Red Hawk’s Woman (The Lost Clan #3)

Prologue

Midnight

Lightning crashed through the rain-soaked air, while below, the ground and all things on it appeared huddled together, as though seeking strength to withstand the howling wind and the heavy deluge.

People scurried to get out of the downpour, but it was useless.

The wind had increased tenfold and was blowing so passionately, it appeared as if the gods themselves were angry.

However, inside the lush Thrity-Fourth Street home, except for an occasional hint of the weather outside, all was quite. A man was dying. He was a great man, a good man, a man of wisdom. But his time on this Earth was drawing to an end, and he knew it.

It was this awareness that had caused the man, Trent Clark, a well-known professional archaeologist, to summon his best friend, Walter Rutledge, to his side.

That Rutledge was younger than Clark by perhaps thirty years held little significance; not when the matter at hand was trust, friendship and a devout attempt to secure history.

“This way, please,” uttered Fieldman, Clark’s butler. “Mr. Clark will see you now.”

“Aye, of course,” replied Rutledge.

“Is that you, Walter?”

“Aye, that it is. That it is.” Said Rutledge, dropping his hat and coat into the butler’s arms and rushing into the room.

“Come closer,” commanded Clark as he reached out as far as he dared, clutching at Rutledge’s hand.

“Come closer.” Clark’s utterance was low, more of a croak than a normal tone of voice.

Hearing it, Clark knew a moment of regret.

What he wouldn’t give to be young again, to be vital…

to be able to find the treasures himself.

But it was not to be. Clark sighed. Enough. He must clear his mind of all distraction. The matter at hand was that important.

“That will be all, Fieldman,” muttered Clark, when the butler lingered. “I will call upon you when we finish.”

Fieldman nodded, backed out of the room and shut the door.

As soon as it was closed, Clark began to speak again, and he said, “Please come closer, my friend.” He coughed, wondering if his voice could be heard over the competition of the weather.

Luckily, Rutledge must have heard the command, for he obeyed at once. Bending down, he came nearer.

Clark signaled his appreciation by a quick dip of his head, and he hardened his grasp on his friend’s hand. “This is serious, Walter. Listen carefully.”

Rutledge nodded.

“Do you see this box?” Clark gestured toward the highly polished nightstand, where sat an intricately wrapped container.

“Aye, sir, that I do,” said Rutledge.

Again Clark gestured toward it. “Take it.” Rutledge hastened to do as bidden.

“Open it.”

One-handed, Rutledge obeyed, although his fingers shook. First, off came the string, then the swaddling that surrounded it, until at last he held a red, ornate box in his hand. At length, as though with misgivings, he peeked inside the case, only to gasp aloud.

But it was exactly what Clark had expected. “Go ahead,” encouraged Clark. “Touch it.”

“But sir, this be…this be…”

“A quartz nugget,” whispered Clark. “That I know. The figure carved within it is from the gold vein that runs through the quartz. As you know it is quite rare to find this in nature, much less to be fashioned as it is. It came into my possession most unusually, make no mistake.”

“A dig?” asked Rutledge, referring to an archaeological adventure in uncovering the history of an area, by means of a shovel and trowel.

“Aye,” agreed Clark. “A dig. There be quite a story that accompanies that piece,” he added as he settled back against the pillows.

He drew in a shaky breath and let it out twice, seeking the means to gather together the strength to say what must be said.

But such routine actions weren’t as easy as they used to be.

After several brief pauses, whereupon he was more than aware of the rattling in his respiration, Clark continued, “The piece is now yours. I give it to you…as a trust.”

“Thank you, Clark. But a trust? Surely you have not stooped to becoming a collector?”

“Mayhap, I might have done so…in this one instance. But do not judge me so harshly.”

Rutledge shook his head. “I am surprised is all. We are professional archaeologists, not treasure hunters. After all, it was you who lectured me time and time again that the artifacts we discover do not belong to us, that the history we uncover is for all men who would but reach to know it.”

“Aye, that I have. But you must allow me to explain, my friend.” Clark’s voice was weak with frailty, yet stern with determination. “I have little time left on this Earth to tell you what I must. Now please. Sit.”

Rutledge paused, looking highly uncomfortable.

Then as though suddenly making a decision, his features became blank.

He sat back down. “I am sorry,” he said.

“I should not be judging you before hearing you out. I am certain that you must have your reasons for keeping this to yourself. And I will hear them, for you have always been one of the most ethical men I have known.”

Clark breathed out with relief, then sank back against his pillow. “Thank you. Now, I have a request to make of you, my friend.”

Rutledge gave a quick acknowledgment with his head, as though to say he had expected as much.

“It is believed that there are three additional pieces that match this one,” continued Clark.

