“Food and water,” he said softly, reaching through the bars as he passed slowly by. To an onlooker, it would just seem that he’d barely brushed the cage.
Nightshade said, “Bring me a hafted chert knife the night before equinox.”
“Yes, Elder.” He passed on, a feeling of relief filling him. The night before equinox? Good. That would be what, four days? Maybe three?
He paused, peering over the shoulders of the onlookers. Down the long rectangular stairway he could see masked Dancers, their bodies festooned with green cornstalks. They swayed and bent to the Song, each step of the sacred Dance made to assure the fruitfulness of the coming harvest.
If the Full Corn Dance was tonight, equinox was four days away.
He turned then, waving at the guard as he passed out through the gate. From the wall shadow, Cactus Flower appeared and took his arm. She had a canteen hung over her shoulder, and it bounced on her round hips.
“So,” she teased, “you live another night.”
“It would seem.”
“Good.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “I don’t know what it is about you. You’re certainly not handsome with those scars all over. You’re not smart, or you wouldn’t be feeding the witch. You’re not even a very good Trader.”
“Thank you,” he muttered dryly.
She shoved him playfully sideways. “Have you had your witch put some sort of spell on me?”
“No! Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Because my sheath has been itching for you all day long, and I can’t figure out why.”
Fifty
Orenda bent to pick another mint plant and glanced up at the sky where the drifting haze of blue smoke spread from the north across the entire eastern horizon. Through it, Father Sun’s face was a huge ruddy smear of red-brown light.
Ripple had been so intent when he’d asked her to come pick mint. Why? Had it been some curing he wanted her to do? The desperation in his eyes hadn’t allowed her any response but to agree.
Ever since he’d asked, she’d been puzzling over it. His simple gaze affected her in a way that left her forever uncomfortable.
One by one she stripped leaves from the stem and dropped them into her coarsely woven collecting bag. Discarding the stem, she was about to reach for another when a flash of red caught her eye. She eased down to one knee.
They were some distance away, just emerging from the trees on the other side of the valley. Even from this distance she could see it was a party of warriors. And, no, this was not the war chief returning. These war shirts were too bright, and two of the men wore white moccasins. They came on at a trot, heading for the river just below her.
She sank slowly to her belly before she began wiggling her way like a salamander for the stand of willows that stood just below the hot springs.
Once she had slithered into the concealing stems, she waited and watched. Hopefully they wouldn’t see the trail where she’d crushed the grass, mint, and daisies.
Her view was obscured as they stopped, drank, and then trotted into sight traveling in single file. She watched them work their way, panting, up and into the trees.
By the Long Nosed God, they couldn’t know where the village was, could they? Fear began to pound brightly.
What could she do? They were between her and the settlement. Were she to run with all her might, she could never circle around them in time to warn Night Sun.
The tall ponderosa cast slanting shadows as Leather Hand led his warriors across the mesa top. Dry pine needles crackled under his tough yucca trail sandals. He carried his bow at the low ready, an arrow nocked in preparation to be drawn and released.
To either side he could see his White Moccasins. Like the human wolves they were, they slipped from tree to tree, only the faint crackle of the pine needles audible.
Faint trails crisscrossed the mesa top, and here, for the first time, he found a tree where someone had just recently broken the dead branches from the lower trunk. A slow smile crossed his lips.
The young man was oblivious as he came walking down the trail. In his midteens, he appeared on the verge of manhood. Smooth brown skin covered a triangular face, his large brown eyes fixed on the ground before him. A load of firewood had been slung over his shoulder, and the perplexed frown on his forehead betrayed his preoccupation.
Leather Hand raised his right hand in the “ready” signal, and his men shifted silently behind the nearest cover.
Leather Hand stepped behind the thick trunk of a ponderosa, his heart quickening with the fever of war. He could hear the youth’s footsteps before he made out the muttering under the young man’s breath.
“Pick up firewood. Take out the ashes. Clean up after your brother.” A pause. “I hope lightning strikes them all dead.”