People of the Mist(82)

That will be all, thank you, warrior.” Hunting Hawk waved her dismissal. Flying Weir rose to his feet and beat a hasty retreat from her Great House. The door hanging swayed back and forth after his passing.

Hunting Hawk fingered her chin absently, staring down the house to the front room. There, the slaves sat by the first fire, talking among themselves in low voices. Now, with Flying Weir’s departure, they stood and began their evening chores. They were a mixed lot, some taken from the Mamanatowick’s land, others from the Conoy, and two, oddly enough, from the Susquehannocks once when they raided this far south. Taking slaves was a mark of triumph, a trophy of a battle hard fought or a raid perfectly executed. The men, of course, were killed outright. Only the women and children were kept, being, by nature, more pliable.

Hunting Hawk watched the flames leap and dance for a moment. The mellow light cast a tawny glow on the grass matting of the interior walls. It sent eerie shadows flitting across the sooty rafters overhead. Slavery for her people was what she was trying desperately to avoid.

Instead of High Fox safely in her grasp, the situation was ever more out of her control. Her fire barely held the night’s chill at bay, and couldn’t possibly illuminate the darkness in her soul.

Shell Comb sat by her side and, next to her, Yellow Net. The slaves shot them surreptitious glances as they went about rolling out the sleeping robes. From Flying Weir she had heard the entire account of the expedition against Three Myrtle. What should she do with The Panther? Shower him with gifts in thanks, or have someone sneak up behind him and bash the brains out of his skull?

“Tell me, just what were you trying to do down there?” Hunting Hawk asked her daughter. “Prove to the world that you’re a mindless fool?”

Shell Comb gave her a steely glare. “We have nothing to hide. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Hunting Hawk closed her eyes, taking the moment to collect, herself. “Daughter, it’s not a matter of what we’ve done, or not done. It’s a matter of controlling our own affairs. Don’t you understand that?”

“He’s not going to find anything.”

“Good! Well, why not invite the Mamanatowick inside our gates to dig into our business, too? He won’t find anything either, will he?”

“It’s not like that!” Shell Comb protested. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

Yellow Net stood then, wiping her hands on a rag. “If you will excuse me, Weroansqua, I think I’d better—”

“What? Not interested in another family quarrel?”

Hunting Hawk asked bitterly as she studied Shell Comb through half-lidded eyes.

“It’s late,” Yellow Net pleaded. “Quick Fawn should have everything ready for bed. Good night, Weroansqua. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Good night, niece.” Hunting Hawk rubbed her shivering arms and reached for a softly tanned deerskin blanket, its surface covered with blue peak, the highly prized blue shell beads. This she wrapped tightly about her, as if to ward off more than the cold. After Yellow Net had ducked out into the night, she said, “Shell Comb, the only time I’m ridiculous js when you make me look that way.”

“I wasn’t near the problem Nine Killer was. If you have wrath, I’d turn it his way instead of at your own family.”

“Don’t you see what’s happening here? We’re about to come apart. Whoever killed Red Knot is trying to kill us all! I took a gamble by pledging the girl to Copper Thunder. With an alliance by marriage, I hoped to play him against Water Snake and Stone Frog, use him as a big ugly bear to take swipes at the wolves snapping at our flanks. And now what? Eh? I ask you?”

Shell Comb lowered her eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” Hunting Hawk continued. “Now I’ve got that very same bear here, lingering, watching, learning our weaknesses while he lives in our midst. I can’t throw him out! He’s here as our guest. If I tell him to leave, he has all the excuse he needs to turn his warriors loose on us.”

Shell Comb nervously creased the hem of her doeskin dress, her mouth pursed.

“And to the south, the Mamanatowick licks his lips, fully aware by now that disaster has struck and the Independent villages are about to lunge for each other’s throats. Do you think he’ll just sit down there in Appa mat tuck Village and roast hazelnuts on his fire? While to the north, you know that word will reach Stone Frog, and his Conoy warriors will be asking questions, just to see how disorganized we are.” She pointed a finger. “And do you think that our people don’t understand this? That they’re not frightened by the consequences?”