Poor Singer shoved through the crowd and ran toward Night Sun, his black hair flying. Cornsilk came through behind, started to follow … then saw Ironwood. She let out a cry and rushed to her father’s side.
The guard glanced between the two youths, hesitating, his stiletto hovering above Night Sun as she glared at him.
Jay Bird threw up a hand and shouted something in Mogollon. The guard scowled, cursed her, and lowered his weapon.
Poor Singer stopped in front of Night Sun. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Night Sun hurried by him, chancing that she would have one last opportunity to see Ironwood.
Poor Singer caught up and kept pace with Night Sun, escorting her across the plaza. As they approached, the villagers shoved each other out of the way. Wide eyes examined them. People whispered behind their hands.
Cornsilk had thrown herself over Ironwood. He lay unmoving. Blood rushed in Night Sun’s ears. She knelt beside Cornsilk, but looked up at Poor Singer. “Please, speak to your grandfather. Perhaps you can convince him—”
“I’m going!” He ran, shoving through the crowd.
Night Sun cataloged the wounds leaking the very life out of Ironwood, and whispered, “Hold on.” She took his bloody hand in hers. “Hope just walked into camp.”
His left eye was a blood-clotted hole. He looked up at her through his right eye, and a fleeting smile crossed his face. “Too late … I think.”
Cornsilk wrapped her arms around Ironwood’s gory chest and wept. “Don’t die! Don’t die, Father.”
Ironwood smiled weakly and struggled to look at Cornsilk. The effort seemed to drain his last reserves. His face contorted as he slowly sank back to the ground. He heaved one final deep breath, and his head rolled to the side, his eye closing.
“No!” Cornsilk wailed.
Frantically, Night Sun reached for the big artery in his neck … and found a pulse. Weak, but there. “He’s asleep … or unconscious. But he’s alive.”
She spun as a roar went up from the crowd and people began shuffling back, opening a lane for Jay Bird. The Chief tramped down it with his eyes blazing, Poor Singer running at his heels.
* * *
As Jay Bird raised his spear over Ironwood, Poor Singer leaped in front, and knocked it aside. “I must speak with you!”
“Move! I’ve an old score to settle, and I’ve waited too long to—”
“Just a few moments! That’s all I’m asking!”
“To say what? To beg for his life?” Jay Bird yelled. His elderly face glowed bright red. “I told you days ago that I would not release Ironwood. And I will not. How dare you run in here and demand that I stop this! Can’t you hear the souls of your murdered ancestors calling for his blood!”
“Grandfather, please.” Poor Singer spread his arms in a gesture of surrender. Tears streaked his face. “I must speak with you. Just let me speak with you. I bring you news.”
“News? From whom?”
Mustering all of his courage, Poor Singer said, “From the gods.”
Jay Bird’s enraged face tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I had a vision, Grandfather. The god who spoke to me gave me a message for you.”
Jay Bird shoved him aside. “This is a trick. You are telling me this to keep me from killing Ironwood, and I have already made it clear—”
“As the gods are my witness, Grandfather, I swear to you this is not a trick! I’m telling you the truth! If you will only give me some time to explain—”
“No!”
Jay Bird lifted his lance again, and Poor Singer leaped, slamming into his grandfather so hard that Jay Bird stumbled sideways. Spinning in rage, Jay Bird lifted a fist to strike Poor Singer.
The instant seemed to freeze.
The crowd went deathly silent. Jay Bird’s furious face turned to stone.
As if his entire life had been leading to this moment, Poor Singer shouted, “You would refuse to listen to the words of the gods? What sort of leader are you? All of my life I have heard stories of the great Jay Bird, and now I find a man who considers himself above the gods.”
“If the gods wished to send me a message, why would they not come in person to tell me? Why send a skinny youth—”
“I am a Singer, Grandfather! And, before these people, I tell you, you will listen to me!” He turned then, raising his hands to the gawking Mogollon. He cried, “I bring word from the gods! They are angry at this foolishness!”
Howler and some of the other former slaves translated the words, and they passed through the assembly like a hissing snake. Some of the Mogollon spat at Poor Singer. Others eyed him fearfully.