People of the Fire(27)

"Hungry Bull," Black Crow reminded sternly, "she's not the kind of woman you want mad at you. According to the stories, she killed a woman who . . . Well, she killed her, that's all. The stories say she did it by looking at her. On the fourth day, the woman was dead. Green Willow left in shame, in the night."

Hungry Bull cast pleading eyes toward Three Toes.

What do I do? What do I say? He cleared his throat. "But Black Crow, if we just leave, maybe—"

"She knows us," Black Crow added firmly. "Hungry Bull gave her our names. She's looking for a camp of the People. Like it or not, we’re in this."

The words were twisted from him like a rabbit from its hole. "Then we don't have very long to make it to Monster Bone Springs, do we?"





Chapter 6




Snaps Horn laughed and danced away as Tanager chased him through the fir trees. Elk Charm ran along behind, shrieking her joy. It didn't matter that Snaps Horn was older, no one ran like Tanager.

The game had started with dart and hoop, where a willow hoop laced with thongs was rolled along the ground and the children cast sticks at it. The winner was the one who could pin the hoop the most times with thrown darts. Tanager, of course, had won, until Snaps Horn's patience cracked like a chert cobble in a fire. He'd turned and thrown his dart at Tanager.

Nimble on her feet, she'd dodged, grinning as she readied her own throw. Knowing her aim was deadly, Snaps Horn had fled.

Now she closed on him, feeling the power of her young legs. She planted her feet suddenly, putting all the strength of her supple body into the throw. Her dart, made of whittled willow, flew straight, catching Snaps Horn full in the back.

Snaps Horn howled at the pain and ignominy.

Thus repaid, Tanager shrieked her victory to the air.

She saw him turn, saw the anger in his eyes, the rage twisting his face. She almost flattened Elk Charm as she burst past her, weaving around the trees. But no one could run like Tanager. She yipped her happiness into the still mountain air. Let him run himself to the stumbles. No man—not even Snaps Horn—would catch her.

In the twilight, Sage Root walked, an ache pulsing through her. She looked up at the darkening indigo skies, eyes searching, as if solace lay there beyond her reach. Here, in the interim between night and day, Father Sun had vanished and the Starweb remained obscured in the half-light.

In her loneliness, she wished desperately for Hungry Bull's strong arms. But he spent this night far to the north hunting, seeking to do what she had done here. This dilemma, this problem of the meat, she faced alone.

What to do? She stopped, fists clenched at her sides as the evening breeze bobbed the dry grasses. Each heartbeat sounded a dull thud, hollow against her chest. Fear tickled her insides while an ill feeling weighted her stomach.

Heavy Beaver's power outmatched her—left her looking foolish and futile. How could a lone woman stand against a shaman? How could she prove she had acted correctly?

"I can't stand against him," she whispered. And if I do, I'm ruined. My son will be suspect. And Hungry Bull? What of him? He'll be devastated, humiliated. For the first time, I’ll force him to beat me. He’ll have to protect his honor. The very thought of the pain in his eyes left her soul cringing. I can’t act alone!

And she remembered the desperation in Dancing Doe's eyes. Poor Dancing Doe, who sat alone, refusing to eat, staring into the distance in her head hour after hour.

Will I end up like that? Heavy Beaver didn't bear any festering anger against Dancing Doe. But he did against her.

The chill of evening settled over her as the stillness grew. The first flickerings of the Starweb twinkled on the eastern horizon. "Why is this happening?" she pleaded to the rising stars. "All I did was feed my people!"

The wind tugged at her fringed sleeve, threading soothing fingers through her hair, tickling her cheek.

Below her, in the deeper shadow cast by the ridge, a wealth of rich antelope meat lay drying on the sagebrush. In the night, coyotes wailed and yipped, held at bay by the odor of human urine and the soft movements of the old women who guarded the meat. Here and there along the arroyo, fires blinked amber eyes at the night. In the glow, people sat huddled, gesturing as they wondered, argued, and tried to make sense of the day. From where she stood, their conversations whispered, no more than a murmur.

Uneasy premonition hung heavily over the kill site, like blue smoke from winter fires on a crisp morning. Sage Root swallowed hard. The ghosts of the slain antelope hovered in the chilling air around her. A tingle ran through her as her people looked up from below, watching, the power of their scrutiny raising the hair at the nape of her neck.

Everyone waited ... on her.