The doe jumped and scampered, head back, trotting nervously. And from the sheltered pits dug at the end of the wing walls, the women and children of the tribe exploded, screaming, yelling, racing to close the gap.
The lead doe flashed her white rump patch in alarm, trying to slip to the side, finding a solid wall of woven sagebrush. She quivered, dancing sideways on lightning feet; the herd followed in panic.
Sage Root waited, fists clenched, heart pulsing in her chest as the antelopes' escape route was cut off. Behind the milling herd, the women and children closed in. Shouting and singing, they now advanced, pushing the antelope into the bottleneck of the trap. The lead doe turned, finding only one avenue of escape, and charged down the narrow runway into the arroyo. As the antelope pounded past, Sage Root thrilled to the sight of their flying bodies. She gripped her weapons firmly, a thrill like orgasm pulsing through her.
In the dust of their passage, Sage Root scrambled to her feet, racing after them, her long black hair flying in the pell-mell rush of the chase. She stood at the narrow end of the chute leading into the arroyo, knowing the antelope had to come back this way—that they'd entered a dead end from which they couldn't escape.
She waited, holding a long dart like a thrusting spear in case the antelope came racing back.
"We did it!" Fire At Night appeared at her shoulder, a stocky boy of fifteen, fast and agile despite his bulky body. His chest heaved as he panted, darts ready in his hand. He'd hesitated at first, daunted by Heavy Beaver's warnings about women hunting. Now he seemed to have forgotten his reservations.
"You can hold this end? Maybe keep Throws Rocks here? If they get out, we're all going to be hungry."
"We'll do it. It's a thing to Sing of."
She grinned at him, slapping his shoulder, before climbing up the side of the trap, onto the eroded terrace, running to where the antelope piled up, with barely enough room to turn, starting back down the narrow passage.
As they raced back, Sage Root nocked a dart, balancing letting it fly with all the power in her supple body. True to the mark, the dart caught the lead doe full in the body, completely transfixing her. She stumbled and went down. The herd piled into her kicking body. Fawns bawled anguish and fear. Antelope scrambled, panting hard, hooves pounding. A curling pall of dust rose as Sage Root nocked another dart and speared the next doe that passed. About her, others appeared, whooping and yelling as they hurled darts down into the narrow confines that trapped the antelope. One or two panicked animals scrambled over the carnage, running a gauntlet of darts back down the arroyo.
Out of darts, Sage Root grinned at the kicking pile of dying animals. Dust streaked her face and hair, a song of joy in her heart. From where she'd left it earlier, she picked up a hide sack full of her butchering tools.
For the time being, no more infants had to die as Dancing Doe's had. No more pangs of hunger would pull at the People in the night. For the moment, they would eat. To fix the old trap had been a gamble, the work done in secrecy lest someone tell. Chokecherry's sobering reminders of Heavy Beaver's Power lurked like hungry weasels in her mind. She couldn't shake his promise of retaliation that night of Dancing Doe's difficult delivery.
"Hey, you first!" Makes Fun called, offering her the honor of the first meat. "You put this together."
She flushed slightly at the compliment. Yes, she'd defied Heavy Beaver, taken the risk to make this happen when she'd seen the antelope winding down toward the river. The old trap had been so close to the route the antelope would take back to the uplands that the opportunity couldn't be wasted. She'd argued passionately, aided by the hunger in the eyes of the children. Uneasy at first, the People had followed.
Sage Root smiled back at Black Crow's wife and jumped down the dusty bank. Before her, the lead doe panted, a froth of blood bubbling around her nostrils. The fletched end of the dart shuddered with each dying breath.
Sage Root knelt over the dying doe, reaching out to stroke her head. "Forgive me, Mother. It is the way of things that men—like antelope—must eat. Bless your meat to our use. May your soul run like the wind to Dance among the stars." The thrashing doe relaxed, the deep pools of brown eyes meeting hers, as if admitting the reality of the Starweb, woven by the Wise One Above.
Sage Root lifted the heavy hammerstone. With the skill of long practice, she slammed it down on the doe's brain. An echo sounded in her mind, the memory of a newborn infant's skull popping on the hot rocks.
Then the work began in earnest, amid songs, jokes, and toothy smiles. The People gutted and sliced and packed meat from the trap. Hungry mouths consumed the livers on the spot, offering first-meat rites to friends and helpers, heedless of the red that dribbled down bobbing chins. Blood smeared strong brown arms and legs as quarters were handed up for the old women to cut into strips. In the shadowed arroyo, the hollow crunch of chopper stones on bone, mixed with laughter, filled the air.