“Well, you know how deer circle.” He licked his lips. “Sorry, I—I have to go. I’ll make it up to you, f promise.”
As High Fox edged wide around Flat Willow, he saw the dark red stain on High Fox’s right hand. “Are you hurt?” Flat Willow asked.
“Just a cut.” But tears glimmered in his eyes. He fought to blink them away. “A foolish fall. My hand landed on an old stump.”
“It happens. Be more careful.”
“Yes, I will. Good hunting!” High Fox called, and hurried off. Good hunting? Flat Willow wondered as he watched High Fox running down the trail. He shook his head, and turned back to where he’d taken his shot. He started out to find his lost arrow, but the oddness of it all stopped him. What had High Fox been doing here? And most of all, just what had he seen to set him off like that?
Reluctantly, Flat Willow gave up on the arrow for the time being, and cut back to the trail. He followed it down far enough to see Oyster Shell Landing through the gray tracery of branches.
High Fox was pushing a slim canoe out into the water. Then he jumped lithely into the boat, seated himself, and began paddling down the inlet. If he’d cut his hand as badly as the blood would indicate, it didn’t seem to hinder him.
Flat Willow dropped to a crouch. Why would High Fox have a canoe beached on this side of the neck? Why hadn’t he landed at Flat Pearl Village?
“Well, High Fox, it’s going to be good riddance. You stupid fool!” High Fox, the Weroance’s spoiled son, had had everything —even Red Knot. But, as of that very morning, Flat Willow had taken charge, begun the slow process of paying them all back.
You’ll see, High Fox. You’ll never underestimate Flat Willow again. He slapped his thigh and rose to resume the search for his lost arrow.
Three
Hunting Hawk ground her empty gums against each other. By midday, it had become apparent that Red Knot was missing. A quick search of the buildings within the palisade came up empty, as did the search of the houses in the fields just beyond. Hunting Hawk scowled at the people gathered within the palisade. Why did organizing for a search create so much milling and confusion? Even fish—mindless as they were—could come together without much effort.
The visitors from the surrounding villages stood in little clumps, talking to each other in low voices. That wary look on their faces irritated her. Curse it all, it was an embarrassment.
Copper Thunder stood to one side, his warriors in ranks behind him. She studied his face, trying to read the sardonic expression. Was that smugness, wry humor, or subtle irony?
To her right, Nine Killer’s lieutenants, Stone Cob and Flying Weir, were calling out orders as Nine Killer detailed parties of warriors to search different areas. Nine Killer didn’t look like a War Chief. Most of the women were taller than he, but looks could deceive. Heavy lidded eyes and fat cheeks made him appear sleepy and lazy. Broad-lipped and wide, the man’s mouth gave him a bland expression. Those bandy legs might not be fast, but they could carry him long after the swiftest of runners had played out. His too-long arms could paddle a canoe nonstop the length of the Salt Water Bay. And as Nine Killer liked to point out, there was a great deal more to war than imposing size. He’d won his name after having snuck into Mattaponi Village and single-handedly killed the Weroance and eight of his warriors, then, to the bafflement of his enemy, mysteriously vanished into the night. One didn’t underestimate a man like that.
“Very well, let’s go!” Nine Killer called out, and thrust his bow toward the palisade gate. “You know what to look for. She’s probably just wandered off to be alone, but don’t take chances. Ignore nothing suspicious.”
His warriors trotted out sharply, heads held high, backs straight. As they went they clacked war clubs against their bows, the clatter in time to each prancing step.
Hunting Hawk shot a sly glance at Copper Thunder and his warriors, fully aware that the show was for their benefit. The visitors remained expressionless, some looking studiously bored, but she could see the gleam in those dark eyes. The scrappy reputation of Greenstone Clan’s warriors had been fairly won. Even the Mamanatowick, Water Snake, despite all the resources of his subchiefs, avoided clashes with Greenstone Clan.
Black Spike, Weroance of Three Myrtle Village, stood on the other side of the dance ground, his arms crossed as he watched the warriors depart. His strained expression, the tension in his posture, caught Hunting Hawk’s attention.
Black Spike had always been a handsome man, tall, muscular, and quick of wit and action. Three Myrtle Village lay half a day’s journey east in the next large inlet. Over the years, the two villages—mostly populated by Greenstone Clan—had allied themselves for practical and political purposes. Her own daughter, Shell Comb, had lived there during the time she’d been married to Monster Bone.