Page 1 of Red Hawk's Woman

Prologue

New York, 1848

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.”