People of the Fire(22)

"Who is it?" he shouted.

"Here!"

This time he caught the direction of the voice. Looking up along the ridge, he squinted against the brilliance of the sun.

He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand; the body of his morning victim bounced limply in the process.

A hunched figure stood silhouetted by the morning rays. Hunched? Indeed, the way Trickster Coyote could do when the urge came on him to take human form. In an attempt to fool men, he sometimes came looking like an old hunchbacked woman, or so Heavy Bull had heard. The only way to tell was to pull up his skirts and look for a penis and testicles. Trickster Coyote couldn't change that—wouldn't. He was too proud of his man parts.

Already unsettled, Bull stepped off the trail, wary, climbing careftilly, eyes searching the surroundings. Just as he'd trapped the little thief, so could he, too, be trapped in the endless game of life and death. Where they waited in hunting camp, Three Toes and Black Crow would never know the difference—if they hadn't already been caught.

"Here I am, already assuming it's an Anit'ah war party," Bull told himself. 'The voice called in the tongue of the People." He bit his lip, seeing the figure above more clearly now. Silhouetted against the light, it waited, ominous, balanced on skinny legs, body bulky. Chill fingers of premonition tickled along Bull's backbone.

This isn't good. What did Heavy Beaver say? A Curse is loose on the land? Heavy Beaver says we 've offended Buffalo Above and He's taken His children away, caused the rains to cease falling, made everything harder for Father Sun's people.

And this? Is this Trickster Coyote? Or some worse spirit? A wandering ghost? Something to take me and kill me?

By Buffalo Above's bouncing balls! It did look like Trickster! A cold shiver closed on Bull's heart. At the same time, some hidden memory tripped in his mind.

"I don't like Spirit Power. I don't have any use for that stuff. Just trouble . . . that's all." His heart had begun to thud and he stopped, swallowing hard as he stared at the sun-silhouetted apparition.

Wary now, ready to run, he stared around, looking for ghost sign, for a hint of evil—as if he knew what that might look like. That inner sense of trouble kept pricking at him like the cactus spines still in his hand.

Nerving himself, he called, "Trickster? That you? Coyote?"

A cackling laugh rolled down from above, almost irritating in the obvious enjoyment communicated.

"Coyote? Me?" The silhouetted figure slapped a thin arm against its side with an audible pop. "Hah! That's what they're teaching you kids these days? Horn Core gotten a little crazy in his old age, or what?"

Horn Core *s dead! Smoke and fire! Is this some spirit joke? He swallowed hard, beginning to back away, ticklings of fear running through him like tiny ant legs.

"Oh, come on," the silhouette called, gesturing. "I'm not wandering all the way down there. I've walked too far for that. I need your help. Eh? What's this? Going to run?" The voice cackled hysterically. "I'm going to walk into a village of the People and tell them how one of their brave young men turned and bolted from me like brother jackrabbit from a wolf? Ha-ha, I can hardly wait!"

Slightly shamed, Hungry Bull continued to pick his way up the slope, searching his memories of the elders to place the voice. Against the light of the morning sun, he couldn't identify who it was. Chokecherry? Not fat enough to be her. Sleeping Fir? Too tall. Walkalot Woman? Maybe, but the figure on the hill didn't look right. Still, something about her . . .

"Or Coyote trying to trick me." But Coyote usually did that during visions and Dreams. Sometimes, disguised as a hunchbacked old woman, he'd lull a pretty young girl to sleep. Then his penis would sneak out and impregnate her and she'd never know.

One of the Dog Crow Clan? If so, she was awfully far west. From this angle, he could make out her form. The hunchback look came from the pack she carried. The face might have been beautiful once, broad-cheeked and full. Indeed, even through the sucked-dry look of age, she still bore the trace of proud beauty. And he couldn't shake the feeling he knew her.

But who is she?

He reached the ridge top, carefully looking around, still uncertain if he'd walked into the middle of an Anit'ah trap—uncertain about a lot of things. Wind-polished cobbles, scraggly sage, and wispy clumps of wheatgrass met his eyes, all stroked by the caress of the morning breeze. But no warriors waited to ambush him.

The old woman cocked her head, watching as he looked over the crest of the ridge, casting about suspiciously.

"At least you're not entirely a fool." She winced in the sunlight, as if at a hidden pain, and walked forward.

Warily, he waited, palms sweating where he held the dart ready to cast. He knew he'd seen her before. But Coyote could trick a man that way. Take the face of a dead person— or maybe even a live one, for all he knew. From the look of her tattered dress, the gauntness of her flesh, she might have been a childless widow woman with no one to look out for her. Then he met her eyes and his soul froze.