Child of the Dead (31 page)

Through the opening in the willows there stepped a
tall warrior. He carried a heavy war club, but raised his other hand in the sign for peace. His head was shaven except for a twisted lock of hair on the top, twisted and drawn upward into the shape of a horn. It was painted red, like his shaved scalp.

“Greetings,” he signed. “You are honored, Princess of Morning Star.”

Mouse gripped her ax and took a fighting stance.

“You will not be harmed,” the warrior went on. “Put down the ax.”

“Do not come closer,” she warned. “My friends will …”

The Horn Man chuckled. “I see no friends,” he signed. “But do not fear, Princess.”

She wondered if she could throw the ax and make it count. She had practiced, but only at a dead tree trunk. Well, this would be little different … Her arm rose, the ax lifted, and she aligned it. She did not have a chance to start the throw, because she was grabbed from behind by two, maybe three men. Others came running.

Mouse fought; biting, kicking, scratching, trying to free the hand that held the ax, trying to reach her knife with her other hand. She drew blood on two men, kneed another in the groin, and was finally pinned down by sheer weight of numbers. Someone pulled her hands behind her and tied her wrists.

The first Horn Man stepped to her side. “Do not struggle, Honored One,” he signed. “I have told you, you will not be harmed. It will all be explained to you.”

She could not answer because her hands were tied. The Horn Men apparently did not understand the tongue of the People, because they did not react at all to the vile things she was saying about them.

T
he days on the trail were little short of torture for Dark Antelope. Each evening brought the frustration and worry of not knowing. Where would Mouse spend the night? Was she safe? Was she alive, even, since she left the last campfire?

He found nearly every one of her camp sites. One he missed entirely, lost the trail, and lost nearly a day in backtracking to look for it. Another time he pushed his luck too far and tried to travel by the light of a pale half-moon. That had been a mistake, and lost him much time and distance.

But his tracking skills were improving. He began to notice small things that he would not have seen last season. Or even a moon ago, he realized. His powers of observation were being honed to a fine edge.

Part of that may have been the fasting. For the first few days he had been too concerned to eat. Even under the tense circumstances he noted the results of the fast. He had heard descriptions all his life of individuals on their vision quests, and the progression of feelings involved. First the hunger pangs and the spasmodic rumbling and discomfort of the stomach. That part he had riot recognized for what it was. It seemed only a part of the torture he felt.

By the second day he recognized his symptoms for what they were, the effects of his fasting.
Let it be so
, he
thought. He could use it to his advantage, because next, as he remembered the stories, would come the clarity of vision, the ability to understand all things. Maybe it would not work that way under these trying circumstances. But if it was so during a vision quest, might not it be the same?

He slept better that night, though he awoke with fragmentary dreams that were only partially remembered. Visions … When this was over, he must seek a vision quest. If he survived, of course. Antelope was completely ready to give his life for the safety of Gray Mouse. He did not think of it in such terms, but it was there, assumed to be true. It needed no statement of recognition.

But on the morning when he awoke with the wisps of his sleep-visions still in his head, there was a new feeling. It was a good feeling, an excitement that would have been hard to describe. He seemed to see more clearly. The colors of the dawn were brighter, the sky wider and clearer. His ears were keened to the sounds, the sleepy songs of the night-creatures as they settled in for their rest. These were replaced by the awakening chorus of those who are active by day.

The sun on his skin, the breeze in his hair, brought sensations he had not experienced before. He realized that under other circumstances, without the worry and concern of his mission, this would be a wonderfully fulfilling experience. Even as it was, it was good. There was a feeling of confidence that regardless of what might happen next, all would be right with the world. This he translated into a sense of expectation. This mission, this quest
would
be brought to a successful ending. In this way he was able to deal with his concern for the safety of Gray Mouse.

His newly acquired skills of observation helped him greatly, if he did not try to push too fast. Usually, he felt that he was one sleep behind on the trail of the woman he sought. On one joyous day, he found the ashes of her campfire while they were still warm. His heart jumped for joy and he hurried on. But the next day it rained, and he lost the trail for a while …

Antelope talked to people he encountered, seeking any scrap of information that might be of help. He
camped one night with a traveling Arapaho trader and his wife. They had seen a young woman, had talked with her. Antelope questioned them at some length. His use of Arapaho was not fluent, so most of the conversation was in hand signs.

Rather than trying to explain the entire situation in sign talk, he chose to refer to Mouse as “my woman.” This brought an unexpected reaction from the trader’s wife.

“Ah!” she grunted, laughing. Then, turning to signs, “Your woman has run away to return to her people?”

“Why do you say this, Mother?” Antelope asked. “How do you know?”

“Her pendant, around her neck. A design of people to the north. She asked about them.”

This helped to verify his suspicions. He received much the same story from Growers whose towns he passed.

“Yes, that one! She was here … Asked about the beaded ornament she wore. People who live that way. North.”

He moved on. He had resumed eating, realizing that he must maintain his strength. The sense of confidence remained, as his conversations continued with those who had seen Gray Mouse.

