She found a guide to help her find her way in the smoke. If this is the fireplace, then Papa's chair is only a few feet away. She grabbed the poker and stabbed the air, and after a few attempts, she hit something solid.
Reaching out, she touched the soft leather of her father's chair, a landmark to the route of her escape. She crawled from landmark to landmark. The farther Belle moved from the fire, the thinner the smoke became, making her path to the door clear. When she reached the kitchen, she stood and stumbled her way to the door and flung it open. Clean air hit her face. Belle removed the protective cloth and drew in a breath but dropped to her knees in a coughing fit. The coughing subsided and she pulled herself to her feet. She stumbled along on flimsy legs until she reached the old oak tree on the hill behind the house. She crumpled to her knees at the sight of her blazing home. Belle buried her face in her hands and wept. When she could weep no more, she raised her head, and gazing down at the palms of her hands, she saw traces of her parents' blood mingled with the dampness of her own tears. She turned her eyes up at the flames consuming her home and her parents.
The searing pain of grief ripped through her, burying deep within her being all the qualities that defined Belle. A coldness grew inside of her as the flames reflected in her eyes. At that moment, Belle died with her parents, and only Fury remained.
Chapter 2
Hank Black Hawk woke with a feeling of dread. He credited his Indian blood for his sense of premonition. Ain't nothin' gonna happen; you're just feeling old today.
He studied his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt. The majority of his shoulder length hair shone coal black, invaded by only a few streaks of grey. He joked, claiming the grey to be premature, inherited from his white mother. Although, her hair was a glorious shade of pearl, while his was gunmetal grey. Hank tried to ignore the concern he recognized in his own dark eyes, but from the center of his being, he sensed a calamity approaching.
"Good morning," he said to his wife Little Dove when he came into the kitchen.
"Good morning, old man," she teased," sit down. Your breakfast is almost ready."
"All right, old woman," he retaliated and kissed her cheek, knowing full well Little Dove's age never overshadowed her beauty. Not a hint of grey could be seen in her silky black hair which hung loose, draping to her small waist. Her soft sable eyes were what first drew Hank to her. Like her husband, she was labeled a "half-breed". Not fully accepted in the Indian or white man's world, they became each other's world.
He pulled out a chair but stopped short of sitting when he heard a weak rapping at the door.
"Who could that be this early in the morning?" asked his wife
"I don't know. You stay back," he ordered as he reached for the rifle hanging over the fireplace.
He raised his rifle so he could see the sights and then slowly reached and swung the door open.
Black Hawk dropped his rifle at the sight of Belle leaning on the door frame. "Belle!" he reached out and caught her before she fell to the floor.
Her hair, which only last night had decorated her head like a crown, now hung in a disheveled mess. Scratches and soot covered her beautiful face. Her dirty, tattered dress, scorched by the fire that had consumed her home and smeared with her parents' blood, no longer resembled the beautiful gown sown by her mother.
"Belle!" he shouted, seeing her on the verge of fainting. "What happened? Where are your parents?"
"Dead. They killed both of them," her weak voice whispered. "They killed them and burned the house."
Hank's heart panicked, his thinking muddled refusing to believe what he heard.
"Hank, lay her on the bed in the boy's old room," said Little Dove, her voice bringing him back to reality.
Hank lifted Belle, cradling her in his arms as he carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. Little Dove began examining her for injuries.
"I've gotta go and see what happened." Hank's strong voice trembled.
"Hank, get the doctor and the sheriff."
Little Dove's words broke through the haze in Belle's mind.
"No, please…no doctor, no sheriff."
"Why do you not want the doctor or the sheriff?" Little Dove queried.
"No, no, no…please!" Belle thrashed in the bed.
"Calm down, honey," Hank tried to comfort her."
Little Dove rose to her feet.
"Hank, we must get help."
"Yes," said Hank, "but first, I'm going to see what happened, and then I'll go to the sheriff. I won't tell him Belle is here. I want to talk to her first. Do you believe you can treat her injures?"
Little Dove came from a family of medicine women and possessed a great knowledge of healing. "Yes, I do not see any serious injuries, but I don't know how much smoke she breathed. I will give her herbs to strengthen and cleanse her lungs, but, Hank, I may be able to heal her body, but I cannot heal her mind."
"I know," he answered. "I need to go and check the Alston home. Take care of her."
Hank picked up his rifle and headed to his best friend's home.
Hank had served as John Alston's deputy when John was the sheriff. John ignored the protest from some of the citizens concerning hiring an Indian and stood by his choice. Hank served the people of Faulkner with bravery, often risking his life for the townspeople, gaining their respect and loyalty. An unfortunate injury kept him from becoming sheriff when John became a lawyer. Hank caught a bullet in the leg while he was trying to apprehend a bank robber.
The injury left him with a limp and the inability to sit a horse for long periods of time, but today he ignored the searing pain and blazed his way through the woods. He smelled smoke before he spotted the small, black clouds rising from the direction of the Alston home.
Anguish racked his body, plunging to his soul, when he saw the smoldering remains of his friend's home. Hank drowned his feelings; he needed to check for survivors.
Everything in him wanted to rush to the house and look for his friends, but his years as a lawman taught him prudence. The murderers may have returned, so he waited and watched.
When he felt certain that no one else was present, he crept closer to the house.
The heat from the smoldering remains grew in intensity as he approached. His heart pummeled his chest. Hank was not afraid of many things, but the thought of losing someone he cared for frightened him more than anything nature could throw at him, be it a grizzly bear or a man.
He entered the burnt home and took slow steps as he watched for falling timbers. His boots offered little protection from the scorching heat rising beneath them, and air tainted by smoke burned the back of his throat. He placed his bandana over his mouth and nose, ignored the pain from his leg, and continued his search.
"John! Martha!" He knew he called their names in vain, but hope struggled to remain in his heart.
A few
