People of the Masks(140)
Sparrow shrugged into his pack, and adjusted his bow and quiver so he could reach them easily. “They have the best reason of all to help us, Dust. They hate Jumping Badger and his warriors more than we do.”
He got to his feet and extended her a hand. Dust took it, and rose.
She picked up her pack, and slipped her arms through the straps, saying, “They may hate him, Sparrow, but are they willing to risk every last surviving member of their village to protect us? That is the question. I wouldn’t be.”
“Well, let’s hope their clan patron is more generous than you are.” Sparrow licked his finger and held it up to the wind. “Wind Mother is gusting down from the north. I’d much rather walk with the wind in my face, than blowing up my back.”
“I suppose it’s a coincidence that it also happens to be the direction of Sleeping Mist Village?”
“No,” he said, and stuck his thumbs in his pack straps. As he started down the hill toward the shore, he added, “Who is the patron there, now? Do you know?”
“We heard that old Mouse Bone was killed in the raid, and that Hungry Owl took his place.”
“His son?”
“Yes, he’s barely twenty-five, but I hear he’s highly respected.”
Dust’s voice grew fainter and fainter. It occurred to Sparrow that she wasn’t following him.
He stopped, and called, “Dust—”
“You don’t have to come with me,” she called back. “In fact, it would be better if you didn’t. That way if the war party sees me, only one of us will be captured. That will leave the other to continue searching for Rumbler.”
He expelled a gruff breath and walked back up the hill. “I’m the one who was a warrior. I know how they think. I’ll check the shelter. But I want you to wait up here for me. Agreed?”
The jagged line that cut down around her right eye pulled tight. “I’ll agree to wait near the shelter. That way I can see—”
“Yes!” He threw up his hands. “Fine. I know that look on your face. There’s no way I’m going to convince you to stay in a safe place, so let’s just go!”
Sparrow trudged across the hilltop and down among the trees. Deep drifts piled against trunks and boulders. He did his best to work around them, but occasionally he sank up to his hips.
They made it to the main game trail that cut across the front of the hill overlooking the ruins of Paint Rock Village. Sparrow stopped for a moment’s rest. Dust came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself.
“Do you see it?” she whispered.
“Yes. The shelter is down there. You stay here.”
“I will. Sparrow? Please be careful.” She crouched down behind a pile of deadfall.
Sparrow slowly made his way along the trail. He took three steps, then stopped, surveyed the forest, and listened, before taking another three steps. Snow fell around him, but through the white haze he could see faint crimson glows near the outskirts of Paint Rock Village … . Fires burned down to coals.
Sparrow scanned the forest. Where would Jumping Badger have posted guards? Probably along the trails coming into Paint Rock. One near Calling Hawk’s pinioned corpse. Another at the opposite end of the village. He didn’t see anyone, but he wouldn’t. Warriors standing guard went to a lot of trouble to be invisible.
Humps scattered the area around the fire pits—snow-covered sleeping warriors. He counted about fifteen people, but there could have been more. The falling snow obscured a great deal.
The closer he got to the shelter, the stronger the scent of smoke became.
Sparrow trudged through the snow to the slender poles leaned against the boulder’s face. They had constructed a snug resting place.
Sparrow whispered, “Rumbler? It’s Silver Sparrow … . Are you in there?”
Only the pattering of snow on the poles answered.
Sparrow knelt and peered through a gap in the poles. They’d thrown dirt over the fire, but some of the coals beneath had survived. A dull red sheen lit the interior. Strips of cloth lay on the hearthstones. Sparrow frowned. He reached in and pulled out the pack that lay against the wall. Dishes clattered. As he slipped the strap over his shoulder, he saw the folded cape on the floor … then the opening in the poles on the other end of the shelter.
She did draw us away. Blessed Spirits, how many times has that little girl risked her life to save Rumbler? While we were chasing her, Rumbler was running in the other direction.
Sparrow rose to his feet and cautiously examined the ground. Any tracks Rumbler had left had long ago filled in with snow. But where might he have gone? Not downhill. They would have seen him. Not across the face of the hill. Too much deadfall. The only clear path led from the top of the boulder up the hill.