“Are you all right, Cornsilk?”
She wiped the tears from her face and smeared the drops of blood. They streaked her cheeks in ghoulish patterns. “Let’s hurry,” she said as she scanned the forest. “I won’t feel really safe until we’re out in the open—away f-from here.”
Poor Singer went to pick up Swallowtail’s bow and quiver of arrows. As he slipped the quiver over his left shoulder, he looked again at the dead boy. Poor Singer had never killed a human being before. He had killed animals for food and hides, but this … Flies crawled hungrily over Swallowtail’s crushed face. What should have sickened him left only a hollow sensation in the pit of his gut.
Clutching the bow in his right hand, he walked back, placed his left arm around Cornsilk, and hugged her as they headed downhill.
* * *
Night Sun forced herself to watch, her heartbeat sickeningly loud in her ears. Watch! So you can tell the story … someone must tell the story.
Ironwood stumbled, and fell to his knees. The crowd went wild. They rushed forward, jeering and throwing stones at him. He futilely lifted his arms to protect himself, but the rocks battered his bloody flesh. Soft grunts escaped his lips as he groped about, seemingly in a daze. Then his hand curled around a stone, and with a quick pitch, he lobbed it back at his tormentors.
An agile warrior ducked, but the stone thumped hollowly against an old woman’s breast, toppling her backward amidst shrieks of pain.
Some of the Mogollon roared, relatives of the old woman, no doubt. Others hooted in approbation of a warrior who still fought back.
Night Sun couldn’t breathe. As Father Sun rose toward noon, he poured a harsh white light upon the plaza. How long has it been? Two hands of time. More? Blessed Ancestors, let this end!
“Get him up!” Jay Bird shouted, and gestured to the guards. The elderly Chief’s eyes had taken on a monstrous gleam of delight. He was smiling. “Howler! Drag him to his feet! And be mindful of the stones he throws!” Jay Bird gripped his own lance, ready to deliver the final blow when the time came.
Howler and another warrior broke from the line and hauled Ironwood to his feet. He braced himself on wobbling legs and wearily lifted his gray head to face his executioners.
Night Sun looked into that tormented face and the whole world died around her. She was remotely aware of the shrill laughter and war whoops, of the stench of sweating bodies, the coppery odor of Ironwood’s blood …
Her throat went tight. One of his eyes had swollen shut from a nearly fatal lance thrust. The rest of his body looked worse. Every time he’d deflected a blow downward, the lance point had driven into his chest, stomach, or legs. Blood drained from dozens of punctures and gashes.
Dune took Night Sun’s arm in a frail grasp, as if he needed something to hold on to. His voice came with difficulty. “How can he stand? How?”
She lifted her head and stiffened her spine. “He’s showing them how a Straight Path warrior dies. Never let anyone forget.”
“So long as I live, the story will live.”
The guards spun Ironwood around and shoved him down the corridor again. Shrieks of joy rose from the Fire Dogs. They leaped and danced and struggled to get close enough to see what was happening.
Howler’s lance flashed, and Ironwood let out a small, wretched cry. He staggered, holding both hands over his left eye. Another lance shot out, striking him in his right cheek … his legs went weak. Ironwood collapsed. But this time, he did not try to rise. He lay on his side in the dirt, his chest heaving.
Night Sun’s eyes burned with tears. She lived his every heartbeat, his every breath. Images flitted: laughing together … loving each other … the pain that had lived in his eyes all those summers. A thick band of rawhide had tightened around her chest. No matter how much air she drew into her lungs, they felt starved. Panic gripped her. Would his pain never end?
Night Sun glanced at the two guards. One stood to her left. One to Dune’s right.
Night Sun strode forward, her sandals sinking in the sandy plaza. The guards shouted at her in the Fire Dog tongue, but she didn’t stop. She headed for Jay Bird.
“End it!” she shouted. “Ironwood has proven himself! It is time you acted like a Chief, Jay Bird! Be done with this!”
A guard ran up and gripped her arm, jerking her backward so hard he almost pulled her off her feet. Without thinking, Night Sun backhanded him. The guard’s head snapped back, and the crowd roared, half cursing, half laughing.
The humiliated guard tore the stiletto from his belt, and came at her …
“Stop it! Stop!” a terrified voice cut through the din. “Grandfather, make him stop!”