At the end of that day’s walking, they stopped beside a small stream to make camp. Hawk and Swift Runner lifted his father off the travois and settled him as comfortably as they could. Then Swift Runner gathered wood for a fire while Hawk relieved Rascal of his burdens. Their patient seemed in reasonable condition, all things considered, even to the extent of eating a little of the smoked meat Hawk was carrying. A special treat was the coffee Hawk provided. He had only two cups, so Black Elk and his son shared one.

As they sat by the fire after eating, Black Elk, in spite of his pain and discomfort, was curious about the man called Hawk. “I have heard of you,” he said. “There was talk among the tribes about the white man who lived with Walking Owl’s people many winters ago. He wore the feather of a hawk in his hat, and he came to help the people. It was said that this man’s medicine was very strong, and that the feather he wore was given to him by a great hawk, to be a symbol of his great medicine. And now the hawk has come in my and my son’s hour of need.”

Hawk knew that Black Elk was looking for validation of stories he had heard from others because he believed, as all Indians did, in the mystical powers of the earth’s wild creatures. It was not the first time he had been questioned by both Blackfoot and Crow about stories of the white man with the hawk feather in his hat. This was the first time, however, that he had heard that an actual hawk had plucked one of his wing feathers and given it to him. He didn’t have the heart to tell Black Elk that he usually found a feather lying on the ground, most likely the result of a fight with another bird. And he only stuck it in his hat because his name was Hawk. So he neither denied it or confirmed it, but said, “A man’s medicine may come from many things. Only that man can know from which it comes.” He thought that sounded pretty mystical, and evidently so did Black Elk, for he nodded solemnly and sank back on Hawk’s bedroll.