People of the Fire(132)

"You'd have a place with us. You could bring your family now, if you'd like. Our hearts and homes are open to you. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Blood Bear stared up into the night sky. This night, like so many others lately, he couldn't sleep. Instead, he paced around the dark cold camps of his warriors, stalking the shadows, staring at the darkness, wondering what would come next.

The Short Buffalo People had entered the Buffalo Mountain trails in a flood this year. What Heavy Beaver had intended years ago, only now could he do. The strange blizzard that had roared down on the plains five years past had wreaked havoc with the Short Buffalo People. Many had frozen—and in the interim, the White Crane and Cut Hair had struck back, seeking to break the power of the weakened Short Buffalo.

What Heavy Beaver had so laboriously created had tottered—his alliance of bands almost breaking under the strain. Nevertheless, he'd prevailed and pushed his plains enemies back. Now, once again, he could turn his attention to the defiant Red Hand of the mountains and seek to separate them from their rich hunting grounds.

There are so many enemies! Blood Bear let his vision roam the Starweb while he thought. Around him, the night lay cool on the land, the air rich with the smell of firs and pines. Insects clicked and whirred in the silence. The land lived, pulsing for him, sharing itself in this hour of worry.

All the years of wandering had given him a skill almost unequaled by his peers. He could drift like eagle's shadow through the trees. He could steal into their camps at night and kill them one by one, but he couldn't be everywhere with his warriors. What he and his Red Hand could do with cunning and bravery, the Short Buffalo could do with numbers. Where had they all come from?

Something had happened to the Red Hand, some essential spark had gone from their eyes and hearts. He scowled up at the heavens. What? No matter how he exhorted, it seemed that the inner core of resistance that had once been theirs had fled. He could berate, pray, dance, and sing. He could return, blood-soaked and victorious, but his warriors seemed faded and tired despite their triumphs. No matter what tack he tried—from hanging body pieces of the enemy in trails. ID offering their hearts to the fire—nothing seemed to touch that flagging spirit. Why? What logic could he use? What spur could goad them to carry the fight to the Short Buffalo People instead of waiting for it come to them?

“We'll be destroyed," he whispered, staring up at the stars. “Like smoke on the wind, we'll be blown away. Only the rocks will remember the name of the Red Hand.''

And that thought enraged him. While he fumed, he dropped his eyes from the heavens and looked around his camp. His war party consisted of six men and two women, all awaiting the next advance of the enemy up the Clear River trail. Heavy Beaver had to try to force this way. It made sense considering that a large party of warriors had tried to scale the twisting steep trail on the north side. Only a fool wouldn't try a second offensive up the back.

Rage left a bitter taste in his mouth.

While he brooded, his eye was caught by the pale form of the Wolf Bundle where it rested on its tripod in the center of the clearing. The leather had cracked and peeled; the curious lines drawn so carefully into the hide had faded where they hadn't been abraded away. Shabby, he thought, just like the hopes of the Red Hand.

Viciously, he slashed at it with the back of his hand, knocking it rolling into the grass.

The action had been foolish, he realized, staring owlishly around in the darkness, thankful that the rest of his band remained locked in sleep. He picked it up, replacing it just so on the tripod, checking again to assure himself that no one had seen.

He massaged the sudden ache in the stub of his little finger. Foolish symbol of a dying people-—no wonder they couldn't win a war—not with a silly thing like the Wolf Bundle. Now, if they had something powerful, like a grizzly skull, or . . .

He winced, startled by the sudden pain in his little finger. Of all the stupid things he'd ever done, cutting the tip of his finger off had been madness! All it ever did was ache and burn. He swore, it would be the death of him yet.

“Help me! The time has come, Fire Dancer. Help me! HELP ME!" The voice thundered in his skull, shattering the dream into jagged fragments, blasting through his mind like a clap of thunder burst upon unwary ears.

Little Dancer shouted in fear and struggled out of the bedding. His stomach lurched. He vomited violently, trying to suck a breath over the foulness in his mouth and nose. Again his stomach heaved in accompaniment to the convulsions.

He tried to brace himself against the reeling sensation, the

feeling that the world had come apart. Dizzy, he propped himself with one hand; the other clutched his throat.