The slug ripped into Hawk's left side, tearing into flesh and muscle, but Hawk kept hold of Lancaster until the lawman's eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.
Realizing what he had done, Hawk released Lancaster and the sheriff fell heavily to the floor. For a moment Hawk did not move. He had killed the sheriff and now they would hang him for sure.
Reaching through the bars, he searched the sheriff's pockets, muttering a prayer of gratitude when he found the key to his cell. Unlocking the door, he stepped outside. Grabbing Lancaster's gun, he hurried out of the jail, unmindful of the blood dripping down his side.
Lancaster's horse was standing hipshot at the hitch rail and Hawk swung into the saddle, grunting with pain. The initial numbness was wearing off now and the wound throbbed steadily.
People were pouring out of the stores located near the jail, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. Ignoring the excited questions of those nearest him, Hawk lashed the horse with the end of the reins. Behind him, someone yelled, "Stop! Stop or I'll shoot!" but Hawk did not slow down or look back.
He rode hard, heading for the hills where he had gone to seek his vision. He pushed the horse to the limits of its endurance, knowing he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the posse that was certain to follow.
Damn! What had he done? Why had he let Lancaster goad him into violence? Now he would be a hunted man for as long as he lived. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go to his father or grandfather for help. The law would expect him to turn to his family for help, and they would be there, waiting for him to show up.
He rode hard until he was about a hundred yards from the hills. There, he slid off the horse and slapped the animal hard on the rump, sending it back to town. His only hope was to cover his trail and lie low for a while. Perhaps, in time, he could make his way to the reservation and hide out. Perhaps he could find a way to get word to Vickie and his parents. Perhaps.
Light-headed and weak from loss of blood, he ripped a strip of material from his shirt and wrapped it around his middle and then, using all the skill his father had taught him long ago, he walked toward the hills, laboriously erasing all sign of his passing as he went along.
Sweat dripped into his eyes and trickled down his back as he began to climb upward. Thorn bushes snagged his clothes and scratched his face and arms. The constant movement sent little stabs of pain shooting along his side, and when he touched the makeshift bandage swathed around his middle, he felt the warm stickiness of blood seeping through the cloth. And still he kept climbing, his teeth gritted against the pain. He had to get away, to hide. No one would believe he hadn't meant to kill Lancaster. No one would understand the deep-seated hatred the lawman had aroused when he talked of bedding Victoria.
White men, Hawk thought bitterly. They had robbed the Indian of his homeland, of his way of life, of his freedom. On the reservation, they tried to turn the Indians into imitation white men. The government insisted the warriors cut their hair and raise cattle. They forced the children to go to school and learn the white man's tongue and the white man's ways. The Cheyenne and the Sioux were forbidden to practice their religion, and the Sun Dance, the most sacred ritual of all, had to be performed in secret, as though it were a thing of shame.
He had lived with whites all his life, and only now did he truly begin to hate them. He thought of Lancaster laying hands on Victoria, and the thought made him physically ill.
He climbed for what seemed like hours before he reached a small cave recessed deep in the side of the hill. Erasing the last of his tracks, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the narrow cavern, praying that it was empty. The cave smelled faintly of animal excrement, but it was an old smell. Crawling toward the back of the cave, Hawk closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness hovering all around him.
10
I threw a worried glance at Shadow as he pulled the team to a halt before the jail. A crowd was gathered outside and everyone was talking rapidly, gesturing toward the end of town. I caught Hawk's name and felt a tremor of fear start in the pit of my stomach. Something had happened to Hawk!
Shadow helped me to the ground and we elbowed our way through the crowd toward the door of the Sheriff's Office. Phil Tompkins, one of Lancaster's deputies, blocked our way.
''What has happened?" Shadow asked.
"That kid of yourn escaped from jail," Tompkins said brusquely. "Nearly killed Bill Lancaster doing it."
"Oh, no," I murmured.
"Where is the sheriff now?" Shadow demanded.
"Inside. The doc's with him."
"I want to talk to him."
"Maybe later."
