People of the Fire(20)
And with that, he whirled, a gleam of triumph in his black eyes as he shoved her aside and strode down the trail back toward the camp.
In stunned silence, Sage Root stared, disbelieving, unable to comprehend that he'd act to waste a good kill, a clean kill, defiling the meat in the very mouths of the People.
Like a great hand from above, a darkness descended on her soul.
Hungry Bull froze, half a breath caught in his lungs. The amber grass rustled again and went quiet as the thief moved in the gray light. He cocked his head to listen, tightening the grip on his weapon. The feeling of the smooth wood, balanced so perfectly in his knotted fist, reassured him.
The morning birds had begun to chirp. A light breeze puffed against his skin, dampening the excitement of the stalk. Still in shadow, the sage loomed purple blue in the predawn light. Not much time left now. The thief would escape, his night's raid left unpunished.
Grass whispered as Hungry Bull's quarry shifted position. Close, so close, just there, on the other side of the sage. Hungry Bull tested the balance of the trimmed wood in his hand, feeling the heft, waiting to dispatch his enemy.
Life and death, the old dance continued. Even here, in the deep sagebrush, the greatest game played out. This game, Hungry Bull played very well. Few matched his skill with weapons or cunning ambushes. His quarry retreated ahead of him.
Hungry Bull took the rest of the breath, feeling his heart pound harder in his chest as his air-starved lungs began to labor. Using all his craft, he slowly lifted his foot, drifting it silently forward, placing it between dry clumps of grass, delicately resettling his weight to the ball of his foot.
Ahead of him, the grass crackled and went still.
Hungry Bull studied each pattern of the shadows, searching for the outline of the raider. Tension hung in the air, straining at him, speeding his heart. He throttled the urge to charge forward, to match wits with his quarry. Killing took patience. Revenge would be all the better if the thief never knew his danger.
He eased another step forward, careful eyes on the spiky uplifted arms of the sagebrush around him. The muscles in his leg trembled slightly as he shifted his balance, peering into the hollows where the brush thinned.
The thief stopped, raising, poised to flee, head cocked to listen while sharp brown eyes glinted in the graying light.
Hungry Bull froze again, tense as a green willow stalk.
The thief hesitated nervously, as if warned by some sixth sense.
He's going to bolt! Hungry Bull, not quite as balanced as he wanted to be, struck. Trained muscles flexed smoothly, arm hissing forward as he released his weapon. One chance only. Hungry Bull put body and soul behind the throw, knowing a miss would allow the quarry a clean escape.
The hardwood stick, curved into an L shape, warbled slightly in the air, and caught the thief low, tumbling him in a heap.
"Got you!" Hungry Bull yipped and vaulted the sagebrush in pursuit.
To his surprise, the thief pulled himself up and scrambled into the denser mat of sagebrush and grass.
Perplexed, Hungry Bull bent down, studying the tracks through narrowed eyes. "Huh! Must have been just a little off. Broke a leg."
Growling, he bent over a sagebrush, grasping the stiff gray branches and twisting them round and round until the root parted with a soil-muffled pop. Satisfied, he picked up his throwing stick, slipping it behind the buffalo-hide belt he wore, and took up the scuffed track of the thief. Using the uprooted plant for a flail, he smacked clumps of sagebrush, poking here and there, seeking to flush his wounded prey.
"All right, where ti you go? Look, you can't get away. You've got a broken leg. Come on out. Better I eat you than some tick-infested coyote."
Hungry Bull bent down, peering into a thick shock of grass, seeing a gleaming brown eye staring back in the breaking light of morning. The pink tip of nose quivered, a wealth of silvered whiskers shivering.
Hungry Bull jabbed his bush at the hole, satisfied to see a hobbling streak of brown shoot out the other side.
He jumped the sagebrush, charging after the wounded creature, sprinting a zigzagging course through the unresisting brush. The quarry shot to the left. Hungry Bull planted a foot, leaping after him—only to step on a curled chunk of dried sage stem that leapt up as if alive to trip him. Bull slammed down, catching sight of his quarry disappearing. Frantic, he scrambled after him on hands and knees, spitting a curse as he stuck his hand in a clump of brown-spined prickly pear.
Getting his feet under him, he lunged, grasping for the thief's body, missing. Again he pelted after the small brown-and-white shape, sage crackling and snapping before his charge, scenting the air with its tangy aroma.
They'd crossed most of the drainage bottom now, closing on the gentle slope that led up to the rounded ridge top. If the thief got to the rocks up there, got to a hole, it would be all over.