They got an early start the following morning, delaying breakfast until it was time to rest the horses. The Crow agency was in the opposite direction from where Hawk had been going, but it was only a ride of about thirty-five miles, not even a full day’s travel. So it wasn’t really much out of his way, especially since he was in no particular hurry to reach Fort Ellis. To the contrary, since he had been fired, he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of being free of the discipline of an army patrol. With Winter Flower perched on the back of a yellow dun gelding, formerly the ride of the late Bud Jenkins, they left the Yellowstone and started out to the southeast to strike the Stillwater River and Winter Flower’s home. Following a game trail Hawk had traveled before, they made their way across an expanse of rolling hills, devoid of trees, except along the occasional streams they came upon. One such stream, a little healthier-looking than most, was selected as the stop for breakfast, although they had ridden no more than about fifteen or sixteen miles. It would leave them only about twenty miles to the Crow agency. It would still be early when they arrived at Winter Flower’s village. After he took care of the horses, he sat down by the fire Winter Flower had made and watched her as she fashioned a spit for the meat out of a green cottonwood branch. When the coffee was made, she filled his cup for him.

She had said nothing about her sister to that point, so he thought it time to ask. “How old is your sister?”

“Morning Sky has seen ten summers,” she replied.

“How far were you and Mornin’ Sky from your village when those two men took you?” He had some concern that her sister might have lost her way, if the distance was great, and he could possibly find himself searching for her.

“It was not far,” she answered, “not even a half a day’s walk. I’m sure she got home all right.” She smiled at him, aware of his concern. Feeling safe now that the nightmare of her abduction was past, she sought to learn more about the man who had saved her. “They call you Hawk. Is it because you wear that feather in your hatband?”

“No,” he answered. “Hawk is my name—John Hawk. So, I reckon it’s more the other way around. I wear the feather because that’s my name.” She looked puzzled, so he said, “It’s not so unusual, is it? I mean, the men of your tribe wear feathers in their hair, right?”

“Yes, but you are a white man, and white men don’t wear feathers,” she insisted.