"Now," Shadow said, and pushed past Tompkins.
I followed Shadow into the sheriff's office. Bill Lancaster was sitting in the black leather chair behind his desk. He looked pale, and his throat was bruised and discolored, but he did not appear to be badly hurt.
"You'll be all right," Dr. Henderson was saying. "Throat'll be sore for a day or two, but no permanent damage has been done."
Closing his bag with a flourish, the doctor tipped his hat in my direction and left the office.
Lancaster glared at Shadow. "Get the hell out of here," he rasped. "I've had all the trouble I want with your family for one day."
"What happened?" Shadow asked.
Lancaster shrugged. "I got too close to that boy of yours and he grabbed me. Nearly strangled me to death."
Shadow took a step toward Lancaster. "Hannah, shut the door."
Wordlessly I did as I had been told.
Lancaster glanced at the closed door, and then at Shadow. "Now wait a minute"
"I want to know what happened," Shadow said. He took his knife from his belt and studied the blade. "Everything that happened."
Lancaster shrugged. "I took the kid his breakfast and he went crazy."
"What did you say to him?"
"Nothing. I didn't say nothing." Lancaster's words came out in a rush.
Shadow closed the distance between himself and the sheriff until they were only a foot apart. Shadow ran the edge of the blade over his thumb. The knife was razor sharp and a thin line of red trailed in the wake of the blade.
Lancaster swallowed hard as he glanced from the blood on Shadow's thumb to the menace lurking in Shadow's eyes.
"What did you say to him?" Shadow asked again.
"I . . ." Bill Lancaster looked at me, his eyes pleading for help. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his brow and along his upper lip.
"I would answer my husband's question if I were you," I told the sheriff coldly. "He can be very impatient sometimes."
Lancaster swore softly. Then, his eyes fixed on the floor, he said, "I was giving the boy a bad time, I guess. I . . . I was kidding him about the hanging, about how he'd die kicking at the end of a rope."
Kicking at the end of a rope. The years fell away and I could hear Corporal Hopkins taunting Shadow as we rode toward Fort Apache. "Best get used to that rope, redskin, he had called, tugging on the noose around Shadow's neck, "cause you're gonna swing high and dry when we reach the fort. Yessir, I seen lots of Injuns dancing at the end of a rope. Ain't a purty sight, no sir. Sometimes a man's neck don't break just right, and he strangles kinda slow like, eyes bulgin' and feet kickin'. That's how you'll go, Injun, if I get to tie the knot."
I shuddered at the memory. Lately my dreams had been haunted by nightmares of Hawk climbing the stairs to the gallows, his head high, his black eyes blazing defiantly. In my dreams I saw the heavy rope circle his neck, saw the knot drawn tight under his ear. I would wake, sobbing, as the trapdoor yawned open at his feet.
Shadow's hand tightened around the hilt of the knife in his hand, his knuckles going white with the strain. "You bastard," he hissed. "What else did you say to him?"
"I . . ." Lancaster coughed nervously. I had seen braver men than the sheriff cower before the awful fury in Shadow's eyes and I could not blame the lawman for being afraid.
; "Go on," Shadow demanded.
"I mentioned his wife, how pretty she was. I said . . . I said maybe I'd court her after . . ."
A low growl erupted from Shadow's throat as he drove the point of his knife into the top of Lancaster's desk, then grabbed Lancaster by the shirt front and hauled him to his feet.
I had not seen my husband in a killing rage for many years, but I knew that Sheriff Bill Lancaster was as close to death as he had ever been.
"You sonofabitch," Shadow growled, his voice low and taut with menace. "I am surprised Hawk did not break your neck."
Lancaster's face was gray, his eyes white with terror.
"I want your promise," Shadow said.
Lancaster nodded, fear strangling his voice so he could not speak. I knew that at that moment the sheriff would have readily promised Shadow anything he desired.
"I am going out to find my son," Shadow said quietly. "I am going to bring him back here to stand trial for the murder of Lyman Carter. You will not press charges against Hawk for attacking you. You will not speak to him again, nor will you send a posse after him. I will find Hawk myself."
