Red-Dew-Eagle led the masked Dancers away from the fire. They fell into line behind him, and shuffled to the outskirts of the gathering where they stood in the shadows, watching and listening.
Starflower sank wearily to the log that had been drawn up for her by the fire. Her eldest daughter, Yellow Leaf Blowing, draped a blanket around her frail old shoulders and said something soft. Starflower nodded and gratefully patted her daughter’s hand.
Uncle Blue Raven stepped forward. He had a curious dignity about him. He stood tall and erect, his soft brown eyes calm. He waited until only the crackling of the flames filled the silence.
“I arrived in the council house after White Kit’s death,” he said in a deep ringing voice, “but I studied her wounds while her family prepared her for burial. I ask that each of you do the same before you cast your voice tonight. Though Rumbler, known as the False Face Child, did stab Kit, he did it out of a little boy’s fear and desperation. The knife did not penetrate! It struck a rib! You may see this for yourselves. It struck a rib and the boy threw the knife down. That was how it happened.” He made a helpless gesture. “I cannot say why Kit’s souls fled. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps Falling Woman simply decided to take Kit from her body. Kit had seen seventy winters. That is a long time for anyone.”
Gasps and cries of disbelief mingled with the wailing of the bereaved. The crowd seemed to surge forward, closing in around Uncle Blue Raven like cougars scenting prey.
He shouted, “Hear me! You may each go into the council house and see the place where the deed was done. The amount of blood on the floor is not enough to fill a horn spoon. I give you my pledge!”
“And what of Mossybill and Skullcap?” someone shouted. “Did Falling Woman take them, too?”
Little Wren got on her knees to see who had spoken. Rides-the-Bear sat cross-legged, glaring at Uncle Blue Raven as if he wished to strike him. A muscular man of twenty winters, he had a thick square-jawed face and small, slanting eyes. The blue images of Falcon and Hawk painted his cape.
“Their deaths,” Blue Raven replied, “trouble me deeply. They were friends to us all, but Starflower has already told you that Rumbler was across the village when they died. He could not have harmed them!”
“False Faces and sorcerers can send their souls flying! We all know this!” Mossybill’s wife, Loon, shouted.
Wren craned her neck to see, but could only make out Loon’s red cape.
“Come forward,” Blue Raven called gently. “We all wish to hear your thoughts, Loon.”
She pushed through the crowd and into the fire’s orange halo. Her once-long beautiful hair had been hacked off in mourning. “This is foolishness, Blue Raven,” she said. “Who has not heard the stories of this child’s Powers?” Her swollen eyes searched the crowd. Nods went round. “They say it kills animals with a word. Perhaps that’s what it did to my husband. He—he was foaming at the mouth, and …” Her voice went tight, and for a long while she could not speak. “And he died jerking and clawing at his own flesh!”
“I know, Loon,” Blue Raven said softly, “but you must set your feelings aside and look at the facts.”
“There are no wounds on my husband’s body! Oh, some scratches, on his neck and arms, but those might have come from running through brush. I searched every part of him!” Her gaze fixed on the False Face Child, and she reflexively stepped backward. “I know only that I have no husband, and my children have no father. I tell you this evil Spirit is more Powerful than Falling Woman! It murdered Mossybill. I am sure of it!”
Shouts of agreement rose, and Uncle Blue Raven’s face tensed. He spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “Please think about this, Loon. We must wait until we have all—”
“Wait?” Loon shouted. “For the False Face to kill another?”
“Please, Loon. If the boy were that Powerful, how do you imagine that we could attack his village? Why didn’t he kill our warriors with a word the instant they arrived? Why is Jumping Badger standing over there next to that birch tree? Surely Rumbler saw him when he first entered Paint Rock Village. Why would the boy let Jumping Badger, of all people, live?”
Rumbler’s head swiveled and his black gaze fixed on Jumping Badger, as if seeing the war leader for the first time.
Jumping Badger tried to stare the boy down, but couldn’t. When he dropped his gaze, hisses eddied through the gathering.
Little Wren could feel it. Building. Fear clutched at her throat like an invisible hand. She huddled deeper into her blanket, and examined Rumbler. His intent gaze swept Jumping Badger from head to moccasins, as if memorizing every feature of the man who had murdered his people.