He’d risen to a chilly predawn morning, frost thick on everything.
The Trader had already moved on, down to the many times-cursed canoe, where he fished around for his bola.
Discipline! It had brought a shivering Black Skull here, to this grassy bank. Frost now coated his clothing, and the chill threatened to coax shivers from his scarred hide. Despite it all.
Black Skull gripped his bola in his knotted right fist and caught the Trader’s hand signal to move to the left.
With the grace of a hunting cat, the warrior eased through the tall grass, hearing the subdued quacking of ducks as they paddled around.
Glancing above the brown mat of grass, Black Skull caught the Trader’s curt nod. Then he leaped forward, crashing through the grass.
The pond beyond exploded with a fluttering of wings and the panicked quacking of ducks. The Trader had timed his cast perfectly, whirling the bola around his head and sending it out in a graceful arc. Like talons from an outstretched raptor’s foot, the weighted stones spread, their thongs making a whirring sound as the bola cut through the clean air.
A perfect throw! The bola tangled with a rising mallard and fouled the frantic wings, causing the bird to somersault in the air. Feathers floated free, spiraling down in the flapping bird’s wake.
The duck landed in the grass with a thump.
Amidst the quacking cries of the departing survivors, the Trader raced around the thin layer of ice that had formed a cresent on the margins of the pond. His shadow reflected in the rippling black water.
Black Skull watched from across the pond as the Trader thrashed through the grass, finally leaping on the squawking duck. Straightening, the Trader clasped his flapping victim by the head and spun it, breaking the neck. The bird quivered and stilled.
Black Skull looked down at the bola in his hand. Those polished black stones had been given to him by a Trader from up north. Each stone had been painstakingly ground into a teardrop shape and polished to a deep luster; then a hole had been drilled through the narrow top for the thong. From a quarry up on Serpent River, the Trader had said.
The last thing Black Skull wanted to see was that quarry. And now fate was taking him there—or at least nearby.
“Couldn’t get a clear throw?” the Trader asked as he approached, mashing down the tawny grass.
“No,” Black Skull said shortly.
Why hadn’t he thrown? For a moment, the question nagged at him. Because I just didn’t care, the answer came back.
The silly grin on the Trader’s face mocked him, as if Otter could see inside him, gauge the meanderings within Black Skull’s being.
In an attempt to avoid that grin, Black Skull turned away and walked vigorously back toward the camp, where the silly fool, Green Spider, no doubt still slept.
The Trader had to trot to catch up. From the corner of his eye, Black Skull could see the pursed mouth, the unease that had replaced the Trader’s excitement.
“Could we talk?”
Black Skull spun on one foot, planting the other. “About what?”
Not expecting such a quick stop, Otter overran him by several paces. The Trader backtracked, suddenly unsure. He glanced around at the pink morning, inspecting the white-gray branches of the trees. The buds hadn’t even formed this far north. And they had how much farther to go?
“Are you all right?” The question sounded awkward.
“1’iji fine, Trader. You?”
Unease could be read in every line of Otter’s body. In the set of the shoulders, the shifting of moccasins. Then came that disarming grin that Black Skull had become so familiar with.
“Don’t use that Water Fox smile with me, Trader.” Black Skull had seen it work its magic. The times were becoming too numerous to recount. He’d seen it with Meadowlark—the stupid fool—and with fat Elk’s Foot at the Cottonwood clan holdings.
There the talk had all been of “the Water Fox,” and worse, of the fool, Green Spider. And he, the greatest of all warriors who ever lived, had stood in the shadows.
At least Meadowlark had heard of him. That simpleton, Elk’s Foot, hadn’t even batted an eye. Just smiled, and through pidgin, bid Black Skull welcome in his clucking tongue.
The rage had started then. Hadn’t they known? Where was the warm welcome with which Long Squirrel had greeted him?
Oh, Meadowlark would have learned, all right. Black Skull had bided his time, waiting until late at night when he could stand it no longer, then he’d risen on light feet to reach for Meadowlark.
Meadowlark would have eaten one of his precious badger bowls—that is, if the fool hadn’t bounded into the middle of the room and tried pouring water on the fire to make it bum brighter.
“You’ve been silent,” Otter managed at last, “ever since we stopped at the Brown Water Clan.” He paused, glancing at Black Skull. “I thought it might have been because I reminded you of what Old Man North said back at White Shell.”