"You got till ten tomorrow morning," Lancaster agreed reluctantly, and Shadow released him. The sheriff dropped back into his chair. Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, he mopped the sweat from his face and neck.
"Shadow, how will you find him?" I asked.
"I think I know where to look."
"This is going to look bad when he goes to trial," I said, frowning. "People will say he ran because he's guilty."
"If he does not come back to stand trial, he will have to run for the rest of his life."
Shadow was right, and I knew it. Yet I was certain that Hawk would never get a fair trial now, not here.
Shadow swore softly, and I looked at him askance.
"Look," he said, pointing at the floor near the door to the cellblock.
It was blood. I glanced at Lancaster, but he was not bleeding.
"Tell me," Shadow said, his eyes riveted on the lawman's face.
"He's hurt," the sheriff admitted reluctantly. "I don't know how bad. I think I may have shot him just before I passed out."
"If my son is dead, you are dead," Shadow said flatly. "Hannah, go home."
"Be careful," I said.
Shadow nodded. He gave me a quick kiss, and then he was gone.
When I left the sheriff's office, there was still a crowd gathered outside. An angry crowd. Several men stood near Deputy Tompkins.
"We should get a posse together," one of the men said in a loud voice. "If Lancaster hasn't got the balls for it, I do!"
"Damn redskins," growled another. "I knew you couldn't trust 'em."
Their voices died away as I walked down the steps and climbed into our buggy. A few of the people in the crowd had the decency to look embarrassed.
Fred Brown, a longtime resident of Bear Valley and an old friend, came to stand beside the buggy.
"We're with you," he said loudly enough for all to hear. "If you need anything, come and see us."
"That goes for my family, too," Leland Smythe added, coming to stand beside Fred Brown. "We're family now, and we're behind you all the way."
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you both."
Holding my head high, I clucked to the team and drove out of town. Only then did I let the tears flow. Hawk was hurt, perhaps badly hurt, and I was unable to help. Only Shadow could help our son now. Closing my eyes, I offered a quick prayer to all the gods, both red and white, begging them to watch over my son and bring him safely home.
I stopped at Hawk's place on the way home. Blackie came running out to meet me.
"It's a colt!" he cried, throwing his arms around my waist. "Black as midnight, nahkoa. Wait until you see him."
"I'm sure he's beautiful," I replied, trying to smile. "And I'll be down to see him in a few minutes, but first I have to see Vickie."
Blackie nodded. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and then ran off toward the pasture where the mares were kept.
Heavy-hearted, I knocked on the front door, dreading what must be said.
Lydia opened the door. She smiled at me as she invited me in. "Victoria's in bed," Lydia remarked, "but she's awake. I know she'll be glad to see you."
Victoria took the news of Hawk's escape better than I had expected. She cried, of course, when she heard he had been shot, and I could have wept again myself. First Hawk had been arrested for defending her, then she had lost her unborn child, and now this.
"Your father warned you not to marry him," Lydia murmured from the doorway.
Victoria turned angry eyes on her mother. "Don't you dare say a word against Hawk!" she warned. "Not a word! If you do, I'll never speak to you again."
"I'm sorry," Lydia said quickly. "Forgive me."
Victoria nodded, and Lydia left the room.
"What will happen now?" Vickie asked.
"Shadow has gone to find Hawk," I said, smiling reassuringly. "He'll find him if anyone can."
11
Shadow rode straight for the hills, certain that Hawk would seek shelter in one of the caves scattered across the hillside. Outside of town he crossed a single set of horse's tracks heading toward the hills. The horse had clearly been moving fast, and Shadow suspected the tracks belonged to his son.
It was late afternoon when he reached the hills. Dismounting, he checked the ground for a sign and discovered the tracks of a horse heading back to Bear Valley. The tracks were not as deep as they had been earlier, indicating that the horse was now riderless.
