He continued along the northern edge of the village. He took his time, walking slowly, avoiding brush and vines, ducking under low-hanging branches, making as little sound as possible. And thinking about the plan he and Musselwhite had agreed to. It just might work! He offered a silent prayer to every Spirit he could name. All Beaverpaw had to do was create a diversion at exactly the right moment … and manage to live through the aftermath. He did not know what the diversion would be yet; perhaps, just to soothe his souls, he would start a brawl with Hanging Star. Warriors would flock from everywhere to watch. Undoubtedly bets would be laid. His task when it had ended would be to convince Cottonmouth that his fight had had nothing to do with Musselwhite’s attempt to free her husband … that she had merely taken advantage of it, and acted.
He stopped at a gnarled old oak draped with hanging moss. It grew at the northwest corner of the village. As he scanned the surroundings, he knew this must be the tree Cottonmouth had seen in his Dream. The tree where he first expected to see Musselwhite. Two shelters sat just behind the tree, but …
No guards.
Beaverpaw’s gaze took in the arc of the crescent created by the outer shelters. This gap represented the only vulnerability. The only possible point of unobserved entry into the village. His lip curled down. Did Cottonmouth really believe Musselwhite such a simpleton? That all he had to do was leave her an opening and she would walk right into his arms? If he’d had the luxury, Beaverpaw would have spat his contempt.
But he continued on around the perimeter, until he could see the glitter of Sea Girl through the trees. A great blue heron stood on the shore, its long neck stretched out, watching a pelican gobble down a fish a few wingbeats away. When the pelican finished, it gave its feathers a good shake and strutted up the beach. Disappointed that not a scrap remained, the heron folded its neck and tucked its bill under its wing to go to sleep again.
Beaverpaw wished he had his atlatl with him. The heron made an easy target. But when they’d entered the village, guards had stopped them, told them to make camp in the forest beyond the perimeter, and leave their weapons there. Cottonmouth had decreed that outsiders could not carry weapons into the village.
Beaverpaw went on. The last shelter, a very large one, sat on the beach, backed by scrub oaks on the north side. The council shelter.
He crept forward silently, and knelt behind a tangle of brush. A man lay on the floormats in the center of the shelter, his hands and feet bound. He had long black hair, a round face, and wide mouth. Though he wore a beautiful tunic with a blue bolt of lightning painted across the breast, Beaverpaw could see that festering puncture wounds covered the man’s exposed flesh.
Diver?
It must be.
Musselwhite had been right about where her husband would be held.
And Beaverpaw suddenly wondered if Cottonmouth knew that. Did Cottonmouth understand the workings of Musselwhite’s mind as well as she understood his?
As he backed away, a horrifying thoughts occurred to Beaverpaw. Hallowed Spirits … no. But … could it be possible? Had Cottonmouth laid his trap even more cunningly than either Beaverpaw or Musselwhite suspected? Perhaps all the stories of his “Dreams,” which he told everyone, represented part of the deception. Had Cottonmouth actually intended for those stories to reach Musselwhite’s ears? Was he, in fact, depending upon it?
Anxiety flooded Beaverpaw’s veins. He held a loop of grapevine aside and eased past, his eyes scanning the guards clotted around the council shelter. More had secreted themselves in the limbs of the tallest pines, scrutinizing the beach, and still more guards wandered the plaza where Dark Rain and Hanging Star gambled. Each carried an atlatl and three darts clutched in his right hand.
Beaverpaw swung wide around the perimeter, and boldly entered the village from the gap by the old oak tree. Not a man stopped him. He walked straight through the opening, down a trail between four lodges, and out into the teeming plaza.
Fear crowded his rationality. He’d started breathing like a hunted rabbit, his chest puffing in and out in rapid shallow gasps.
He had to warn Musselwhite before she entered this village … .
Woodduck knelt beside Hanging Star in the gambling circle around the plaza bonfire. Four groups of people crowded the area, playing different games: Dice, Bones, Sticks, and the Shell game, where the opponent had to guess which clamshell hid the plum pit. Out on the beach, men charged along the shore, their feet throwing up sand. Many stood watching, placing bets on the races.
“I have told you many things,” Hanging Star whispered. “I wish to see my payment. What have you brought me?”