His quarry turned off at the outskirts of the River Mounds, and here the hunt grew more difficult. Had the city been built in any kind of order, the stalk would have been easier. Bleeding Hawk could have anticipated his prey’s direction. Instead, Bleeding Hawk had to proceed in leaps, waiting until the thief had walked behind a building or latrine screen before he could hurry forward and sneak a peek.
Adding to the problem, the thief seemed to know everyone, stopping to chat at workshops and stalls, calling people by name, laughing and joking. At one he’d pick up a piece of pottery, holding it up to the light as the maker pointed out decorations. At the next he’d be handed a piece of fabric by some weaver who winked at him and was in turn slapped on the back.
Through it all, Bleeding Hawk had to circle, portraying to the other locals as if he were not stalking someone, but was simply lost, or bemused. Often, when he’d try to circle around a building for another vantage point to watch his prey, he’d find the way blocked and have to hurry back. More than once he barely caught a glimpse of his vanishing target as the thief’s broad back disappeared down some narrow way.
Then the process would begin again as some passerby called out a greeting and stopped the thief for a brief chat. There would be more laughing, stories or jokes, and then a drawn out parting with some kind of incomprehensible promises called back and forth.
Bleeding Hawk didn’t need to speak the language to understand the gist of the conversations. But how did a thief amass so many obvious friends? Among the Tula, the moment a man’s dishonesty was discovered, he would be staked out in the sun naked, a slit cut in his belly, and a length of intestine pulled out for the camp dogs to fight over. Here, among these people, the miscreant appeared to be celebrated!
A convenient section of woven matting provided cover, yet allowed Bleeding Hawk to stare through the lattice as the thief Traded a bit of shell to obtain a leaf of tobacco from yet another of his endless associates. More laughing and joking ensued before the thief bit off a section of leaf and walked off chewing it.
After what seemed an eternity of delays, that moment of glee began to grow in Bleeding Hawk’s breast. Better and better! The thief was making his way straight for the tightly packed warehouses above the canoe landing. And somewhere in that random and chaotic warren of buildings, away from the workshops and Trader’s stalls, the unconcerned fool would be entirely alone and vulnerable.
Stepping behind a latrine screen, Bleeding Hawk paused just long enough to pull his beloved bow from the tanned-hide case that hung from his back. Bracing it with his foot, he used his hip to bend and string it. Then he pulled the rawhide quiver from the case and slung it over his shoulder.
As he passed the last of the workshops, he nodded and smiled at the workers who looked up from their grinding, sanding, cutting, and carving. All the while, he kept his distance, comparing what he knew of this district to the direction the thief seemed to pursue.
Blessed be Power, I know this place.
He needed to close the distance now. The warehouses, granaries, and storage facilities were packed tight here. This was the highest elevation on the levee, the least susceptible to floods.
All Bleeding Hawk required was a narrow passage, time enough to whip an arrow from his quiver, and a momentary glimpse of the thief’s broad and unprotected back.
The next passage would fulfill all those requirements. To his absolute delight, the warehouse where they stayed was but a couple of buildings over. If the thief went right where the next plaster-walled building blocked the way, it would lead to a dead end, but surely, the …
No, to Bleeding Hawk’s amazement, the man took the one-way turn into the dead end. Why? The explanation leaped into Bleeding Hawk’s brain: a man had to empty his water somewhere. It had been all morning that he’d been following the fool.
Bleeding Hawk drew his arrow, nocked it, and sprinted around the curving wall of the warehouse. Even as the narrow alleyway appeared, he was drawing, taking his bead on the long Cahokian war arrow.…
Bobcat, old friend, I send you this foul maggot’s soul!
Thirty-nine
Seven Skull Shield would have grinned if his mouth hadn’t been full of tobacco juice. He continued rolling and crushing the quid between his molars, filling his mouth with the rich tang. Sister tobacco’s magic fingers were stroking his muscles, bones, and blood with her enchanting tingle.
Anyone who didn’t know the doorway was there would have thought someone entering the dead-end passage had just up and disappeared. Through the crack, he could see the man’s dark shadow as it passed. His stalker walked on cat feet, so quiet was he.