Leading his rented mount, Shadow began to climb the hill, his eyes darting from side to side as he continued to search for signs. He smiled faintly when he found none. Hawk had learned his lessons well.
Shadow continued to climb upward, oblivious of the spiked thorns that caught in his clothing and bloodied his arms. He had explored these hills often as a boy. It had been a favorite place of his, a haven when he wanted to be alone. Hawk had come here to seek his vision. Instinctively Shadow knew that Hawk had come here to hide.
There were several caves cut into the hillside. He checked inside three of them before he found Hawk. The cave his son had chosen was near the crest of the hill. It was a good hiding place, small and well-camouflaged by a tangled mass of catclaw. Few white men would have noticed it.
The snick of a Colt being cocked sounded loud in the stillness as Shadow stepped into the cavern.
"Do not shoot, naha," Shadow said quietly.
"Neyho." Hawk's voice was weak but filled with relief as he heard his father's voice.
Striking a match, Shadow lit the candle he had brought with him and walked toward the rear of the cave. Hawk was huddled against the wall. The cloth swathed around his middle was caked with blood, his face was pale and damp with sweat.
"I did not mean to kill him," Hawk blurted. "It was an accident."
"He is not dead," Shadow said, kneeling beside his son. "Do not talk now. I have brought food and water and medicine. When you are stronger, we will go back to town."
"No! I will never go back."
"You are a man and a warrior," Shadow remarked calmly. "I will not force you to return, but it is a thing you must do if you ever hope to live a decent life with Victoria and your sons. If you run now, they will hunt you down like a dog."
"Neyho"
"You must trust me, Hawk. You must go back and stand trial."
"I can't," Hawk cried. "Lancaster will make certain they hang me now."
"Lancaster will do nothing."
Hawk studied his father's face, and then he smiled faintly. He did not know what had happened between the lawman and his father, but he could guess.
"You will not let them hang me?"
"No."
"You have always known what was best," Hawk admitted with a sigh. "I will do as you say."
Shadow nodded as he placed the candle on the ground. "Let me have a look at your side."
Cold sweat broke out acros
s Hawk's brow as Shadow removed the bandage and probed the wound.
"The bullet is still inside," Shadow said. "It will have to come out."
Hawk nodded weakly. "You cut a bullet from my flesh once before, neyho. Do you remember?"
"I remember. You were just a boy then, but as brave as any warrior of the People."
"It was a bad day," Hawk rasped.
Shadow nodded. Pulling his knife from his belt, he disinfected it with carbolic he had gotten from the doctor. "Ready?"
"Ready." Hawk closed his eyes, his mind seeking escape in the past as he remembered the other time his father had cut a bullet from his flesh. He had been a boy of twelve then. He had run away from home and gone to the Pine Ridge Reservation to see Sitting Bull, and to learn more of the new Ghost Dance religion that was spreading like wildfire among the Indians. The whites had been afraid of the new religion, fearing it meant the Indians were preparing to return to the warpath. Frightened and uneasy, the Indian agent, McLaughlin, had decided to arrest Sitting Bull and put an end to the dancing. But Sitting Bull had resisted arrest and there had been a battle. Hawk had been wounded. Sitting Bull and fourteen others were killed.
Hawk felt the sweat break out on his body as his father probed his side for the slug, and he clenched his teeth against the pain, not wanting to cry out, not wanting to show weakness before his father, the bravest of all the men he had ever known.
''Do not be afraid to give voice to the pain," Shadow said softly. "There is no one to hear you but me, and I will not think less of you for it."
Stubbornly, Hawk shook his head. He was a warrior of the People. A warrior did not show pain.
Pride swelled in Shadow's heart as Hawk fought to control his pain. Truly his son was worthy of the name warrior.
In minutes, Shadow had dislodged the slug from Hawk's side. He poured a generous amount of disinfectant into the angry wound before wrapping it lightly in a strip of clean cloth. He gave Hawk a powder the doctor had prescribed for fever, then started a small fire. Returning to his horse, he retrieved a coffee pot and the provisions he had purchased before leaving town and prepared a light meal.
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