Breath catching in his throat, Little Dancer hurried forward, searching for footing on the treacherous edge, feeling the claws of death again at his back. A grating of crushed gravel sounded behind him as a huge weight bore down on the ridge.
Two Smokes looked up at him from underfoot, the berdache's face forming below him in the uneven granite. Even as he stared down in horror, his friend's eyes dimmed to stone, the rock shifting and crumbling beneath him. What had been Two Smokes rolled loose to plunge into the eternity below. Little Dancer threw himself ahead again, shivering with each gust of wind.
Looking down, he saw that his father now stared up at him, inevitably turning into stone. Little Dancer began to sob, forcing himself to scramble across the shifting rock, knowing even as it took his weight that this too would betray him.
The monstrous thing behind him leaned closer, the bulk of it obscuring the sun. Its breath choked the wind in his throat.
"I could save you," White Calf's voice called from somewhere ahead.
Little Dancer's heart pounded with fear as the rock that had been his father cracked loose and slid sickeningly sideways.
What to do?
Behind him, the horror laughed: "Too late." Heavy Beaver!
Little Dancer froze, fingers gripping tightly to the rock that had been his father. The horizon tilted, gravel pelting him as together they fell into the abyss.
"Fool!" White Calf cried.
Heavy Beaver cackled with glee.
Little Dancer's stomach rose into his throat. Nausea tickled the back of his tongue and left him dizzy. His father’s terrified voice shrieked into the nothingness below. Wind howled past his ears, tearing at his clothes and burning the tears into his blurred eyes as the faraway rocks rushed up at them.
Falling . . . falling . . .
Little Dancer's eyes jerked open the second before he knew he hit bottom. A lurching jumped in his gut as he UK fevered breath into heaving lungs. He trembled as the afterimages of the Dream faded to startled wakefulness.
He stared around the dawn-gray meadow and shivered with the morning chill, seeing the faint, hoary trace of frost on the leaves. Here, at the edge of the timber, the plants still stood lush and green. A raven chattered and clacked in the trees behind him. Somewhere in the timber a loud pop sounded as a squirrel cut fir cones loose and dropped them onto the deadfall below.
Above, the sky remained shrouded in gray.
He sat up in a cascade of needles from where he'd burrowed into the duff beneath an old forest giant. Little Dancer stretched, a gnawing emptiness in his belly.
He crawled out and looked around, snaking fingers through his long hair to comb the brown needles free. Images from the Dream haunted him. Dully he braided his hair and started across the meadow. The night chill cramped his muscles and left him unsure on his feet.
A chickadee greeted the bracing morning while a squirrel chirred into the crisp air before scrambling from one branch to another.
Crossing a timbered patch, he encountered a rocky up-thrust ridge and looked over the edge. Below him the meadow narrowed, restricted by steep sandstone walls. A fence had been constructed of timber carefully placed for strength and height to run diagonally across the browning grass—Hungry Bull's drive line.
Sighing with relief, Little Dancer eased across the rocks, glancing quickly over his shoulder before starting down the slope. Even as he reached the level bottoms, a thin tendril of smoke rose from the trees.
He smiled and forced his wobbly legs forward in a trot.
Hungry Bill crouched before a small fire, the freshly killed carcass of a snowshoe hare wide-splayed and roasting on the hot rocks. With the canny eyes of the hunter, Hungry Bull had already seen him and raised a hand in greeting.
"Had to get away?"
Little Dancer nodded, coming to sit next to his father, sharing the moment of camaraderie. "Got lost last night. Didn't know I was this close."
For long moments they sat in silence.
"How's the trap coming?"
''Almost done, you can help me finish today. With the first snow, there should be buffalo starting to move down from the high meadows. There's a herd up in the valley above us. They'll want to follow this trail. We should be able to get enough to keep through winter." He raised his eyes to the gray skies. "We'll do fine if we make a kill and it freezes good and solid. That's the best way. Kill late like this and let it freeze. The meat'll keep all winter."
They ate in silence, Little Dancer's mouth watering as he tore into the hot flesh of the rabbit.
When bones had been cracked and sucked empty of marrow, they were thrown into the fire to char into memory. They walked over to stare at the trap.
"You think this will hold buffalo?" Little Dancer cocked his head skeptically.
Hungry Bull smiled, narrowing his eyes. "Part of a hunter's success is to know more of the animals than they know of themselves." He pointed. "You see how I placed the roots and branches? See how the sharp points are sticking out? There's a reason for that. Buffalo look stupid and half-asleep. But they're thinking all the time—as Two Smokes found out when he misjudged them at Monster Bone Springs. Even though they look sleepy and dumb, they're always ready, waiting . . . and lightning fast on their feet. They can whirl in a blink, despite how clumsy they look. They don't like to be forced against a wall, you see. And they have a thin hide that tears easily and they know it.