People of the Fire(48)

She stood, stepping out to look around—and froze. The bundle hung from one of the soot-stained lodgepoles. Black raven feathers stuck out from a tightly packed leather pouch.

A sob choking in her throat, she pulled the thing loose. Unable to control her shaking fingers, she ripped the hide open and whimpered as a roll of maggots spilled out over her fingers.

Something dark fell and rolled to one side.

She strangled her cries, frantically wiping the maggots from her hands, shivering uncontrollably as she fought the urge to scream. Backing away, her stomach pumped again, having nothing left but sour bile. The black pad, still wiggling with white maggots, caught her eye. She recognized shredded sagebrush bark. A menstrual pad. Hers? Of course. It had to be. Heavy Beaver wouldn't have used it otherwise.

"A piece . . . of my soul," she choked. "He's got a piece of my soul." He's won! I'm dying. I can feel it.

She swallowed hard, lungs pulling at a knot of fear locking her windpipe. What can I do? Where can I go? How can I save myself?

Two dark shadows passed overhead, wings rasping in the air. Ravens!

Tears streaked her face. He'll give my soul to the ravens. And then what? I'll never get to the Starweb. I'll never . . . Dancing Doe's eyes stared up from the depths of her tortured memories. Dancing Doe had risen to the Starweb.

Sage Root's teeth chattered as a soul chill wrapped around her. How long did she have? How long until Heavy Beaver twisted her soul from her body?

Dawn. Her last sunrise. Numbly, she reached inside the lodge, finding her butchering kit—the one she'd used on the antelope. How fitting.

She turned, forcing her back straight, catching a glimpse of Sleeping Fir as she started out of her lodge, met her eyes, and ducked hurriedly back inside.

The chill in her soul deepened. Even her friends feared her now. Who would want to be seen talking to a Cursed woman?

One way or another, she was dead. She could let Heavy Beaver steal her soul through his Spirit Power, or free it herself.

With careful steps she avoided Little Dancer where he slept in Two Smokes' arms. Muffled whimpers escaped his lips. Perhaps he'd been too close to her and caught the edges of Heavy Beaver's Curse? Another mistake on her part.

She walked down to the river, following along the bank. Barely aware, she looked up at the graying skyline, listening to the trilling tee-yee melodies of the red-winged blackbirds as they sang in the thick brush back from the river. Below her, a great blue heron splashed and rose to wing, wary of her presence. Even the birds avoided her.

A suggestion of movement caught her attention. A huge black wolf stood on a rise, watching with knowing yellow eyes. Thick muscles rippled along the animal's lean body. The increasing light accented the sheen of its sleek coat. Another of Heavy Beaver's creatures? She tore her frightened gaze away.

A terrible loneliness crushed her. "Hungry Bull? Where are you? Come back to me. Don't let me face this alone."

"Why did you let Blood Bear steal me?"

The Wolf Dreamer's voice drifted from the illusion that surrounded the Wolf Bundle like a cloud. ''He asked and gave of himself. Let us see what he does with Power now that he's wished it.''

The Wolf Bundle tested the fringes of Blood Bear’s mind. “I see no change. He's as much a fool as ever. He mocks what sober men consider with care."

''He has asked, and I have the piece he gave of himself. Am I one to deny a seeker?"

''You 're not the one riding in his arms. Suppose I end up in the fire?"

"Not even Blood Bear is that stupid."

"But Bundles—and the Power in them—can be killed."

"Like Dreams . . . and Dreamers."

"The Watcher keeps his eye on the boy."

"And if this goes beyond the Watcher's ability?"





Chapter 10




A fight broke out between two of the camp dogs. Little Dancer woke. He could feel fear hovering around him. Like the stench of carrion, wrongness and evil rode on the morning air. He dug fists into his rheumy eyes to get them open. Beside him, Two Smokes groaned and yawned. Golden bars of yellow morning sunlight slanted under the rustling cotton-wood leaves. Things looked bluish, tinged by the smoke from morning fires. Around them the camp stirred to life.

Little Dancer caught sight of Heavy Beaver's lodge, the ominous stick standing tall in the yellow light. Memories flashed back of the horrible yesterday, a collage of images of Dancing Doe's horrified expression of death, the panic in his mother's eyes as she saw the single stick, Blood Bear's raid, and the stunning loss of the Wolf Bundle. He remembered Two Elks' body where it lay on its side, the old man tucked in a fetal position around the violent dart that had drunk so deeply of his life.

Little Dancer rose frantically, stumbling to look about the wreckage inside the lodge. Empty. A premonition of ill spread within. He felt another's pangs of wretched anxiety filling him, familiar, yet alienated: alone.