People of the Fire(12)

He would die with Clear Water's shriek echoing in his mind. He would rise to the Wise One Above, reliving her efforts to stem the rush, waving her robe to frighten the stampeding animals, seeing her danger too late, turning to run.

The image slowed, as if in Spirit Dream. Clear Water's legs seemed to stiffen, reactions sluggish so soon after giving birth. Then the buffalo calf, eyes glazed wide with fear, broke left, passing on Clear Water's far side, bawling its terror.

The huge cow planted a foot, dirt spraying as she spun, twisting at the sound of her calf. Dropping her head, hind quarters lowered, massive back feet planted, muscles rippling down her flanks, she'd pushed off, the long horn tip catching Clear Water in the small of the back.

Helplessly Two Smokes had watched as the enraged cow tossed her head. The horn tip ripped upward, splitting the skin under Clear Water's milk-rich breasts. His eyes met hers for a split second, a communication of terror and disbelief.

Frantic buffalo obscured the rest.

He remembered the sudden impact to his own body, clipped from behind as he turned to run. Then pain . . . and silence . . . and . . .

He recalled the way his vision had shimmered when he came to, a mirage dancing his sight away and out of focus. In the depths of his mind he could hear a baby crying; the pitiful wailing bruised his soul.

Gray mist rose around him, cooling the battering heat of the sun on his back, throbbing about him in time to the pain that touched his nerves like white-burning coals on skin.

How long had he lain there, floating up and down from consciousness? A vague image of night, of shivering and hurting, played briefly about his mind.

Then something had changed. His head had been moved. He knew it despite the lightning bolts of pain that racked him. Perhaps the Power hadn't been dead. He remembered . . .

Two Smokes groaned, trying to find himself in the waves of misery.

"Anit'ah?" He recognized the word. Enemy.

"Anit'ah, can you hear me?"

"I . . ." The croak of his voice scared him.

"Drink. Slow."

Warm fingers parted his cracked lips, working between his teeth to pry his jaws apart. A slight trickle of water traced over his tongue. Desperately he licked at the roof of his mouth. More water, enough to tease his throat, then he was drinking, reveling in the liquid.

He tried to turn over—pain staggered his mind.

"Hold still. Your leg. Very bad. Wait just a minute. Drink more."

This time he recognized the pressure against his lip. Buffalo-gut water bag. He sucked more of the precious fluid into his dying body.

"Now, let me .see your leg."

He felt fingers lifting the hem of his berdache's dress. Fire flashed white as fingers prodded and he cried out. The dress lifted higher and he heard an intake of breath.

"You're a man? In a . . . Ah! Berdache!"

"Got to get back to camp," he whispered. "My fault. Got to save the child. Got . . . to . . ."

"Child is all right. I've got to do something with this leg. It'll hurt."

He screamed as the practiced fingers probed his flesh. The grayness wrapped around him again, dragging him down into darkness . . . away from the pain. .

She'd saved his leg. The old woman had healed him while he waited there at Monster Bone Springs. Later she'd gone, bringing back ranging hunters. They'd carried him here. Now he waited, and suffered, and wished for the high Buffalo Mountains where he'd grown up and found a place among a people who didn't treat him like an animal.

Carefully, Two Smokes lifted the Wolf Bundle, placing it next to his cheek, feeling nothing of the Power it had once held. Singing, he dropped sweetgrass onto the coals of the morning fire, passing the Bundle four times through the cleansing smoke and singing his devotion. With reverent he smoothed the scuffed sides of the Wolf Bundle and expertly wrapped it in the protective wolf skin.

Fingers like ice traced his back. Power had been abused. Who would suffer to restore the circles? Power always proved so unpredictable. Offended, it might strike anywhere.

Anxiously he looked over at the boy.

With subtle tendrils, the Wolf Bundle reached out, twining itself around Heavy Beaver's soul. Like morning mist, it explored the texture of the man's spirit. Like the Starweb across the heavens, it wound around the sleeping man. Imperceptibly, the net began to close, tightening around Heavy Beaver's life.

Wolf Dreamer whispered from the stars. "The time hasn't come yet. He still serves our purpose. ''

“He seeks to drive human beings from the world around them. He would divide the world. If he has his way, men will become more important than earth, sun, animals—even women. "

"The time hasn't come. Our plant has only sent up shoots."

"The boy may not be strong enough. He may be the Trickster." The Wolf Bundle hesitated. "This Heavy Beaver is evil."