He rode for what he estimated to be about a quarter of a mile before he could see the reason for the buzzards. He pulled Rascal up short of a clearing on the riverbank and stared at what he guessed to be the charred remains of a house or store. A barn with a corral stood unscathed off to the side of the burned remnants that Hawk decided had been a trading post. He nudged Rascal forward and rode on down into the yard. The story required little thought to determine what had happened here when he saw the buzzards plucking away at the two scorched, half-burned bodies lying among the fallen roof beams. If there had been any doubt before, after the brutal massacre of the Quakers, this new evidence was proof enough that the men he trailed were without the first trace of human compassion. And there was no question who was responsible for this evil act of violence, for the hoofprints left by the little mule were there plain to see at the hitching post, even after this amount of time.

Judging by the burned timbers, it would seem that he was not that far behind Booth and his gang, which didn’t make sense, since they were more than a few days ahead of him. It could only mean they had stayed overnight at the trading post, possibly two nights. Everything was now a guess on Hawk’s part, so he spent no more than a short time at the burned-out store. He chased the buzzards away from the two charred bodies, but there was little left to worry about burying, so he backed away and let the raucous birds return to clean up the remains of their feast. With ever increasing determination to bring Booth and his gang to face their vicious crimes, he returned to the river trail.

Back on the road, he rode for another twenty-five miles or so before spotting a small gathering of buildings up ahead. He followed the trail into the settlement, which consisted of a general store, a stable, a blacksmith, and a tent with a crude sign that claimed it to be a saloon. He directed Rascal toward the general store, dismounted, and looped the buckskin’s reins around the hitching post. He was met with a genuine look of surprise by the owner when he walked inside. “Well, howdy, stranger,” Franklin Pierce exclaimed, as he looked the tall, broad-shouldered man up and down. “What brings you to Choteau?”

“Where’d you say this was?” Hawk asked, not sure he had heard him correctly.

“Well, we call it Choteau,” Pierce answered. “It ain’t really got an official name, I reckon. What I was told, they called it that ’cause some Frenchman named Pierre Chouteau had a camp here. What can I do for you?”