People of the Moon(3)

“We can’t fight the Blessed Sun,” Wrapped Wrist reminded. “No one has ever beaten the Red Shirts in a pitched fight.”

“Jay Bird has,” Bad Cast reminded. “He not only sacked Talon Town, he squarely whipped Webworm when he tried to recover the captives and retaliate.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Doubles?”

“Done!” Wrapped Wrist agreed, then said, “The Fire Dogs are professional warriors. Chief Jay Bird spent his life as a war chief. Like the First People, he has warriors who do nothing but train.” He turned, sweeping his arm across the valley. “Look out there. All you’ll see is farmers and hunters like us. What do we know about war?”

“I didn’t mean we’d go to war.” Bad Cast threw, and cursed as five crosses came up. In resignation he counted out five pieces to each of the others.

“Then what?” Spots asked.

“I only meant that the Blessed Sun wouldn’t seize our entire harvest. It would be stupid. We’re some of his most reliable providers. He needs us.”

Spots took the cup. “You’re probably right. Besides, it wouldn’t make sense to anger the elders. If there was unrest here the Blessed Sun would have to station even more warriors in the valley. He needs every man he’s got to keep down the troublemakers over west and down in the Red Rock country.” He rattled the gaming pieces. “Doubles?”

“Triples,” Bad Cast cried. “With the right throw, I can break you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Wrapped Wrist warned as he stared down at his little pile of stones. “Nope. Not me. I’m out, and you, Bad Cast, are a fool.”

“Trust me. I’ve seen how Spots’s luck is running today. Sometimes Power rides crosswise on a man’s shoulders. Today simply isn’t his day, and I’m going to own that abalone shell pendant by nightfall.”

“I’m still out.” Wrapped Wrist leaned back with finality.

“Triples, it is.” Spots closed his eyes, sighed, and rattled the cup. Then he lifted it to his lips, blew softly on the inside, and cast. For a moment he couldn’t look; then he squinted his right eye to a slit, daring to peek.

“Gods!” Bad Cast cried.

Spots let out a whoop, opening both eyes and leaning forward to savor the sight of all six pieces with their hatched sides to the sun. “Triples! And then doubled! Let’s see, that’s how many?” He started counting on his fingers.

“Three tens and six,” Wrapped Wrist said woodenly. He was watching Bad Cast’s expression of complete horror as he added, “Yes, indeed. The gods are riding crosswise on Spots’s shoulders today.”

Bad Cast slumped sickly as he started counting out the round black stones. “Three tens and six?”

“You’re three short.” Spots held up three fingers defiantly. “Three! How’re you going to pay up?”

Bad Cast looked at Wrapped Wrist. “Could I borrow three? I’ll get them right back.”

“Absolutely not.” Wrapped Wrist crossed his arms. “I didn’t think you were sane when you made the bet, and you’re more crazy now.”

“Ripple would loan me the pieces if he was here.”

“Well, he’s not.” Spots leaned forward, jaw cocked. “So, let’s see. You wanted my abalone pendant? Huh? What do I want of yours?”

“He doesn’t have much,” Wrapped Wrist noted. “Just that blanket back there.”

“Soft Cloth made that for me. It was a gift!” Bad Cast reached back and pawed the blanket toward him. It was a beautiful thing, red-and-black striped and decorated with round shell buttons and patterns of tubular beads made from bird bones.

“You know,” Wrapped Wrist added, “according to the rules, he’s three short. That’s three different things you could demand of him.”

“Right!” Spots clapped his hands. “I want your atlatl”—he squinted at Bad Cast—“and that hunting shirt you’re wearing.”

“What? That’s all I’ve got on!”

“A man shouldn’t play if he can’t stand to lose,” Wrapped Wrist said idly, his eyes drifting off to the north, where the valley narrowed around the River of Stones.

Bad Cast stared in disbelief, seeing no give in Spots’s eyes. Reluctantly he pulled his shirt over his head, wadded it, and threw it at Spots.

“Ah, there they are: the lordly males.” Soft Cloth’s voice carried on the warm afternoon. Bad Cast winced, craning his head to look up the hill. Through the piñon branches he could see his wife—their three-moon-old daughter riding in the crook of her arm—as she picked her way down the trail. Gods, no! Of all the times for her to pick … .