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People of the Wolf(153)

By:W. Michael Gear


Drained, he could barely fuel his anger. So, Runs In Light would have the honor of taking the People through the ice.

He'd gain status by that. Raven Hunter slitted his eyes in the cold breeze, looking to the south, the white mass of the ice hidden by curling mists and low clouds. To have missed the opportunity to lead them with the White Hide hurt—but not terribly. Its Power would bear him through, would wrest Runs In Light's authority away on the other side.

He blinked somberly at the Hide, knowing what it meant to the future. He stroked it with loving fingers, tracing the texture of the carefully tanned leather. So soft. Whoever had worked it had been a master. Even through the tips of his half-frozen fingers, he could feel the Power, charging—like the static found in rubbed fox fur.

"With you," he promised the Hide, "I shall become the greatest man among the People. No one will have more wives than Raven Hunter. No one will be stronger. No one will disagree when I speak. You will give me all this—and more."

The wind picked up, and he pulled himself to his weary feet. His stomach pulled tight around the berries, gurgling in the cold wind. From where it drifted around the rocks, Raven Hunter scooped a handful of snow, chewing and swallowing the cold lump. He shivered as it traced down his throat, chilling his hunger-haunted belly.

Grunting, he lifted the heavy Hide. Did a man weigh less? Turning his steps toward the river, he staggered off along the rim of the valley. The muscles in his thighs and calves strained and knotted, sapped by the eternal weight of the Hide. Couldn't the four-times-cursed Mammoth People have found a lighter totem? He barely cast a sideways glance as he passed Crow Caller's bones, scattered across the rocks now, half-hidden in snow. The skull lay on its side, empty orbits reflecting weirdly from the skift of snow that had blown in. Rodents had chewed the arches of the cheekbones. Maggot casings lay in the nasal passage. A bit of scalp had desiccated and curled up around the vault of the skull, gray-shot hair blowing across the snow in brittle strands.

Raven Hunter shuddered, curiously riveted by the hollow-eyed stare. In a dark corner of his mind, he could hear a dry laughter: Crow Caller's laughter, haunting, mocking.

He stumbled away.

Their tracks were partially drifted over, but that many people left a trail even a blind man could follow. Raven Hunter

chuckled to himself, panting under the weight. Was it his imagination, or did the White Hide grow heavier and heavier? Where he'd rested only three or four times a day after leaving Ice Fire's camp, now he could stumble along for an hour before sagging wearily to the snow, lungs heaving, belly wailing. His reserves had gone, leaving him famished, thirsty.

"But the Power's mine," he reminded himself, feeling the flush of energy surge through him as he stroked the White Hide. "My Power!"

A deep dusty laugh erupted as he thought of how Runs In Light's expression would change as he strode into camp with this magnificent prize. With fumbling fingers, he pulled a core from the pouch, striking a sharp flake from it with a hammerstone. Using the flake, he cut a strip from around his pouch. Dropping the flake and core inside, he began chewing the resistant leather. Food. It would keep him going. All he had to do was make the camp of the People. From there, his destiny would be evident. They'd feast him with the best cuts of meat, lay warm liver at his feet. For him, they'd share fat-soaked berries, hand him horns full of strong black-moss tea to wash it all down.

Chewing the rubbery stuff, he stood, shouldering his burden, and followed in the tracks of the People. The breeze stiffened as Wind Woman's breath rolled across the land from the far north. Raven Hunter paused, sniffing. Caribou! He laid the Hide to the side, settling it carefully on clean snow. His stomach growled and twisted at the thought of fresh meat, his mouth flooding with anticipation.

Without weapons, he'd have to be canny, careful. Sniffing the wind, he circled, a snow-blown moraine to his side, the land dropping away to the broad braided channels of the Big River to the east. Behind him, the White Hide rested on the drift, oddly white against the dirty snow.

On silent feet, Raven Hunter ghosted along the rock to peer over the top of a boulder. An old bull stood below, one eye white with blindness. The animal's head hung and it walked with a limp, the left front quarter lamed.

Raven Hunter's belly cried out.

The old caribou, exiled by the younger bulls, had been pursuing its path alone, missed by the People's hunters in its

solitude. Now, it only waited for the wolves . . . and Raven Hunter.

He slipped around the rock, eyes on the animal. He'd have to act judiciously. Even an old caribou like this one could kick a man's ribs to jelly.

Raven Hunter crawled up over the rock, trying to get above the animal, keeping downwind on the blind side.