One by one, they killed seven of the buffalo before the milling bunch crowded a crazed cow into the fence. She dropped her chin, goaded by the branches, and with one toss of her head, demolished most of the fence, goring one of her fellows in the process. In the melee that followed, all but the desperately wounded had fled down the valley, seeking the safety of the winter range below.
Little Dancer had stopped short then, feeling the awe of having killed so large a beast with his hand-crafted dart. Under White Calf's tutelage, he'd breathed Spirit Power into wood, stone, and binding. The act of knapping out the fine chert into finished points had left his fingers laced with cuts. Enough of his blood had grimed the razor-edged points to imbue them with soul and the power to kill.
Now it had all come full circle. He sucked the cool air into his lungs, too happy to care that his leg muscles burned from the added weight. He, Little Dancer, brought his first meat back to camp. In the joy of that occasion, even the prospect of facing White Calf didn't matter so much.
He steeled himself, and straightened, joints complaining. Blinking against the stress, he started the last couple of lengths to White Calf's rock shelter.
He didn't even hear his father's approach. "You all right?"
"I think my back's broken. I keep waiting to hear my bones crack and snap."
"You'll get used to it."
"Oh . . . sure, and I'll be two hands shorter!"
He swallowed against his dry throat and forced himself to stare at the comforting hollow of White Calfs shelter. Not far now, only a little while longer. Pace by burning pace he made it, gasping and wheezing up the last little rise, taking short quick steps.
"A little farther, that's all," his father's voice soothed.
He started across the trampled grass, all set to shout and drop the load—when the girl stepped out.
Girl? He stopped, blinking, lifting his head without thinking. Suddenly off balance, the load pulled him over backwards. His arms flailed futilely in the air. He yipped as he tumbled, the pack almost breaking his neck as he sat down too hard.
Lights flashed in his eyes, the world spinning. He barely felt his feet slam down hard in the dust.
He flushed at the girl's tinkling laughter.
"How does it feel?" Wolf Dreamer asked, the haze rippling with his voice.
“As if I were evaporating. Power dissipates. Blood Bear wastes. Every time he mocks, that which I am is less. At night, when he sleeps, I play with his life, knowing I could snuff him like a burning twig in the dirt."
"Things have changed. Blood Bear is the cause of it."
"The girl?"
Wolf Dreamer's voice gentled. "I am worried. We could lose the boy to love. I know the Power of it. I know how love can wind itself up in the Power and lead to disaster. Once, I, too, came close to disaster because of love.''
"I may be diminished, but I could still reach out, remove the threat created by Elk Charm. She is nothing."
"You are angry; you always wish to strike out. I would . . . well, grant him time I never had. Perhaps she's a way to reach him. Overcome the damage Sage Root did. The Watcher will know."
"Don't hesitate too long, Wolf Dreamer. The way humans experience time works against us now. I feel that we're coming to the end . . . one way or another, and very soon."
Chapter 13
Life worked in a curious fashion, Blood Bear decided as he trotted along, wary eyes on the trees around him. He'd left in search of a wayward girl he hoped to fill with his child.
Instead, he'd stumbled onto the tracks of Short Buffalo People in the heart of his domain. The sting of last year's raid still ate at him.
They'd come in the early morning as the sun grayed the eastern horizon. In the confusion that followed, Blood Bear had charged out, darts in hand, to see the Spirit Dreamer he'd observed the day he'd stolen the Wolf Bundle, singing and exhorting warriors to kill the Red Hand.
A smoldering anger refused to die as he thought about that day. Perhaps, had he remained, he could have rallied his people to fight back. Instead, his first thought had been that the Short Buffalo wanted to steal the Wolf Bundle back. If they had, they might have broken his hold on the Red Hand.
To have lost the Bundle once was bad enough, but twice? Unthinkable!
So he'd grabbed up the Bundle and run. The Red Hand had not stayed to fight, seeing his own inglorious retreat. His warriors fled, too, lost heart at his flight, and broke under the attack, leaving the camp to the howling, dancing Short Buffalo People. They looted everything and burned what was left. A man and two women had been killed, darts catching them in the backs as they ran. Some children had been captured along with a couple of women.
Disaster, all in all.
Now he had another chance. Now he could lead the Red Hand in retaliation against their enemy. Of course. Elk Charm remained out on the trail somewhere, but if the Short Buffalo People didn't get her, she'd still be around for his pleasure when this other business had been brought to a successful conclusion.