People of the Fire(11)

Had the Spirit World heard? After all his years of mocking, had anything happened? He heard and felt the spatter of blood on his moccasin top. Looking down, he stared dumbly at his throbbing finger.

Had anything happened? Or was it only in his mind?

Search as he might, he couldn't find the severed tip of his finger.

Pain . . . pain . . . pain . . .

Two Smokes hadn't felt so wretched and hurt since that day so long ago. Eight long summers had passed since he and Clear Water had fled Blood Bear and the Red Hand People. Now his soul shriveled as if burned in fire.

Across the lodge, Little Dancer slept, the muffled sounds coming from his lips echoing tortured dreams. Yes, he knew. Born under the Wolf Bundle, Little Dancer understood the horror of what had happened. His mother's Power lived strong in him, almost a throbbing presence that constantly sought relief.

"And I made a promise on the Wolf Bundle," Two Smokes whispered.

In his hands, he stroked the holy bundle, wounded by the damage done to the sacred object in his care, frightened at the future retribution he knew lurked just over the horizon. He could feel it, powerful, heavy in the air like the coming of a storm.

His responsibility. He blinked wearily, remembering Dancing Doe as she dashed her child onto the rocky terrace top. A child saved, a child taken. Would that be all? Would the defiled Wolf Bundle ask something more? Some other terrible retribution for his failure?

Last time, it had been his leg—and Clear Water's life-claimed in payment for his incompetence.

He went back to that day eight summers ago, reliving the pain. . . .

Just a berdache and a Spirit Woman, they had no business trying to work a trap like that. Experienced hunters could read the bison, understand their ways. Clear Water had located the small herd. His idea had been to hem the beasts between the banks of the arroyo above where they fed.

The drive had been easy, like in the stories told by hunters. They'd pushed the animals gently, the buffalo always drifting beyond dart range until the walls of the valley rose around them.

Clear Water had looked across, excited eyes flashing, seeing the buffalo milling before the mouth of the arroyo. "Now!" she'd cried. "Rush them! Frighten them!"

And he'd charged the big beasts, afraid of the lances of sunlight glinting off their long black horns. Looking placid, almost stupid, they bawled and wheeled, those crowded against the wall of earth goring angrily at their neighbors. Flies had risen from the curls of rust hair to spiral in the swirling dust.

The lead cow had turned to face him, head lowered, and he'd jumped to the side in fear. Seeing him give way, the cow whirled with blinding speed, bolting for the hole to freedom.

He opened his eyes, looking miserably over at Little Dancer. From the soiled Wolf Bundle on his lap, his hand lifted, as if to reach for the boy.

His inexperience had killed the only woman he'd ever loved.

Two Smokes remembered lying there in soul-searing pain. He'd tried to swallow, his tongue swollen and dry. He shut his eyes tight against the burning agony in his leg. Despite his thirst, sweat beaded to trickle hot and salty down his face. Whimpering at the attempt, he'd tried to move again, digging his trembling fingers into the gray silt of the arroyo bottom. The effort sent burning spears through his mangled leg. The cry tore from his throat like a thing alive and he collapsed limp on the arid soil, lungs heaving as he gasped. The rich smell of the earth clung musty and rich in his nostrils. Crumbly ground cushioned his sweat-damp cheek.

The infant. Got to get back to the infant!

Against the gritty feeling, Two Smokes stared at the assorted gravels in the main channel—beaten and pocked now from the milling feet of mad buffalo.

"My fault," he groaned. "What did I know about trapping buffalo?" And without me, the child will die . . . alone . . . hungry. Maybe a coyote will come first, poking its long nose down into the bundle, baring teeth to . . .No, don't think it. I'll make it back. I've got to. I’m all he has.

“ . . . All he has." He hadn't been able to bear the thought of looking for Clear Water's body. Enough horror would remain without that. Teeth clamped hard, he'd braced himself, pulled with his arms, and almost vomited as he levered himself forward, the mangled leg dragging behind.

Head spinning, lungs heaving, he sucked air to still his racing heart.

“My fault."

In his mind he replayed the final moments—that last desperate instant when the buffalo charged over them, eyes rolling, silver streaks of saliva slung from the corners of their mouths. He felt rather than heard the thick hooves clawing, pounding for traction. Sunlight gleamed from clattering black horns as clearly as it had that long-ago day. He could smell the dust swilling up around their curly haired brown hides.