“All of them are legended to be of the same material, quartz with solid gold figures etched within. They are a set, so to speak. Or perhaps I should say they are brothers and sisters. I have only the one piece and I hold it in trust. Not for myself, no mistake, but rather I have held it for a friend who bestowed the thing upon me.”

“But surely you could have told him that it was impossible, if not unethical to keep it and—”

“The man was an American Indian.”

“An Indian?”

“Aye.” Clark nodded. “When he delegated this into my care, he charged me to find the others, for the set belongs not to history, not to me or to you or even to a museum. Rather the artifacts – when you find them – belong to a clan of American Indians…the Lost Clan.”

“The Lost Clan? I have never heard of them.”

“There is no reason why you should know of them,” Clark said.

“Now, bend down toward me, my friend, for I do not have the strength to speak up to be heard, and it is important that I tell you a story, the myth that is attached to this piece. Hear it well. For I am about to discharge a duty that I have carried with me these long and many years.”

“A duty?”

Suddenly, Clark clutched Rutledge’s hand. “Promise me that if you accept my challenge, and if you find the matching artifacts, you will not keep them or give them to a museum.”

Rutledge hesitated, clearly troubled.

“Promise me.” Trembling, Clark glared into Rutledge’s eyes.

“Trent, I”—

Clark gasped, heaved, then began to shake. “Promise me, for I cannot tell you the legend until you do.”

Still Rutledge hesitated, while a myriad of emotions flickered over his countenance. At length, however, he capitulated. “Aye,” he said. “I promise.”

At once, Clark’s teeth stopped chattering, the shaking subsisted, and with a long, scraping breath, the elderly gentleman fell back against his bed.

And since there was little time left to debate, he began at once.

“No mistake, the artifacts must be returned as a set to the Clan, for only in doing so will a powerful enchantment be lifted.”

“An enchantment? You mean…a curse?”

“Aye, a curse. The story I am about to tell you is a fantastic story, an unbelievable tale. And yet I believe it to be true, and no lie.” He stopped, drew in air, then went on to say, “For you see, the old Indian who gave me this piece – and it be many years since he did so – was a man who had seen much in his younger days.”

Arms straight out in front of him, the old man lay his hands, palms down, against the sheets. “This artifact, and the three others that are yet to be found, are very valuable – and not because they are made of gold.”

Rutledge nodded.

Clark glanced at Rutledge, again gestured toward the object, then continued, “You, my friend, call that piece an artifact, because you believe it to be made by a human hand.”

“That I do, right enough. It is carved, meaning that it must have been created by—”

“But do not be so hasty. Examine the piece in your leisure if you must. I have done so, and I do not believe the piece to be made by a human being.”

Rutledge’s mouth dropped open. “But…but that is impossible, no wind or rain or natural occurrence could have—”

“It was not carved,” whispered Clark. “That is, no one man sat and fashioned this statue. The piece that you hold there is one of the Thunderer’s children.”

“The Thunderer? His children?”

“Aye, the god of thunder. He be a part of American Indian mythology. At times the god takes on the form of a bird, sometimes that of a man. But long ago, the Thunderer lost his children…forever…

“Come,” Clark went on to say, “it is a long story, and I am tired. I make only one request, my friend.”

“And that is, sir?”

“Locate the matching set. And once found, they must be returned to the Lost Clan.”

“But how can I do that if the Clan is lost? I have never heard of them before this moment.”

“When that time arrives, you will know what to do. This is what the old Indian told me. You will simply know. Now, tell me the truth, and no lie. Do you promise to do this?”

Rutledge bobbed his head up and down.

“Speak up, my friend,” demanded Clark. “I must hear you say it.”

“I promise I will do all I can, Clark, barring any natural occurrence or disaster.”

“Good, good, please God,” replied Clark on a sigh.

The sudden burst of light into the room, followed by earsplitting explosion of thunder, seemed almost a cliché.

Perhaps the act of nature would have been trite, as well, if it weren’t for the graveness of the occasion and the matter at hand.

At last, however, Clark spoke up and uttered, “Then all is well. Aye, all is well. Now, let me tell you about a time when the people lived closer to the land, and to the gods; a time when the Thunderer used to take on human form. For this is a story of that god and a clan. It is a tale of greed, of war, of murder. But, as they say in native mythology, I go ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning…”

And so the story began, with Clark’s voice droning on and on. Hour upon hour ticked by unnoticed, until at last it was done.

“Now you understand, my friend,” whispered Clark huskily.

“I am passing on to you more than artifact. That piece represents the many lives that are at stake. What you hold ‘tis a sacred trust. For many years I have had to bear this burden alone. But now”—his hand tightened its grip on the younger man’s—“you become a part of it, too.”

And with these final words, Trent Clark left this world.