Through it all, only the wind seemed eternal, blowing, grating on the souls of human and beasts as it lifted silts and sands, driving the grit with a force to fill every crack and crevice. The hollows behind hills puffed underfoot, while the windward side consisted of deflated rock denuded of grass, dotted here and there by a sandblasted skeleton of sagebrush. When rain fell on the exposed rock, it could only run away to the sheer-walled drainages, carrying more of the dying soil with it on the long march to the sea. The rivers ran so turbid even the wiry antelope hesitated to drink.
On the plains, buffeted by the wind, continually grimy from the blowing silt, the People cast tired gazes to the heavens, following the cycles of day from bloodred sunrise to flaming sunset. Weary eyes forever searched the western horizon for storm clouds that never came. When the People ate, blown sand grated in their teeth. When the young men returned from the hunt—usually with empty hands—the faces of the People turned to their Spirit Dreamer.
Heavy Beaver stepped out behind where his camp lay sheltered in the lee of a sage-studded bluff. He'd chosen this place just up from the brown waters of the Moon River. As he stood, arms crossed, the sun lowered in the west. This day, the gaping red eye of light—a macabre wound—bled through the dust-heavy air. It settled on a specific rocky tor high in the Buffalo Mountains. Even from where he looked to the west, Heavy Beaver could see the retreating snow line on the high peaks. As usual—no matter what the drought in the plains— the mountains had snow. Where snow melted, the plants grew green and the buffalo grew fat.
"This year," he promised. "This year we come, Anit'ah. With all our young men, we're taking your mountains. I'm the new way. You can't stand before my mother's vision. I'm the new Dreamer for all men. I'm the cleanser of pollution."
The time had come; he had no choice. If he and his frustrated warriors didn't take the Anit'ah lands, the People would starve. When a people starved, they came looking for the Spirit Dreamer who'd led them falsely. Already, too many whispered behind their hands that Heavy Beaver's Power had begun to slip, to fade into memory like the rain that never fell.
If he couldn't keep Two Stones, and Seven Suns, and Elk Whistle crushed under the weight of his power, then one day soon, a dart would transfix Heavy Beaver's guts and a different man would take his place . . . and his barren women.
And if that man begot a son from Heavy Beaver's wives, that would be an even more damning indictment.
"Prepare yourselves, Anit'ah. This year we're coming. We have nothing left to lose." And Mother, even possession by the evil ghosts would be better than failure.
Elk Charm's calves ached, a stitch burned in the joint of her hip, and every muscle in her lower back and pelvis screamed for relief. But she could not remember being happier.
Not every day turned out like this one. Elk Charm followed the trail that skirted the cap rock where it hung out over the canyon. Behind her, to the east, the tall peaks rose, snow-packed and glaring white against the crystal-blue dome of the sky. Spring had come again—another cycle finished, a new one started.
Ignoring the ache in her back and the strain in her legs, she grinned at the whole world. Outside of the exertion, her biggest worry was that the bottom would split out of the pack she carried. This was, indeed, a special day. She had gone to dig roots where the snowbanks fed the verdant green slopes and the prize biscuit root that grew there. No more than an hour's worth of driving her hard chokecherry digging stick into the ground had netted an entire packful of roots and greens. She'd stopped to pick some newly sprouted yarrow for seasoning and heard the doe.
Purely by luck, the deer had stepped out from where she'd been bedded in the juniper, ears pricked, curious at the disturbance to her morning nap.
Without a second thought, Elk Charm's arm went back and she drove a finely fletched dart through the deer's chest. The doe jumped, wheeled, and made no more than fifty paces before her knees went weak and buckled. Reeling on her feet, she'd fallen, struggled to get up, and fallen again.
Wary, Elk Charm had frozen in place, waiting. Only a fool rushed up to a wounded animal. To do so might lend the prey that final rush of fear and send the quarry on a wild run. Accidents happened that way. Hunters lost their fatally wounded game. On such an occasion, a wounded animal's spirit might stalk the hunter, watching, scaring away other game and causing bad luck.
Elk Charm had stood still as lightning-riven deadfall, waiting, watching the doe bleed out, her sides working harder and harder as the blood emptied from her pierced lungs.
Finally the head had dropped and the doe rested her chin on the buff-colored rocky soil. She'd sighed a couple of times, the sound rattling and loud as blood leaked from her nostrils to soak the arid stone and dirt. Only when Elk Charm could see no movement did she creep closer. By the time she reached the doe, the animal's spirit had passed from the body.