Panther steadied himself and used the sharp point to dimple the skin. Spinning the awl, he pierced her skin, then used the sharpened clamshell to open the wound. Clotted with blood, the dark stone point could be seen.
“All right.” Panther nodded at Nine Killer. “Push.”
Nine Killer sought to still the trembling in his muscles. Over the seasons, he’d done this often. One of the terrible realities of war was dealing with wounds. The worst were the ones where an arrow lanced its way through the guts. Even if the arrow could be withdrawn, the wounded person died within days of evil from the punctured intestines. It wasn’t a good way to die.
Thinking of that, he reached down and shoved the exposed shaft. As he did, Panther grasped the bloody stone point and pulled it through in one smooth motion. Sun Conch jerked, and clawed the matting with her good hand.
“There,” Panther said, and wiped at the sweat beading on his brow. He discarded the bloody arrow and pressed down firmly on her breast. “War Chief, massage her arm. We need to press as much of this tainted blood as we can from the wound. If we drain it well, the evil can’t establish as strong a hold.”
“And if we break the big artery?”
“Since the arrow didn’t cut it already, I’d say the chances are good that draining won’t.”
Nine Killer gently squeezed the muscle, watching as clotted red ran out to pool on the matting at Sun Conch’s side. He stopped when the blood ran bright and smooth.
“All right, now put pressure on the holes,” Panther directed. “Let’s see if we can stop the bleeding.”
Nine Killer did, watching as the old man worked on the girl. Panther did seem to have a great deal of practice with such things.
Green Serpent stepped up behind Nine Killer and began to shake his rattle, singing his “warding song” to inform any malicious Spirits that Sun Conch was under his protection. His soft chant seemed to ease Sun Conch, for the young woman lay back, breathing deeply. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted.
“What next?” Nine Killer asked.
“I’ll need nightshade leaves for a salve and cactus pads—fresh if you have any nearby—and smartweed to make a poultice to slow her bleeding.”
“We have these things. But the cactus pads are dried, brought from the dunes.” Green Serpent gestured to Streaked Bear, and the stocky priest hurried away. In his haste, he almost bowled over Hunting Hawk as she ducked through the doorway on rickety legs.
She hobbled across the floor to stare down at Sun Conch. “What happened?”
Panther looked up from his bloody hands. “She saved me, Weroansqua.” He indicated the bloody arrow on the matting. “That was meant for me. Meant to keep me from speaking tonight. Apparently, someone has been driven to desperation yet again.”
Hunting Hawk braced herself on her walking stick and closed her eyes, head bowed. “Then we should hear the truth of this, witch.”
Panther returned his attention to Sun Conch. In a lowered voice, he said, “I am no witch, Weroansqua. Were I, I’d have sent that arrow right back at the person who shot it at me.”
“Whose arrow is it?” Green Serpent asked. “Those markings, does anyone recognize them?”
Nine Killer nodded, hating to say it. “Yes. It belongs to Flat Willow.”
“Then bring him!” Hunting Hawk snapped. “We shall hear of this!”
“My warriors are already searching for him.” Nine Killer looked up. “But, Weroansqua, if it was he, we might not want to announce it too loudly.” With a twitch of his lips, he indicated the direction of the Great House.
She read his meaning in an instant, acknowledgment in the slitting of her eyes.
A scuffle, curses, and grunts could be heard outside, and amid growls, Flat Willow was shoved through the doorway to sprawl unceremoniously on the floor matting. Flying Weir and Many Dogs bulled through after him.
Flat Willow, his breech clout half-ripped from his waist, his reached hair flattened and in disarray, barely scrambled to his feet before the two warriors had him by the shoulders, marching him forward. They stopped two paces back, holding him between them.
“What is the meaning of this?” Flat Willow squirmed in their arms, his greased skin slipping in their grasp. A lump was rising on the side of his head, already about to swell his eye closed. Flying Weir had been none too gentle.
Hunting Hawk inspected him as she would a side of meat. Her gaze stopped at his shaved head with the solitary roach so similar to Copper Thunder’s.
Nine Killer could read her expression: Now we will get to the bottom of this. No one with sense challenged the Weroansqua when she had that look in her eye.