She used a secondary trail, one the deer had made, keeping the thickest of trees between her and the main route. When she reached a fallen log, she stopped, seeing the soil where a squirrel had dug it up. There, imprinted, was the plain track of a moccasin. She knew that stitching, had seen it before: Chahta!
But what were they doing here?
As her fear built, she glanced around at the trees, and heard another sharp bark of laughter from the direction of the hut.
Her mouth had gone dry, but somehow she managed to creep forward, settling herself behind the bole of a great tree where she could just see the hut.
Chahta warriors, five of them, stood in a knot before the hut. Two of them had bent to the task of dismembering bodies. She could see their stone-headed axes as they rose and fell, chopping legs from torsos. Then the men bent, using knives to separate the resisting sinew and tendons.
One of the others had walked a short distance away, using a stick to dig a hole where the dirt lay loose at the foot of the slope. Only when he had hollowed out a fair-sized hole did he take a brown fabric bag and stuff it in, using his foot to press it down. Then he carefully scooped the dirt back before he reached for leaves to scatter over the ground and hide the disturbance.
In horror she stared. How could this have happened? Out of the entire forest, how did they pick this place to attack?
She blinked at sudden tears, aware that all of their plans lay shattered. Sick, she crouched there, watching as the last of her people’s Dreams were cut to pieces.
Tonight, there would be more than just mourning for her two fallen comrades. Their best chance to unite the people in revolt was dead before her. No one would believe now.
Then the two warriors straightened. They, with their companions, undid their hair and began retying it. The two warriors who had done the butchery walked over to the small seep and began washing the blood away. Others used cloth to wipe the Chahta paint from their faces.
One—a muscular man—turned in her direction, smiling. A deep scar disfigured his familiar face.
Lotus Root froze. Smoke Shield!
Unable to believe, she watched as some of the men seated themselves, pulled off their moccasins, and began undoing the stitching that had been laced across their soles. For the entire hand of time it took, she continued to stare. Before her eyes, the Chahta turned themselves back into Chikosi warriors.
The weather was perfect, warm and sunny, with a damp breeze blowing up from the south. Trader sat in the sun before a ramada just below Chief White Bear’s mound. The plaza was dotted with people, many of whom had come in from the surrounding farmsteads. Most simply spread blankets and watched. They were, after all, farmers and hunters. What little they had consisted of everyday pottery, locally produced fabrics, and crudely made clothing and accoutrements. Knowing this, Trader had brought little knickknacks, drawings on birch bark, pressed flowers—things that only had value because they came from the far north. Such items could be had cheaply, and in bulk. Many were given away for a couple pots of shelled corn, or a smoked turkey.
There was method behind it, of course. Trading two jars brimming with shelled corn for a birch-bark drawing, he had amassed a huge stock of corn. This, along with the rest of the local goods, he would Trade for a single copper effigy from one of the clan leaders at a later date. And, after all, a clan leader with a lot of corn might find salvation several moons later if the crops failed. It was cheap insurance against drought, famine, floods, or corn blight.
That morning, first thing, Trader had trotted down to the canoes, Swimmer running happily beside him. There, he had checked to ensure that the guards were on duty. His anxiety about the packs had been for naught. Everything was just as he’d left it. With the briefest touch, he could feel the carved surface of the war medicine box through its protective fabric.
“No one has tried to bother anything,” one of the guards told him.
“We thank you for keeping an eye on things.”
“Our people are not thieves.” The guard had said it proudly.
“No, they are not,” Trader lied, knowing full well that Chaktaw only “borrowed” other people’s possessions.
To ensure continued vigilance, he removed two small gourd cups obtained from the Yuchi. Each had the image of a bullfrog carefully incised and painted on the outside. “These are for the two of you. A token of appreciation for your time and inconvenience.” He smiled. “When we have finished our Trade here, there will be more.”
Both warriors grinned, lifting the beautiful cups to admire them in the light. “Thank you!”
“The Seeker and I could ask for no better service than that which you provide.”