People of the Weeping Eye(128)
“What blind man?”
“The one who is watching me.”
He sighed. “What about Trader’s medicine box?”
“No medicine in that.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a heap of medicine there.”
“The box Sings of want and desire, fear and anxiety. Like keeping a rattlesnake for the sole purpose of admiring its colors. Is it safer to keep it in a jar, or let it loose to be encountered who knows where?”
“That’s what worries me.” The notion of finding the box and losing it again was more than his souls could bear.
“It’s using you for legs,” she told him cryptically.
“Legs? Me?” He stared down at his withered shanks.
Her eyes cleared, and she gave him a weary smile. “We had best give it to them. Hand it right over. We’re not Traders, after all. Too meek. No courage here.”
“So, if I get this straight, we just bluff our way through? Act like we’re high minkos and demand respect?”
“Not even arrogance can Dance in the future without getting thorns in its feet,” she told him positively. “We’ve got to be meek. Like mice in a jar. Scrambling, hiding. Don’t want anyone to see us when the blind man closes his embrace.”
Old White sighed and looked up as Trader appeared out of the gloom. “I’ve been talking to Two Petals.”
“Glad I missed it.”
“She’s got a plan for the Yuchi.”
“Better than drowning in the river?”
“Well, I guess that remains to be seen.”
Trader dropped his armload of wood. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
“We’re going to be the cockiest Traders on the river.”
“Oh, really?”
“Absolutely.” Old White swelled his chest. “After all, I’m the Seeker.” He grinned with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You know, I’ve been waiting all my life to boss a bunch of Yuchi around.”
“Didn’t your father go off to boss a bunch of Yuchi around once?”
Old White deflated like a punctured bladder. He stared up at Trader from under lowered brows. “You’re as charming as a windstorm. Gods, let’s get some supper cooked. Then I’m going to sleep until I wake up.”
“Good,” Trader noted dryly. “I’d hate to see you break old habits.”
A thousand angry thoughts whirled around Smoke Shield’s souls as he glared around the tchkofa’s smoky interior. He could see the stewing anger in the other chiefs’ eyes, could read it in their stiff expressions. The Power they had drawn to them with the success of the White Arrow Town raid was dissipating, robbed away by the murder of their captives. Action was demanded.
At his station, the tishu minko, Seven Dead, betrayed a poorly harnessed fury. Biloxi Mankiller had been his captive, and Smoke Shield knew the tishu minko had been looking forward to killing the whimpering fool at solstice. Now he only had body parts to pass around to his worthy Raccoon Clan warriors. Such trophies were carefully cleaned, sometimes turned into ornaments, and often buried with the dead as mementos of their valor on the war trail. Whatever was left over of Biloxi Mankiller would still be prestigious, but always tainted, the Power diminished by the premature murder of the captives.
The Hopaye, Pale Cat, stepped forward, a large whelk shell cup filled to brimming with steaming black drink. This he carefully placed beside the Eagle Pipe, and then prepared the latter, filling the bowl with tobacco and placing a punky stick in the fire. “Sister Tobacco, carry our words to the heavens, that all Powers may know the truth of what we say.” Then he nodded to the sacred fire where it burned in the center of four logs. That seen to, he retreated to his station.
Flying Hawk, as high minko, was given first right to speak. He paused, leaning close to Smoke Shield, speaking softly. “I would remind you, Screaming Falcon was my captive. I would ask you not to act in Council as if he were yours.”
Smoke Shield ground his teeth, jerked a terse nod, and watched his uncle step forward. The high minko knelt, drinking from the shell cup. Then he lit the pipe with the smoldering stick and drew smoke deeply into his lungs. When he exhaled, he called a prayer to the Spirits, and turned, looking from chief to chief.
“We know what has been done. Before coming here, I asked some of the warriors to patrol the city. In small bands of two and three, they are searching for any strangers, seeking anything out of the ordinary. I have already sent spies to inspect the few Trader camps at the canoe landing. I only know of a couple of Pensacola Traders up from Bottle Town. They came with loads of shell to Trade for sandstone paint palettes and fabrics. Another Trader, a Tallapoosie, left the day before the fog rolled in. I have sent a fast runner to see if he can catch the man. In this fog, I doubt the Tallapoosie made it very far. These things I have already done. Does anyone else have anything to offer this Council?”