People of the Weeping Eye(83)

He was still feeling lighthearted when the canoes emerged from a creek mouth in the riverbank.

“They’ll never catch us,” Two Petals said softly.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, checking to see that his Trader’s staff was handy.

“Not you.” She clapped her hands to her ears. “This is just the beginning. Later, I’ll be in the middle of a swarm. If only the sound wasn’t so loud.”

“Great.” He lifted his staff as the canoes approached: four of them, each manned by four husky young men. Their hair was cut in roaches, tattoos marking their faces. Several had copper ear spools in their earlobes. Wolf and bear hides hung from their shoulders. While Old White couldn’t see weapons, he imagined they’d be ready to hand just below the gunwales.

Old White called out in Trader Tongue, “We travel under the Power of Trade.”

“Good,” the man in the lead canoe called back. “We have need of Trade.”

Old White shot a measuring glance at Two Petals. She was staring thoughtfully at the clouds, a puzzled look on her face. If it was trouble, she didn’t seem concerned.

He cupped hands to his mouth, shouting, “I was thinking of traveling farther upriver.”

“We could help you.” The first canoe had pulled abreast. The leader stood, balancing easily in the rocking craft. His gaze surveyed the packs, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He turned, saying something in a tongue Old White didn’t understand. They talked back and forth for several heartbeats, one man gesturing. Several of his men shipped their paddles, and one produced a coil of rope. Holding one end, he tossed it across to Old White.

“Have the girl hang on,” he ordered.

Old White sighed, fingering the fine basswood rope. “Don’t take this.” He tossed it to Two Petals. “And now, whatever you do, be sure you let go of it.”

He could see the puzzled looks in the other canoes.

“We’re going to go fast,” the warrior told him. “We don’t want to linger in these waters.”

Old White laid his Trader’s staff down as the canoes lined out. The warriors weren’t joking. Two Petals grunted as she took the strain of the line. Then she was smart enough to take a wrap around her body.

As his canoe slipped along, Old White noted that the warriors kept looking back behind them. Whatever they’d left back there, they were making fine time getting away from it.

“What are we into now?” he wondered. The fact that the four canoes surrounded them in a diamond formation had disturbing implications.





At the end of the second day, with a light rain falling, Smoke Shield called a halt. He passed orders to build fires and shelters. His weary warriors pitched into the task, raising lean-tos, cutting vines, and weaving them through the poles. Then they piled leaf mat over the frameworks. Deadfall was brought for seats, and their single fire bow was taken from its pack. Within moments, blue smoke rose from the tinder that Scaled Bird had placed next to the cherrywood dowel. No warrior would blow on embers while on the war trail, so he used a section of eagle wing they carried specifically to fan the fire.

Smoke Shield walked along the line of captives, huddled now for warmth, their hair and clothing soaked, their skin pimpled. He knew Morning Dew by the ridiculous dress she was wearing. It was a gorgeous thing, dyed a bright red from bloodroot and dogwood bark. Chevrons of porcupine quills in black, yellow, and white made patterns reminiscent of tents over drilled oyster-shell beads. The effigy of a falcon had been rendered with small white pearls, each drilled and carefully sewn in place. Many were now missing, the threads hanging like forgotten hairs.

“Enjoying your walk in the woods?” he asked.

Morning Dew might not have heard, her gaze fixed on the ground.

“We enjoy nothing in your presence,” Screaming Falcon said thickly. The blow that had broken his jaw left his face swollen; a large bruise discolored the left side of his chin.

“More’s the pity.” Smoke Shield cocked his head. “I wonder if you’ll be so arrogant after a couple of days tied in the square?”

“I am a warrior,” he spit.

“Yes, I can see that.”

He walked on down the line, seeing the fear in Biloxi Mankiller’s eyes. The high minko swallowed hard, averting his eyes. Yes, that one would provide sport. How could the White Arrow have elevated such a man? The women, Biloxi’s wives, wouldn’t even look up. Dancing Star, the White Arrow Alikchi Hopaii, had no expression at all, as if disbelieving his Power could have been so easily broken. His nephew, Daytime Owl, who would have followed him, spent most of his time trying to care for the old man.