People of the Weeping Eye(65)

Smoke Shield should have been keeping his own souls pure, but Morning Dew’s supple young body kept slipping into his thoughts. How well he remembered the disdainful expression she’d given him when he’d tossed a pebble at her feet to attract her attention. He’d smiled, an offer of his affection, and then she’d looked at him the way she would green fuzzy mold on good corn.

In his souls’ eye, he worked it all out. She would be bound, wrists before her, her head down. But he didn’t want her as some dirty captive. No, he would have Thin Branch bathe her, wash her hair, and comb it to a glossy black sheen. She would be dressed in a fine white dress, one that was tied at the shoulders. Flower petals would be rubbed on her skin to sweeten her scent.

First, he would stand over her, taking his time, admiring her as she waited. All the while, she would know what was coming, have plenty of time to dwell on it. Then, when she first began to entertain hopes that he might just walk away, he’d reach down and sever her bound wrists. Perhaps she would resist, or she might rise, expecting that she was to be set free. That’s when he would smile, reach out, and untie the laces at her shoulders. The dress would slip free, falling down her perfect body.

At that moment she would know beyond any doubt. He could see the knowledge behind her dark eyes as he undressed and pointed at the sleeping bench.

His hands were smoothing her skin, feeling her shudder. Her expression would almost be as much reward as mounting her. There, lying atop her, he would take his time, let her savor his hard rod against her smooth thighs. Then slowly, carefully, he would pry her legs apart.

Throw her from your mind! He’d almost stepped full on a stick. Cursing under his breath, he shook himself. Fool! She could destroy you, and never even know it!

Angrily, he forced himself back to the forest, to the task at hand.

But she will be mine.

With each step, Smoke Shield’s heartbeat quickened. Closer, ever closer. He had to focus, sharpen his senses on now, and let the future care for itself.

This was enemy territory, and they avoided the main trails. Instead, he depended upon the keen eyes of his warriors to spot any threat first. If possible, they would seek to avoid any discovery, but, if not, they would approach casually, as though having nothing to hide, and hope to dispose of the opponent before an alarm could be given.

Two days, he thought. Two risings and settings of the sun, and we will be in place.

That last would be the most dangerous time of all, as they made their final approach to White Arrow Town. Fortunately, he knew the country, had hunted there as a guest of the White Arrow. And swimming the Horned Serpent had given him an idea: one that would significantly cut their risk of discovery. He knew of a trail, a path used by slaves on their way to fill jars at the riverbank.

He glanced at the warriors filtering through the forest. Will they have the courage to do this thing?

If they didn’t, if even one man failed … No, don’t think it.

In the event of disaster, it would be he who hung from a wooden square while the White Arrow women used sharp chert stones to slice his flesh from his body.





A chilly wind blew down from the north as Trader fed another section of wood into the crackling fire. He had put in at an overgrown canoe landing after following a small creek for several bow shots. The ruins of the abandoned village on its low rise made the perfect place for a man who wanted to camp alone and unnoticed. Willows had started up downstream, and where once the sand would have been beaten down, rushes now covered the landing and hid his canoe. He had cleaned out the mess and placed his camp inside the corner of two walls that remained standing in an abandoned house. There, protected from the wind, his fire was screened from the high bluff rising immediately to the east.

According to local legend, the village had been called Sunflower, for the major crop grown there. The people had been like so many others: descendants of the once-mighty populations of Cahokia. They had even built a low platform for their chief’s house, and their dead rested in a conical mound just to the west. Then a terrible witch had come and cursed them all. After their souls were witched, the population had been decimated, until the few survivors fled. Since that day, none of the locals would come close to the place.

It was a good location. Over the years the creek had deposited enough high ground to leave the village above the spring flood. Immediately to the east, a narrow valley cut through the high bluffs, exposing sandstone that had weathered into a dark gray. From the heights, one had a good view of the river and woodlands to the west. For a man who didn’t believe in the Power of local witches, it was the perfect place to stop. Trader and Swimmer would have no unwelcome visitors come snooping in the middle of the night.