Chapter 18
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.”