“His men,” Spots added, “obey him with a passion that I have never seen before. Were he to order them to cut their own throats I think they’d just nod and do it right on the spot.”
“Spooky,” Wrapped Wrist repeated.
Bad Cast chewed the succulent meat, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d eaten. “What did he say to you?”
“He asked us over and over to tell him everything we could about Ripple’s vision.” Wrapped Wrist frowned. “Unlike the others, he listened very intently, thinking about everything Ripple told us.”
“Did he believe it?”
Spots made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, but the content of Ripple’s vision is very important to him.”
Bad Cast puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled. “What do you think?”
Wrapped Wrist shifted uneasily. “How do I know? But consider this: You didn’t get a chance to really see what they did to Ripple. Before the fever drove his souls away, he told us that Burning Smoke, Larkspur, and Water Bow worked on him. They tried to get him to reveal and denounce Cold Bringing Woman’s vision. He said he wouldn’t do it.”
Spots swallowed hard. “Look, we all know Ripple. I’ll tell you just what I told that one-eyed war chief. To endure what he did at the hands of the First People, Ripple believes that Cold Bringing Woman really came and spoke to him.”
A shiver ran down Bad Cast’s spine. “So, when can we go home?”
“Not anytime soon,” the gruff voice said from behind.
Bad Cast turned to see the one-eyed war chief leading the others back toward the fire. The patch over his left eye was like a slash of darkness across his weathered face. Despite his age, he still moved with the liquid grace of a bobcat. He seated himself cross-legged; his good right eye fixed thoughtfully on Bad Cast.
Is this really the infamous Ironwood? It was hard to believe that the subject of story and legend sat just across from him. But then, the man exuded a dangerous quality, a sensation that the slightest mistake might let loose a maelstrom.
Whistle dropped with a grunt, reached for the meat bowl beside Bad Cast, then asked, “Is there time to involve the Mogollon?”
The one-eyed man’s gaze went to the fire. For a long moment he considered. “I think not. Not only would it be a risk for them without many benefits, but communications through the middle of the Blessed Sun’s holdings would be precarious at best. No, if we are to do this, it must be done here, among ourselves.”
“Do what?” Bad Cast blurted, and then regretted it as that piercing eye fixed on him.
Instead of a reprimand, the war chief said, “A great many things are in the offing, young hunter.” A wry smile came to his lips. “Our world hangs in the balance. One way, we bring it back into harmony and continue to enjoy life as we know it. In the other … well, let us simply hope the signs are more favorable.”
At that moment, a young woman came trotting in from the dark. She was tall, lithe of body, perfectly proportioned. A warrior’s feather curled up from the gleaming black bun at the back of her head. She also wore a red war shirt, faded now, belted as if to emphasize her narrow waist and round hips. Her face was a perfect heart shape; her small mouth was taut. The flinty anger in her eyes seemed at odds with her delicate nose. A bow cased in bobcat hide rested diagonally atop the bark quiver on her back. She carried a large wicker shield on her left arm, and a slim but deadly looking war club was tied to her belt. She barely noticed the others, but her eyes pinned Whistle with a tightly focused fury.
Bad Cast wasn’t sure, but Whistle seemed to flinch, and then squirm as he looked everywhere but at the striking woman. Her gaze narrowed the slightest bit; she knelt beside the war chief, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke into the man’s ear.
Whatever she said didn’t seem to please him. The lines around his mouth hardened. After the woman finished, she stood, and without another glance, strode off to one of the outlying fires.
Ironwood’s brow furrowed as he stared into the fire. “Your friend Ripple is on his way to one of our Healers. Nightsh—the Mountain Witch is unsure if he will live or not. She says his souls are no longer with his body.”
“He’s dying?” Wrapped Wrist asked, his eyes straying to where the woman had joined the warriors’ fire.
“That depends on whether his souls decide to return to his body.” Ironwood rubbed his callused hands together.
“And if he dies? Is that a problem?” Whistle asked.
The war chief said softly, “I want to hear from his own lips about Old Woman North’s prophecy. We travel a perilous trail. The slightest misstep could send us all to our dooms.”