, shaking the earth and creating thunderous peals. The strikes came from all directions, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have said that the lightning followed them.
Through it all, she clung to Swift Hawk, who appeared to be calm despite the chaos in the heavens.
At one point, Angelia cried out to Swift Hawk, “Why does the lightning follow us? It strikes the ground around us, as though each bolt were meant for us.”
“It is intended for us,” said Swift Hawk. “The Thunderer and I are long enemies.”
The Thunderer—a force of Nature—Swift Hawk’s enemy? How strange.
And yet, was it strange? This man kept a secret from her. Was it somehow connected with such a magnificent enemy?
They kept on, their pace hindered by the furious waving of the grasses. Because the grass was so long and bent over, it made the paths difficult to see. To add to their difficulties, Angelia glanced behind them and discovered that the tail of a very black, almost greenish-looking cloud had dipped toward the earth.
The storm’s funnel was extending farther and farther down, until all at once it struck the ground. At the impact, dust flew everywhere. The storm’s roar, as it twisted over the prairie, added to the frightening howls of the wind.
She cried, “Behind us! The tornado has hit the earth. It’s coming this way!”
“Hold tight to me and do not let go,” Swift Hawk instructed. “I must force my pony off these buffalo paths, if we are to find shelter in time.”
She nodded against his shoulder. It was a strange thing. Naked though they both might be—at least from the waist up—her attention was not on herself, or even on him. In truth, although she might appreciate the feel of his back against her breasts, his buttocks against her loins, these things were not uppermost in her mind.