He turned on his heel, walking rapidly for his lodge.
Snaps Horn waited quietly in the trees. Like the hunter he was becoming, his outline could barely be distinguished. Tanager moved carefully, testing her skill against his. She slithered through the branches that hung down. Each foot she placed just so, settling her weight around the dry twigs, balancing to keep from crackling the brown needles underfoot.
Snaps Horn shifted, moving slowly to crane his neck and look down the trail. He started and froze.
Tanager hardly breathed. She could hear footsteps on the trail. Warily, she noted how Snaps Horn tensed, sinking down to obscure his form in the grass that veiled the fir. Who did her friend hide from?
She caught a flicker of movement, and remained motionless as Blood Bear trotted past. From Snaps Horn's tensed posture, she read his dislike. The silence stretched before Snaps Horn finally straightened.
Tanager resumed her stalking, moving to within easy reach before she shot hard fingers into Snaps Horn's ribs.
"Got ya!" And she raced away, while Snaps Horn cried in horror and whirled.
Bursting through the trees, she waited to see if he'd chase.
He exploded from the thrashing fir branches and slid to a stop, face a masterwork of convulsed anger.
"Don't! Don't ever do that again!" He stamped, gesturing, shaking with rage. But he wasn't going to chase. She could see that.
She cocked her head. "So, who you going to ambush?"
"None of your business, girl!"
"Ah! Elk Charm!"
His crimson features went bright.
Tanager grinned. "Well, you and Blood Bear are in the same fix. She's not here. She went down to the witch's."
Snaps Horn gaped. "But there's Short Buffalo People there."
"Uh-huh, but there's no Blood Bear. And no you!"
He bellowed and leapt for her. She danced away, ducking effortlessly under his grasping arms. Dashing away like the wind, her heart exalted. She had her chase!
Three Toes pulled at the long braid hanging over his left shoulder. The crawling feeling in his gut didn't diminish no matter how hard he pulled. He stood on an isolated outcrop of gray limestone thrust far enough up from the spine of the mountain to allow him to see over the surrounding wall of fir trees.
The crisp air carried a pungent tang of conifer and damp earth. High above, a golden eagle shifted on the ghostly thermals. An elk bugled shrilly and angrily somewhere to the west in the black timber.
Cloud-capped peaks rose to the north, a white dusting of snow visible below the punctured belly of the fluffy clouds. Between him and the peaks stretched an endless expanse of uplifted and rugged country swelling to rounded summits, broken ridges, and cracked-looking canyons—all of it carpeted with a thick mosaic of trees. Ancient burns made a patchwork of forest where lightning had caught the old growth with a high fuel load during the drought.
He looked back to the south, grinding his molars. More broken country—but the peaks weren't as tall, and he couldn't see any snowfall there. A taller ridge rose to the west and obscured the view in that direction. Traveling east couldn't even be considered since an impassable jagged canyon had been gouged through the mountain's bones.
"Well?" Black Crow called up.
Three Toes filled his lungs full to bursting and exhaled slowly, savoring the feeling. "We're lost."
"Great!" Black Crow slapped angry hands to his sides. "And the Anit'ah know all the trails up here. That makes me feel just wonderful!"
Three Toes took another breath, wondering just how many more he'd get if they didn't find White Calf.
Little Dancer paused for a second to catch his breath and rest his quivering legs. To lessen the load on his hips and knees, he bent double, bracing his arms on his kneecaps to support the weight. His ankles didn't hurt, but everything else did.
The pack on his back had to weigh nearly as much as he did. The broad leather of the tumpline cut into the skin on his forehead—long since gone itchy and numb from lack of blood. Despite the weight, he couldn't help but smile.
His first buffalo! Under the guidance of his father, they'd worked the trap perfectly. Hungry Bull had known exactly what the buffalo would do. Together they'd cautiously pushed the animals down the valley and into the trap.
Sprinting to his controlling position, Hungry Bull had driven his first dart deep into the lead cow's side. His second dart penetrated a younger cow's rib cage. As the rest began milling, they'd stayed well clear of the sharp snags woven into the trap fence.
Little Dancer's chance came as a young cow backed away from the killing area, nostrils distended, head lowered as she grunted at the smell of blood. The shot had been perfect. From no more than ten paces, he'd driven his dart from slightly behind, through the diaphragm and into the lungs. The young cow had jumped, kicked out behind her, and puffed a frightened breath. Moaning, she'd trotted forward from the group—and fallen over to wheeze and bleed her life away on the red-matted grass.