Page 3 of Red Hawk's Woman

“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.

Chapter

One

An archaeological dig along the Missouri River

Wolf Creek, Montana Territory

Spring, 1850

Eyes wide open, eight-year-old Effie Wendelyn Rutledge quietly flipped over in her makeshift bed, her attention centered on the two adults who were crowded close together. Their voices were hushed as they spoke, quite difficult to hear because of the fire that crackled merrily outside their tent. It caused Effie to concentrate all the harder. Holding her breath, she pulled the covers over her head, remaining as silent as possible. In truth, she feared if she uttered a sound—any sound—she would miss something vital.

On the far side of the tent, Effie’s mother, Alice Rutledge, and her dearest friend, Wilma Owens, reposed in a corner. As Effie peeped out from beneath her covers, she saw that the two women appeared to be dozing, unaware of what was being said.

Beside Effie lay Lesley Owens, a girl four years her senior. Lesley was also asleep, and this fact was odd, since it had been Lesley’s idea to stay up and listen to the adults.

Outside, in the distance, a coyote howled, an owl hooted and the incessant wind wailed through camp, adding more distraction to Effie’s quest in eavesdropping. The wind was another oddity out here, for it never ceased, and the sounds of its gusts reminded her of a person, as though the air itself were alive and conversing in a language all its own.

On that thought, Effie sighed and stared at the darkness beneath the covers. The shadowy vision that met her matched the mood of the night, for the blackness outside their tent lent an atmosphere of foreboding. Perhaps it was because there was no moon.

Though many children might fear the murky aura of evening, not so Effie. This was her family, this her life, and she considered herself as much a student of archaeology as anyone twice her age. Vaguely—if she tried really hard—she could hear her father’s soft voice. She concentrated…

“It happened,” her father, Walter Rutledge, said, “so long ago and is so completely mysterious that no one knows if the legend of the Lost Clan is fact or fable.”

“Yet, you must believe it to be true, Rutledge,” replied John Owens, Effie’s father’s best friend, colleague and Lesley’s father. “Otherwise, we would not be here now.”

“Aye,” agreed Effie’s father. “That I do. As I have already said, a figurine was given to Trent Clark, whom we know was a highly skilled conservator. It was he who restored the piece to its original luster before his untimely death⁠—”

“Only a few years previous, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Rutledge. “That it was.” Walter Rutledge became silent for so long that Effie feared her father might not continue. But in due course, he began again. “Clark not only entrusted the piece to my care, he gave me reason to believe the legend might be true. In particular there was an old Indian whom Clark had interviewed—a man who had lived to see an entire group of people restored to flesh and blood. According to Clark, that old Indian had witnessed a people appear out of a heavy mist.”

“Humph!” said Owens. “Have a care, my friend, where you place your trust, and perhaps your credibility. If you seek my opinion, I believe you are speaking of things too fantastic to be accepted. Legends are good for telling on a dark night such as this, but to put one’s faith in them…”