People of the Moon(163)
Night Sun added, “We have just ordered Whistle to travel to the First Moon villages. Perhaps he will intercept Crow Woman on the way; if not, he will give White Eye our proposed plan of attack.”
Bad Cast frowned. “We have a plan of attack?” He indicated his piles of stone and dirt, so laboriously crafted. “I thought you’d make that based on my re-creation of First Moon Mountain.”
Ironwood gave him a cunning smile. “Actually, I’ve had the plan in my head for some time. That’s why I wanted you to build this copy of your mountain as faithfully as possible. I want my warriors to study it intimately. We will begin as soon as I can have them assembled. We are going to learn your mountain front and back, every drainage and crack, every village, forest, and cliff.”
“But what about Whistle?” Bad Cast said in confusion.
“Whistle knows.”
“But he didn’t say anything about it while I was working on this. Only that it had to show all the mountain’s features.”
“I’m sure he didn’t.” Ironwood was inspecting the panorama, squinting as he walked around. “He will tell White Eye what I need from his First Moon clans. With their help, I can crack Pinnacle House like a piñon nut in a mortar.”
Ripple’s face blanched. “Then it’s begun.”
Night Sun had a flinty look in her eyes. “It has Dreamer.” She stepped over to the miniature and pointed to the steep northern slope of First Moon Mountain. The loose dirt bristled with needles that Bad Cast had carefully planted to indicate forest. “Our warriors will scale this side in the darkness of the second night after Sister Moon comes full.” She bent pointing to the flat incline of the southwestern slope. “The First Moon clans will assemble their warriors here. Whistle will tell White Eye to make an attack toward Guest House at first light. They need only draw the attention of Webworm’s warriors to the slope.”
Ripple’s voice had a singsong lilt. “No matter what plans are made, success eludes us until blood is paid.”
“What does that mean, Dreamer?” Night Sun demanded.
“We shall succeed, but we will each, in our own way, pay a terrible cost.”
Ironwood stepped forward, demanding, “What cost? I must know.”
Ripple raised his hand. “Ask yourself, War Chief, do you really want to add my burden to your own? Are your shoulders that wide and strong? No, I thought not. I can see it in your eyes. You have accepted your destiny; now allow me to accept mine.” With that he turned, walking slowly, head down, toward the forest.
“Ripple?” Bad Cast called, starting in pursuit. “Is there anything I can do?’
“No, old friend. But soon. Very soon.”
Bad Cast slowed to a stop and would have sworn Ripple’s shoulders were heaving with sobs, but it might have been caused by his friend’s stumbling pace.
Wrapped Wrist puzzled over what to do next. He hurried from tree to tree in the darkening forest. Dry needles crackled under his feet. The ponderosa had turned gloomy and dark; their thick boles barely hid his wide frame. The pungent odor of smoke from the distant forest fire carried on the wind.
A chickadee chattered. Some of the evening birds warbled in lonesome melody. The first of the night creatures were stirring.
He had always liked this time of day—the quick transition into night—because of the stillness that leached from the trees, rocks, and soil. Even the air seemed to grow heavy, lethargic. In silence, the shadows swelled, encompassing the world. He’d always felt at peace.
This time as darkness settled around him, he dared not. His heart hammered, skin hot and sweaty. Nerves made his guts squirm. Fear was proving an uncomfortable and unwelcome companion. He wondered how the heroes in the stories dealt with this sense of incipient panic. All he wanted to do was run away.
Instead he continued creeping from tree trunk to tree trunk, each time hoping that none of the warriors would look back in his direction.
In the gloom they had become slinking shadows, and worse, the forest floor here was littered with old cones, crackly duff, and fallen branches that could snap underfoot and give his presence away.
Four of them! The notion rolled around in Wrapped Wrist’s head. Four dreaded Red Shirts, trained warriors! What in the name of the gods was he going to do?
Since he’d been a babe on a teat, it had been beaten into him that Red Shirts fought like Spirit Demons unleashed. They trained for war, perfecting their arts the way hunters perfected the stalk, or potters their vessels.
I’m just a hunter. How can I hope to prevail?
They were armed with bows, each carrying a full quiver of arrows. He had only his atlatl and three darts. A good bowman could have six arrows in the air before the first landed. The atlatl allowed him but three casts, each demanding that he stand, step, and release. Atlatls were weapons suited to hunting, not war. If they discovered him, he’d have no better chance than a rabbit caught on sandstone slickrock.