Old White narrowed an eye. “I am a Trader. Protected by the Power of Trade.”
The woman swallowed hard. “That dead man didn’t believe in the Power of Trade. He … He thought he was the new lord of Cahokia.”
“The lord of Cahokia,” Two Petals asserted. “Lord forever.”
“We are leaving now,” Silver Loon told them. “Do not interfere with us.” She pointed at Two Petals. “The Contrary will know.”
Old White was still staring back and forth from Black Tooth to Two Petals. The young woman suddenly smiled, the effect like sunlight bursting through clouds. “I’m so full I could burst. Can’t eat another bite. Whatever you do, don’t offer me another morsel of food. I won’t take it.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Silver Loon said. “I have freshly baked acorn cakes in my house.” She hesitated, smiled, and added, “But you’re the last person on earth I’d offer any to.”
“Then let’s just stay here.” And with that, Two Petals turned, heading for the door. “I’m sure glad I have these warm shoes on.”
Old White stared at the moccasins he’d stuffed in his belt. “But …”
“Later,” Silver Loon told him as she grabbed his sleeve and propelled him toward the door.
The sun stood at its midpoint by the time Old White, Two Petals, and Silver Loon loaded the canoe with packs. Silver Loon, for reasons of her own, had loaded them with provisions; then she had added additional packs filled with a wealth of worked shell, galena beads, copper gorgets, carved mica, tool stone, and finely flaked hoes from the quarries downriver.
The day had warmed, snow melting beneath the morning sun. A break in the weather was definitely welcomed.
“You could come with us,” Old White suggested for the final time.
“Once, long ago, old lover, I would have.” She looked back at the bluff, dominated by the great mound and the tall structure on its heights. “But that was then. My place is here, now. The people will need me with Black Tooth gone.”
“We have lots of time,” Two Petals agreed. Her eyes were fixed on the northern horizon, somewhere far beyond the bushy cottonwoods that had sprung up on the opposite bank.
“No,” Silver Loon whispered. “We don’t.”
“Then we should be getting started,” Old White said, and bent to push the canoe into the murky water of Cahokia Creek.
“Do not forget, the Illinois are at war with each other at the confluence of the rivers. Be careful making your passage. Make sure they see your Trader’s staff.” Silver Loon gave Two Petals an uneasy glance, then fixed on Old White. “I think you’re going to be in for a most interesting time.”
When he looked back, Silver Loon was still standing on the abandoned canoe landing, watching him as he left her behind for the last time.
Thirteen
When it came to forest hunters, only the panther stalked with more stealth and cunning than the Sky Hand. Smoke Shield firmly believed that as he watched his warriors filtering through the trees. Beneath their feet, the leaf mat betrayed no sound.
Smoke Shield cocked his head, unable to hear the slightest rasp of clothing against the hanging grape and greenbriar vines. No stick snapped under a moccasined foot; no acorn or pinecone rattled when kicked by a careless foot. Instead his men might have been smoke, so silently did they pass through the uncharted maze of tall trees.
The day was cool, a breeze whispering in the high lacery of winter-dead branches. Here and there a squirrel chattered, and sometimes birdsong trilled, but Smoke Shield and his grim warriors had been born of the forest. It was here, more than in Split Sky City, that they were at one with their surroundings.
So far, all had gone as he had prayed it would. Power favored them. They had made their way across the uplands dividing the Black Warrior from the Horned Serpent River, trotting single file past the leaf-blanketed sandstone atop the ridges. Like a disjointed snake they had descended down one of the many drainages that led to the banks of the Horned Serpent. At the river they had paused, tying their weapons and provisions inside watertight hides. In a line they had swum the river, pushing their bobbing packs ahead of them.
On the far shore, they had followed the plan, leaving their weapons, shields, war clubs, and war shirts inside the packs and donning simple hunting shirts, some spattered with deer blood to signify successful hunters.
As a measure of their dedication, his warriors had followed the rituals of the war trail perfectly. No warrior sat during the daylight hours, no matter how weary he might be. At night, they rested on a stump, rock, or log, but never upon the ground. It was forbidden for a warrior to lean against a tree for any purpose. If a man had a persistent itch, he would use a stick to scratch. When urinating, or defecating, it was done in a manner to be least offensive to the Earth Mother, generally on a piece of bark or pile of leaves. No warrior would look directly at a crow or squirrel, lest it run to warn the enemy. No morsel of food was consumed unless given to a warrior by Blood Skull’s hand.