Three Toes hopped lightly to his feet, whirling a sheep hide around his shoulders and pulling a fox hood over his head. "Nothing! You two hunters coming on the chase? Or are you demented enough to sit around here with this bunch of sage hens?"
“Ah, the sacrifices we make in the name of family tranquillity!" Hungry Bull slapped Black Crow on the shoulder and ducked out into the storm.
Two Smokes chuckled from his place in the back where he stitched his incomparably tanned leather into a new pair of moccasins. No one, not even the best, could compete with Two Smokes' work.
Rattling Hooves kicked at a high-piled bundle of bedding. "Hey! Girl of mine. Wake up!"
The furs rose and shifted, Elk Charm's sleepy face poking out from under the mass. "Huh?"
“We just sent the men out for wood. Since they're bringing a bunch back, we might want to take some of that biscuit root we dug the day this storm started and turn it into something roastable. You know, make a deep pit fire and cook it good."
Elk Charm yawned, rubbing at her eyes. "Still snowing?"
"Like you haven't seen for all your years."
“Little Dancer didn't come back?"
"Now," her mother replied gently, "you wouldn't want him traveling in weather like this. Think about the footing, how you can't judge the surface. Walking in this, a chance misstep could leave him . . . And there's ice and thinly crusted snow that would . . . Well, you'd want him safe, that's all, daughter." Rattling Hooves lowered her eyes, looking away as she fumbled with the hem of her skirt.
"He'll be staying with White Calf through this," Makes Fun decided firmly. "She wouldn't send him out into a mess like this. White Calf's just that way. She knows. A woman doesn't get that old without knowing a few things at least."
“She has a way with weather," Two Smokes agreed. He laid aside his moccasins and picked through his collection of grasses as if he'd just had a thought. He lifted one after another to inspect them against the weak light. The puzzled look didn't leave his weather-beaten face.
Elk Charm pulled her mussed hair back, fishing a long-toothed comb crafted from a deer scapula from her pack. Picking at the snarls, she worked her hair into long shining lengths before braiding it. Rolling and stowing the bedding, she stepped out into the weather, following the trail down into the willows to relieve herself.
Watching her go, Rattling Hooves pressed at her forehead with a knotted fist. "By First Man, I hope he comes back. She's too young to go through what I did." Her face lined. "I had her . . . and Wet Rain. But she's so young."
Meadowlark placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "What will be, will be." She shook her head. "I don't know. After what Little Dancer's been through, well, I don't think the spirits would abandon him now.''
"Chokecherry always said he was going to do great things," Makes Fun reminded. "I'll put my trust in Choke-cherry."
"I've known him the longest." Two Smokes sighed. "Myself, I don't think Power will abandon him. I don't know what it will make of my Little Dancer, but I don't think he's come this far just to be left beside the trail." He smiled and winked at Rattling Hooves. "But then, you know about berdache. We feel things."
The children giggled and squealed where they rolled and wrestled in the robes. "Hey, you little ferrets, settle down. People live here, not a pack of otters." Makes Fun slapped at the pile with a grass flail.
"Power?" Rattling Hooves shook her head. "Why does the very thought of it still make me nervous?"
"Because you've been around us too long ..." Meadowlark said in half jest, "and we were around Heavy Beaver too long before that!"
"Wait and see." Two Smokes replaced his grass in the leather holder. "When people deal with the long terms of Power, all they can do is wait. Power picks its own time and place. It does what it does when it thinks the time is right."
"That's reassuring," Rattling Hooves grunted dryly. "She's my daughter."
Two Smokes said no more, dropping his eyes and lacing his fingers across his sagging belly as he thought about his grasses.
The flaps parted and Elk Charm stepped through, head already matted with snow. Without a word she went to the parfleche that stored the freshly dug roots. She had to step over squirming children to reach for the grinding stone. She scrubbed the dirt from the root skins one by one with a handful of stiff grass. Then she used the mano to smash the thick roots before milling them. The mano sounded hollowly in the room, rasping, knocking, and rasping again.
As she worked, the muscles in Elk Charm's forearms leapt and tensed under her smooth skin, a reflection of the turmoil in her mind. She attacked the woody roots, grinding the fibers against the stone as if, by the very action, she could exact some measure of vengeance on the world that frustrated her so.