The big-boned man was blinking, a stunned look in his dumb eyes.
Leather Hand gestured for Tracker. The scout trotted up, a deep reserve behind his black eyes.
“You speak their tongue?” Leather Hand asked.
“Some.”
“Tell them they stole from the Blessed Sun and murdered one of his Priests.”
Tracker’s voice rose, stilling the babble, even softening the sobbing of the children. The girl under Turquoise Fox made a choking sound as he pried her legs apart and settled between them.
“Tell them,” Leather Hand continued, “that by their actions, they have lost their souls.”
As Tracker spoke, the big-boned man’s expression fell. A distance grew behind his eyes, as if somehow, behind that blocky, dumb-looking face, he had finally come to understand. Despite his expression of confusion, he pulled loose from his wife and began calling out, slapping himself emphatically on the chest.
As the rest of the warriors cast anxious glances in the direction of Turquoise Fox, Tracker translated, “He says his name is Bulrush. He says it is all his fault. He has done this thing, and no other. His wife, his children, his kin, and friends, are all innocent.”
Bulrush slapped his chest again, and Tracker translated, “He says that the Blessed Sun’s warriors need not punish anyone but him.”
The woman at his feet let out a piercing wail, her thin arms reaching up to pull at the man’s tattered shirt.
“Bring him,” Leather Hand ordered.
Two of his warriors stepped forward to drag the man away from the circle of cowering captives. One had to kick the woman’s arms to loosen her grip on the man’s garment. Another warrior blocked her, raising his war club.
Bulrush was cast into the dirt before Leather Hand. The man straightened, staring anxiously into Leather Hand’s eyes. The corners of his lips quivered, and the vein in his neck pulsed with an insectlike intensity. His desperate eyes had gone glassy.
“You poor deluded fool,” Leather Hand told him in the Made People’s tongue. “Two men were followed to this village. Two other men were followed to other farmsteads near here. We know who committed the crimes against the First People.”
Lowering his eyes, he mumbled, “My family starves.”
“Oh, believe me, none of your people will die from starvation.”
At the sudden hope in the man’s eyes, Leather Hand smiled. “Get down on your belly.”
The man shot a quick look at his wife. The woman was chewing nervously on a knotted fist, her other arm hugging her remaining child.
Bulrush laid himself on the ground, his head turned toward his wife and son. His thick body shivered, lungs rising and falling.
Leather Hand placed his foot squarely on Bulrush’s neck and shifted his grip on his war club. The man’s breathing grew labored. Through his foot, Leather Hand could feel Bulrush swallow.
“This is but the beginning of the suffering for those who would mock the Blessed Sun’s Power!” And with that, he swung his stone-headed war club down, deftly crushing the base of Bulrush’s skull.
The woman’s scream might have come from some dying night animal.
Leather Hand bore down with all his weight as the man’s body convulsed and finally relaxed.
He frowned at the women, curious at his own reluctance for what was going to come next. “Save the women for last. Consider it tenderizing before the meal.”
He watched as one of the warriors dragged the woman away from her child. The little girl began squealing, clawing at her mother’s leg.
The warrior called Two Needle sliced neatly down with his war club, crushing the little girl’s skull. The others waded in, clubs rising and falling. From behind the bulk of the pit house, the sound of ripping fabric could be heard over the woman’s sobs.
When most of it was over, Leather Hand gestured to the storehouses out back. “Bring wood. I want them cut up and cooked.”
The warriors shot him a surprised look, Black Rabbit asking, “Cooked, War Chief?”
“That’s right, warrior. To eat.”
“Who’s going to …” His face lost all color.
“We are going to teach the world a grim lesson here.”
As Whistle and Bad Cast climbed the stairs that led onto the Pinnacle Great House roof, Deputy War Chief Burning Smoke emerged from the First People’s kiva. He gave Whistle a curious look, taking in his red war shirt and the bedraggled-looking Bad Cast. In the half-light of dusk, he stepped forward and clasped the warrior by his shoulders, a smile breaking his lips.
“It is good to see you, old friend.”
“And you,” Whistle replied. “I come with a message from the Blessed Sun.” He turned, looking at Bad Cast. “You, slave, over there. Against that wall.” He pointed at the blocks of rooms that rose in tiers to form the north wall. “You know your duties.”