People of the Masks(157)

Wren staggered along the sandy shore behind Acorn, her soaked moccasins like clumps of ice around her ankles. They had untied her feet, but a new rope connected her bound wrists to Acorn’s belt. When they’d left Paint Rock that morning, she and Acorn had been at the head of the party, but her stumbling gait had pulled Acorn farther and farther behind, until they now brought up the rear.

Waves washed the shore to her right, pushing and pulling at the sand. Wet pebbles sparkled at the edge of the water. Wren concentrated on following the line of Acorn’s moccasin prints.

Her head throbbed as if her brain had swollen and was trying to burst through her skull. She couldn’t see out of her right eye. Her chest hurt, too. Stabbing pains climbed from her belly all the way up to her throat. His kick must have broken her ribs.

The bulk of the war party stood in a circle two hundred paces ahead, looking at something. Voices rode the afternoon breeze, but she couldn’t hear their words.

Acorn muttered, “What are they looking at?”

Wren had no strength to answer. She shook her head.

Just after dawn, they’d discovered the two sets of adult footprints leading away from the lakeshore and up the snowy trail to the pine grove. She had seen Rumbler’s prints under the tips of the lowest boughs, and thanked the Spirits that Dust Moon and Silver Sparrow had found him.

But they’d left a trail.

After picking Rumbler up, they’d walked down toward the water. Their steps had vanished the instant they’d stepped onto the sand, but they’d been headed north.

It was enough.

As she neared the circle of warriors, Wren could see a fire pit dug into the sand. They hadn’t used all the wood they’d gathered. Several branches lay beside the pit, and charred grouse bones scattered the bed of ashes.

The tracks left no doubt. Three people had stopped here. One of them was Rumbler.

Jumping Badger walked around the pit, using the staff with the severed head like a walking stick. Matted greasy hair framed his slitted eyes. From the days on the trail, and the reflection of sunlight off snow, his skin had sunburned. The white scar across his throat stood out.

He pulled a stick from the woodpile and dug through the ashes.

“There is no warmth,” he declared. “But here, on the edge of the lake, the wind would have cooled the coals quickly. I say they are no more than three or four hands of time ahead of us.”

Rides-the-Bear grinned broadly. “So we will catch them today.” His ugly triangular face and thin nose bore streaks of soot. Both of his canine teeth had been knocked out many winters ago. Since that time, his two front teeth had inched outward, until now they stuck out like a beaver’s.

“Yes. Late this afternoon.”

Elk Ivory said, “War Leader, I do not think it wise to approach a village we attacked only a half moon ago when they can see us coming. Perhaps we should rest for a time, eat and drink. Then we can approach under the cover of darkness.”

Buckeye came to stand behind Elk Ivory, adding his voice. “I think that is prudent, War Leader. I was not with the last party, but—”

“But you think you know what is best for the rest of us,” Jumping Badger said in a low threatening voice, clearly upset that Buckeye had taken Elk Ivory’s side. “I think that those of us who have already risked our lives here once know better than you.”

Buckeye straightened to his full height, towering over the other warriors. “I don’t wish to die, War Leader. I don’t think anyone here wishes to. We want to accomplish our goals, and get out with the fewest losses possible. Attacking at night would seem the best way to do that.”

Jumping Badger held the staff high, and called to the assembled warriors. “Buckeye and Elk Ivory think we should sit here cowering in our moccasins until we can sneak into Sleeping Mist Village after dark. What do you say? Shall we act like mice afraid of our own shadows? Which of you is a mouse? Call out!”

The warriors milled around, whispering sullenly, but only Acorn lifted his hand.

Elk Ivory said, “For the sake of your ancestors, Jumping Badger, listen to reason.” The nostrils of her broad flat nose flared. She lifted her pointed chin, and tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “Being wary is not the same as being a coward. The survivors of Sleeping Mist Village must still be frightened and watchful. Do you want us to walk into an ambush?”

“I certainly don’t,” Buckeye said.

“You don’t,” Jumping Badger mocked. “Listen to the great Buckeye. He does not know what he may be facing and already he is recoiling from the fight. How many warriors do you think Sleeping Mist has, after our attack? Eh? What … ten? Maybe twelve?”