Hawk watched her all the while. The evening wore on. People ate, drank. Talked over old times, politics—and Indian policy. Hawk didn't participate in the conversation. Even among the soldiers, there could be disagreement. Add the agency Indians and such conversation could be explosive—if not deadly. At several points during the evening his guests very nearly quarreled. Skylar had a knack for stepping in at the right time. Finally, everyone had gone except for the household, Willow, and Sloan Trelawny. Hawk and his two old friends retired to the downstairs library together, closing the doors on the rest of the world, drinking brandy. It was natural that such close friends should stay with him late that night. But he was more temperate in his consumption of brandy than he might otherwise have been on such an occasion. "It's dying," Sloan was saying, swirling his brandy in its snifter. "The way of the plains. When I try to explain that to friends, they don't understand. But I know that you do, Hawk.
