People of the Thunder(43)

As he went, he noticed that here and there individuals had stepped away, the signs of travel lessening. He stopped, cocking his head as he searched the surrounding trees. The ridge here had flattened, but to the north and south, it fell off in steep ravines. His practiced eye immediately noted that the ground under the hickory, walnut, and pecan trees had been thoroughly collected. None of the fall nut crop remained atop the leaf mat but for occasional moldy or squirrel-chewed specimens. Nor did piles of deer scat indicate the animals had browsed heavily here. That meant the nuts had been collected long ago, probably just after they fell in the fall.

So if people weren’t splitting off to collect nuts, what were they doing?

Hiding their trail, of course.

He smiled grimly, motioning his warriors forward in an arc. He had almost grown used to their appearance, could almost make himself believe he was Chahta himself. So far all had gone as he had planned. Only that morning had they allowed an old Albaamo man to “escape” after hearing the warriors call Smoke Shield “Great Cougar” in a mangled Chahta accent. By the time the morning sun rose, he and his warriors would appear at Bowl Town, dressed once again as Sky Hand. No one would be the wiser as he joined forces with Sun Falcon to search the forest for Chahta raiders.

As the ridgetop continued to widen, the trail virtually disappeared.

Close! He signaled a halt, cocking his head, listening. To the north, a squirrel chattered a warning call. Disturbed by a man? Who knew? He turned in that direction, using hand signs to line out his warriors.

His heart began that familiar excited beat in his chest. A euphoric feeling, almost elation, danced about his bones and muscles. Every sense seemed sharper. Step by step, they made their way forward to the lip of the ravine. One by one his warriors lined out, dropping low, peering over the steep edge. Below him lay a tangle of fallen trees, most covered with moss. Grape and greenbriar wound up from the brown forest floor in a maze-work of thick vines. A mockingbird called in the distance, and sparrows tweeted.

He could see nothing. Perhaps the squirrel’s call had been a ruse?

At the point of rising and turning back, a signal was passed down the line from Bear Paw’s position. Makes Calls—a warrior of the Raccoon Clan—caught Smoke Shield’s attention. He pointed to his nose, and made the wiggling fingers sign for smoke.

With the grace of a panther, Smoke Shield rose, crept low across the ridge, passing his warriors, to Bear Paw, who gave him a smile and shrug, repeating the “smelled smoke” sign and pointing down into the steep ravine.

Smoke Shield turned, signaling his warriors to start down. They eased over the edge, each taking his time, placing a foot, checking the purchase, and lowering himself. A cottontail broke cover, bouncing and darting down the slope.

The warriors stopped, each studying the ground below them, bows at the ready, arrows nocked.

The faint wiff of smoke came, only to be lost as the breeze eddied through the trees.

Smoke Shield slowly resumed the descent. At the bottom, they found a trail winding among the roots, leaves, and dead saplings. Here a great many feet had trod. Smoke Shield aligned his warriors and started forward.

He caught the first glimpse of the hut, a shabby thing made of branches bent over and covered with bark. A fine blue haze rose through cracks in the roof. He caught a faint snatch of voices; then the forest resumed its normal winter silence.

Smoke Shield signaled for his warriors to spread out, then crouched, waiting for them to move slowly and surely into position. Periodically he cast glances behind him, ensuring that no traveler came walking up the trail behind him to sound the alarm.

He could feel the first cooling of perspiration as he waited, heart thumping in his chest.

Yes, this is it. He could almost smell Fast Legs’ sweat and fear from inside the little hut.

At that moment, a man walked out, calmly stepped to the side, and opened his breechcloth to relieve himself. He stared out at the forest, unconcerned. The man was an Albaamo, wearing a brown hunting shirt, his hair in a poorly tied bun.

Smoke Shield crouched lower, hoping that none of his warriors were visible.

Finished, the man fixed his clothing and turned back to the door, scratching just behind his ear as he ducked into the low hut.

Moments later, a robin chirped from up the ravine, Bear Paw’s signal that he had reached his position. Smoke Shield raised himself, catching a glance of War Heart where he waited in his position. The man nodded, and Smoke Shield gave him the signal to advance.

He watched as one by one his warriors filtered down to surround the hut.



Flat on his back, Fast Legs panted for breath. He stared up at the daylight filtering through cracks in the bark roof. In the agonizing time since the Albaamaha brought him here, he had memorized every feature of the ceiling. He knew each bent branch, and the knots of twine that bound them together. When the Albaamaha dropped hot rocks on his belly and twisted his broken leg, he grunted as he studied them, forcing his screaming brain to imagine the intricacies of the knots.