There came a day, however, when his confidence changed to alarm.

“My heart was heavy for her,” said a Grower.

“Because she seeks her people?” Antelope asked, puzzled.

“No, no. It is because … You know the Horn People?”

“Yes … Not I … But they are known to my people.”

“And of their Morning Star god?”

A wave of concern struck him. The Morning Star Ceremony …

“Yes.” He was trying to remember … The Horn People were said to capture a girl to be given to Morning Star.

“It is told that this is to be their year for Morning Star to ask for a maiden.”

“I tried to warn her!” interrupted the wife of the Grower. “But wait! I was made to think she was a maiden. She is your woman?”

“Yes, mine!” Antelope insisted. It was easier to say so.

“Ah! Then there is no problem.” The woman smiled. “It must be a virgin, the bride for Morning Star.”

Antelope’s head whirled in confusion. “But they would not know she is mine!” he blurted. “You were made to think …”

“That is true,” agreed the woman. “But maybe they will not even find her.”

Antelope nodded. “Maybe. But I must hurry now.”

He mounted to ride on. Hurry, but not too fast. He must miss nothing. He resolved to begin to fast again to increase his powers of observation. Then he turned back for a moment.

“When was she here? How many sleeps?”

“Two,” answered the man.

“No, three, was it not?” his wife answered.

But Antelope was already turning away. Somewhere, he had lost another day, at least.

He watched the buzzards circle, high above the sandy plain. It was a bright, clear day, heavy with the moisture of the morning’s dew. One of the great birds half-folded its wings and started downward in a long glide. Another followed. There were several more, riding the warm air without a movement, wings fixed in position as the birds drew circles in the blue. Another dropped to earth.

There must be some large animal dead or dying in the brushy plain there. Some creature drowned by a flash flood along the river? But he saw no signs of flooding, and the rain had been days ago.

Then a terrible possibility occurred to him. He kicked the horse forward, eager to reach the area, yet dreading what he would find. Careful now. He must not destroy any tracks in his hurry. Also, he must cross the small stream, and streams in sandy country are deceptive. He remembered the words of his father, that such streams run upside down. “Their water is beneath the
sand,” he had said. “The water spirits sometimes reach up to drag down the unwary traveler.”

Antelope let the horse pick its way across the stream bed. A false start, another … He tried to control his impatience. Finally a lunge, a jump that almost unseated him, and they were across, on more solid footing on the other side.

He glanced at the circling buzzards and turned toward the area that had drawn their attention. He hesitated to dismount until he knew what lay ahead. His heart was beating wildly, full of dread at what he might find. He pushed through the willows and several startled buzzards rose ponderously from their carrion feast.

Her dog!
Antelope thought with a mixed sense of relief and further alarm.
Then where is her horse?

He dismounted, tied the nervous horse, and began to circle, as Beaver Track had taught him. In a short while he had discovered the tracks of several men. He followed them, back toward the stream, pausing to examine a bit of sign occasionally.

By the time the sun stood overhead, Antelope had pieced together a pattern of how it must have happened. He found Mouse’s camp, the untended fire now dead and cold. Part of the sticks were not completely burned, so there had been no one to tend the dying fire. He circled … Yes, one from that direction, others from over there … a scuffle …

The dog must have heard or smelled the intruders, and gone to challenge them. A blow from a war club had been his reward. Gray Mouse had fought … The sand was disturbed. It had taken several men to subdue her, and …
Ah! What is that?
he thought.

Her knife, the little one that she always carried at her waist. He picked it up carefully, examining the weapon. For it had been used as a weapon. Sand was glued to its keen flint edge with the blood of one of her attackers.

Her robe, cast aside when she rose to meet the intruders, lay under a willow. Her weapons had been taken. The horse, too, probably. Yes, they had taken her alive, and had probably used her own horse to carry her.

Antelope returned to his horse, mounted, and rode out to about a bow shot away, to circle for tracks. It did
not take long. Five horses, not counting Mouse’s bay. He found where one man had stood, holding the horses while the others stalked the camp.

After the abduction they had moved out, heading generally northwest. He followed to their night camp not far away. The ashes were cold, but no more than two days old. A day and a half behind them, then.

At least he had a trail to follow. The captors of Gray Mouse traveled boldly, taking no pains at all to conceal their trail.
They must be in their own country
, Antelope realized.
They do not fear pursuit at all
.

And why should they?
his thoughts demanded.
They are many, you are but one
.

He had already conceded one fact. These must be the dreaded Horn People. He tried to remember anything he could that he had ever heard about them. Someone of the People had been captured by them, married one of their women, did he not? A generation ago …
Yes, Strong Bow!

Now what could he remember about that story? He should have given it more attention, but who would know how important it might become?

And in the back of his mind, the question he dared not even think:
how long
until the ceremony for the Morning Star?

A
ntelope tied his horse and muzzled the animal with a soft buckskin thong around its nose. It was essential that it not cry out to others of its kind in the town below.