People of the Fire(116)

Only Two Smokes saw the tear that slipped down her cheek.

Little Dancer shivered in the hollow left by a deadfall. Overhead, its twisted roots thrust gray skeleton fingers up into the stormy sky. Clutched in its grip, rocks, dirt, and a mass of debris created a slight shelter from the ceaseless dance of falling snow.

He blinked, tucking his arms tighter about his middle. A pain ate at the side of his head. Stupid, foolish ... of all the idiot stunts he'd ever pulled, he knew better than to travel in a storm like this. His first action should have been to turn around and race back to White Calf's. His second should have been to make a shelter, stock wood, and wait it out.

But he hadn't. Images of Elk Charm's face had led him on. Thoughts of her body hot against his had spurred him into the storm, leading him to follow a path he'd traveled only twice before. For a while, he'd fooled himself into thinking this might be just another spring storm—wet, wild, and quick to dump its load of snow and hurry on across the plains to the east. Instead, this one had clung over the mountains like a patient bobcat over a cornered rabbit.

At that thought, he shivered even harder.

Then he'd climbed to the ridge top, figuring to find better footing where the wind had blown the snow away. The cornice had fooled him. He'd stepped where nothing but snow supported his weight. He remembered the lurch in his stomach, the flailing of arms, and falling. . . .

How long had he lain unconscious in the snow? He'd been lucky to come to at all. He'd blinked, feeling the frostbite eating into his fingers and face. A glazing pain hammered at his brain, a stiffly clotted cut burned and stung on his cheek where the blood had leaked into the snow and frozen.

His darts were gone, as was his pack. Now, only hope remained for him. Hope that a miracle would occur, that the storm would break, that a blistering chinook would replace the heat of life that had evaporated from his icy flesh.

He groaned as he looked out from under the roots, staring up at the forbidding sky. The endless fall of giant flakes continued to spin out of the murky clouds. Endless, dancing with the air, the fluffy white tufts of snow whirled down to pat with a soft whisper to the ground.

"Got to ... to move. Make heat."

He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, and staggered to his feet. A nagging ache reminded him that he'd fallen hard on that leg. It didn't seem broken, but his thigh had swollen to stretch his hunting pants. He almost collapsed as he realized the feeling had gone from his feet.

Uncontrollable shivering possessed him as he stumbled along, arms clutched to his chest. He had to generate heat through movement, no matter that his leg shot agony through him with each step. How long ago had it been since he'd eaten anything besides snow? How long until his body exhausted itself and could no longer produce heat?

Blinking stupidly, he crashed through the snow-sodden branches of a fir and cried out at the icy dusting he got as the snow load emptied on him. Batting at himself with hands like clubs, he staggered on, weaving on his feet.

The world pitched and slapped him facefirst into the snow. On trembling limbs, he got to hands and knees, cold clamping his soul like a bear's jaws on elk bone.

His vision shimmered as if he looked through a veil of silver tears.

Where am I? Where am I going? Why am I out here? Where's home? I'm . . . lost . . . lost . . . Elk Charm? A sobbing cry stuck in his throat as fingers of ice water melted from the snow packed in his hood and trickled down his back.

Dumbly, he fought his way to his feet, kicked his way forward for another three paces, and pitched on his face again.

Even the heartbeat seemed sluggish in his chest as he forced himself to keep going despite the pain and weariness.

A warm feeling began to replace the numbness in his feet and hands—delightful warmth—and he'd become so tired. If only he could lie down for a moment . . . sleep ... for just a moment. . . .

Firelight cast red-orange shadows on the irregular rock of the shelter.

Elk Charm gasped, bolting upright in her bed.

"What is it?" Two Smokes asked from where he sat tending the fire over the pit full of sweet-smelling biscuit root.

Elk Charm struggled to get her breath, a panic on her pretty face. "I . . ." She buried her head in her hands.

Two Smokes stood, carefully maneuvering on his maimed leg so as not to disturb the sleepers. He settled himself on her bed, placing an arm about her shoulders as she sobbed softly to herself.

"Shhh. Here. Come on, now. This is old Two Smokes. Tell me what's wrong. A dream?"

She sniffed and wiped at the tears flooding her eyes, nodding her head. She refused to look at him, suffering on her own.

"Hush, now. You're safe, you're here, and warm, and surrounded by people who love you. What was it? What was this terrible dream?"