As his own indignation built, Creeper nodded. He smoothed more salve on a particularly bad burn where the blister had burst and left raw meat beneath.
Mourning Dove moaned through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Creeper repeated. “Did I hurt you again?”
“Oh, Creeper,” she whispered hoarsely, “why would he do this to me? I know he was upset about something, but I did nothing wrong! I swear it! I obeyed his every order, I—”
“He did this,” Creeper said in a shaking voice, and clenched his fist to still it, “because he’s one of the First People, and he could.”
* * *
When the flames died and the cloak of night wrapped the hills, Thistle crawled out of the sage thicket and stood, trembling, looking up toward Lanceleaf Village.
Black smoke curled into the air. Wind Baby dragged it over the desert, stretching and tangling the smoke like slender lengths of rope. The stench of burned pitch stung her nose.
As silent as Hawk’s shadow, she took three steps up the hill, then stopped to look and listen before taking another three. She dared not watch her feet. She kept her eyes on the dark shapes that surrounded her: brush, rocks, juniper trees. Prickly pear punctured her moccasins and stabbed her feet. Blood warmed her cold toes.
And all the while, her heart thundered with fear. Beargrass?
Occasionally smoldering wood cracked and hissed. Other than that, deathly quiet had settled on the hills like a smothering embrace.
Thistle climbed up to the scorched shell of her house and her throat constricted. “Blessed gods…” she whispered.
Movement caught her attention in the blackened remains of the village below. Faint whimpers carried.
Cautiously, she edged down the slope, trying not to lose sight of the person moving in the plaza. She found she could see him better if she didn’t look directly at him, but slightly to the right. Squat and short, the individual walked as if hurt, favoring the left foot. The cries grew clearer.
Thistle entered the plaza through the ruined gate, stepping around fallen roof timbers and stone rubble. A live turkey huddled in the shadows, but when Thistle stepped near it, the bird let out a squawk and darted away in a flurry of wings.
“Who’s there?” a girl called frantically.
“It’s Thistle.”
“Oh, Thistle…”
“Leafhopper?”
“Yes. I found my aunt.” The whimpers became suffocating sobs. “She’s dead.”
Thistle stopped. All across the dirt, bodies lay sprawled. The coppery scent of blood clung to the back of her throat. She steeled herself and walked toward Leafhopper, but her eyes searched every corpse. Her terror mounted as she whispered their names, “Clover. Birdtail. Old man Blackruff…”
Leafhopper gathered her aunt’s body into her arms and rocked pathetically, crying, “She’s gone. My aunt’s gone.”
Thistle knelt and stroked Leafhopper’s short hair. “I’ll help you bury her. We’ll make certain she finds the way to the underworlds.… Leafhopper, have you seen—”
“Yes,” she answered, and nodded. “Over there.” Leafhopper pointed with her chin and her voice grew shrill. “Both of them.”
Thistle gazed into her round face uncomprehending. As though moving in a nightmare, Thistle slowly rose to her feet and turned.
She saw Beargrass’ red shirt …
And the entire world went cold and gray around her. Leafhopper’s cries no longer shrilled in her ears. The reek of scorched wood vanished. She saw Beargrass’ wide dead eyes, shining with starlight.
Her legs moved with cold efficiency. They lay so close she only had to take seven small terrible steps. She stood over them, staring down. A bloody puncture wound ripped her husband’s shirt over his heart. They’d carved off most of his scalp, and an arrow, the feathers broken off, transfixed his blood-caked thigh.
For an eternity, she tried to fit what she saw on the ground with an image of Beargrass, but the pieces, like sherds from two different pots, didn’t fit.
Then it occurred to her that the headless body sprawled across Beargrass’ stomach was that of a youth.…
Her ears heard the insane scream that split the night, but she did not realize it had come from her own throat.
From an incredible distance, Thistle heard running feet, then vaguely felt arms go tight around her waist. Some detached part of her soul saw Leafhopper staring at her and talking—the young woman’s mouth moved—but Thistle couldn’t understand the words. Had she taken a sharp blow to the head?
Leafhopper led her a short distance away and sat her down gently. Then she vanished for a time and returned with a blanket, which she draped over Thistle’s cold shoulders.