A cluster of small fires flickered at the edge of a rocky outcrop overlooking the river. At each a handful of people sat in the glow, their eyes turned toward Whistle as he approached.
To Bad Cast’s surprise, he could see Wrapped Wrist and Spots crouched over a small fire in the center of the camp. Both looked oddly out of place, reminding him of rabbits surrounded by a ring of coyotes. They were wide-eyed, with uneasy stares that added to the stiffness of their postures.
A faint smell of damp sulfur carried down the canyon on the evening breeze. It added to the sense of premonition that burned like a burr between Bad Cast’s souls. Overhead, a bat flitted on silent wings, cutting closely beside his ear, as if whispering a warning. Or was the night creature simply after the clinging mosquitoes that followed his movements with a gentle hum?
“Greetings to the camp,” Whistle called. “I come with a young man of the Moon People.”
“Come,” a gruff voice called, and a tall man rose from one of the peripheral fires. “We’ve been worried.”
“All went well, War Chief.” Whistle then turned, saying to Bad Cast, “Go and join your friends.”
Bad Cast, with more than a little apprehension, picked his way past the squatting warriors to Spots and Wrapped Wrist’s fire. As he did, two lean and muscular men, warriors from the look of them, rose and followed the grizzled giant Whistle had addressed as “War Chief” into the evening gloom.
Spots let out a soft sigh at the sight of Bad Cast. “We thought you were dead.”
Bad Cast took a seat beside Wrapped Wrist and glanced over his shoulder at the clusters of warriors. Firelight reflected in their intent eyes and gave them wolfish appearances. “I thought I was, too. But I don’t think Matron Larkspur has any idea who set that fire.”
“What about Ripple? Did anyone see us take him?”
“No. They hadn’t even discovered his escape by the time Whistle and I left.” He glanced around. “Speaking of Ripple, where is he?”
“They took him.” Wrapped Wrist reached over, offering him a ceramic bowl filled with stewed meat. “Hungry?”
“Who took him?”
“These warriors.” Wrapped Wrist made a circle with his finger as if to take in the camp. “Believe me, we weren’t in any position to object. That old one-eyed war chief ordered two men to take the litter. They trotted away out of sight.”
“Who are these people?” Bad Cast took the bowl, feeling heat radiating through its sides as he placed it on the ground and began plucking out bits of meat flavored with beeweed, yucca flower, and goosefoot seed.
“We have no idea.” Spots glanced surreptitiously to the growing darkness and the men who watched them with hawkish eyes. “They come from all over, but most are from the Made People clans. They say they’re with the Mountain Witch. There are at least two tens of them. Some are scattered out along the passes and valleys as scouts and sentries. They wear a hodgepodge of clothes, some of Made People design; some have red warriors’ shirts. No matter where they come from, they all look pretty mean, and their weapons are cared for and well used.”
“Then,” Bad Cast added, “that old one-eyed man is probably Ironwood.”
“Ironwood?” Wrapped Wrist asked incredulously. “You think that’s really him?”
“Whistle said he worked for Ironwood, that the war chief was allied with the Mountain Witch.” He smiled at the stunned disbelief in his friend’s eyes. “It isn’t every day that you meet a legend, is it?”
When Wrapped Wrist found his voice, he asked, “What happened back at Pinnacle Great House? You really think we got away with it?”
“As far as I know.” He jerked a thumb toward the darkness where Whistle talked with the war chief and the two warriors. “Whistle spent the night with Matron Larkspur. Shared her bed.”
Spots was round-eyed. “Who is he?”
“One of Ironwood’s warriors. He claims to be of the Bee Flower Clan, but I’ve never heard of him.”
“Bad Cast,” Spots asked softly, his eyes on the surrounding warriors, “what’s going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know.” He followed Spots’s gaze. One by one, he inspected the warriors who surrounded them. Their postures, the alert eyes, even the air of tension about them reeked of deadly earnest.
Spots asked, “Do you really think that’s Ironwood?”
“He’s spooky enough to be.” Wrapped Wrist rubbed his hands down his muscular shins. “That patch he wears … It is said that Jay Bird blinded his left eye. And the scars on his body—they look like those left on a man who was tortured almost to the death.”