Child of the Dead (5 page)

Beaver Track had ridden in a big circle around the encampment, and now returned to talk to Broken Lance. People were remounting their horses, preparing to leave the area, which had become dangerous.

“My chief,” Beaver Track reported, “their trail is there … They headed north.”

“How many?”

“No more than ten or twelve, I am made to think. They took the horses. It was a very poor plan.”

“What do you mean, Beaver?”

“I am not sure. They seemed to gather up part of the horses. The tracks say that most of the horses just followed. Their trails wander a lot.”

Broken Lance nodded. “Maybe they do not have enough men to drive a herd?”

“Yes, that was my thought.”

Singing Wolf thought about this new information. This was a dreadful threat, one that the People might not completely recognize. This sickness had come suddenly, and had all but wiped out an entire band like his own, apparently in a matter of days. Those who had not yet become ill had finally departed in what amounted to panic. They had undoubtedly prevented the dying child from following them. Little prevention was necessary, actually. They had simply departed, and the little girl could not keep up. There may have been someone who warned her to stay back, not to follow. It was a real concern. He was pleased, actually, that the People
were
avoiding the child. His own band could easily meet a fate like that of this camp of the dead.

It might be possible, though, to learn a little more before they departed.

“Go on,” he called to Broken Lance. “There is something I must do.”

The chief waved in answer. One does not question the duties of the holy man. The column began to form,
changing direction slightly to avoid chance contact with the survivors of the sick camp.

Singing Wolf placed a pinch of tobacco as a spirit-offering on the coals of the dying fire. Then he cautiously approached the stricken girl. He kept a reasonable distance between them for safety’s sake, but he felt that he must talk to her, if possible. Surely she would know some hand signs.

“
Ah-koh!”
he said aloud in greeting.

The girl, who had curled up on the ground and closed her eyes, now jumped in terror. She looked as if she expected him to strike her.

She must have been threatened, perhaps even beaten.
Ah, to prevent her following
, he thought.

She stared at him with wide dark eyes, sunken in a pallid face marred with the pustules.

“I will not harm you,” he told her in hand signs. He took out some strips of dried meat and tossed them to her, still keeping a few paces away. Hungrily, she picked them up and began to chew.

“How are you called?” Wolf signed.

There was no response for a few moments, and then she paused in her ravenous eating to sign briefly.

“I am Gray Mouse.”

“Where are your people?”

“Gone … dead.”

Tears filled her eyes and overflowed down sallow cheeks, but only a drop or two. Wolf had the impression that the child was wrung dry of tears. Possibly it was part of the process of dying from this
poch
sickness.

“Your mother? Father?”

“Dead. Are you going to kill me?”

“No.”

“The others said they would.”

What others!
he thought, confused.
Her own people?

“If you followed them?” he signed.

The girl nodded.

“When did they go?”

“Two sleeps, maybe. Who are you?”

“I am called Wolf. Those are my people.” He pointed to the departing column.

“They left you behind?”

“No, I will go with them. I will leave you some food.”

He was wishing now that he had not even tried to talk to the child. She was dying, almost too weak to walk, but now that he had talked to her, even in signs, she was a person. His heart went out to her. Well, it was too bad, but she would be dead in a day or two. The tragedy would be over for her. Not for him, he feared. He would always remember the haunting look in those dark eyes.

“It will be good,” he lied. “Your people will come back for you.”

In a way, he tried to convince himself, he was not lying. In a way, she would rejoin her parents on the Other Side, and it would not be long. He rose to go, glancing back over his shoulder once. The child had curled up again in the fetal position, and already appeared to be asleep, still sucking on a strip of dried meat. She was probably exhausted from the excitement, he thought. He would never know. Quite possibly she might never move from the spot where she now lay. Guilt lay heavy on his heart, but what could he do? He left a little packet of meat and slipped quietly away to where he had left his horse.

Running Deer had been badly shaken by the events of the day. She rode along, oblivious now to the discomforts of travel. She could not remove from her mind the picture of the dying girl. Old memories of the loss of her own daughter came flooding back. It had nearly torn her heart out at the time. The mourning ceremony had helped, but her mourning had not ended after the prescribed three days. Not until she found herself pregnant with the child who would become Singing Wolf did she begin to rejoin the real world.

Now it had all come back, as she watched the People, her people, step quickly aside to avoid any remote contact with this pitiful child. Life was not fair. Of course, no one had said it would be, but it seemed that her own life had had more than its share of sorrow.

Then she felt again the guilt of feeling self-pity. There were others with so many troubles, and worse. The dying child … It had not taken long to realize
that the girl’s parents must be dead. Among the People, and probably among the child’s people, too, relatives would normally take her in. In this case, the relatives, too, might be dead. Dead, or too terrified at the threat of the horrible sickness to have concern for the child.

And, after all, the little girl was dying. A day or two … She could understand. Friends, relatives, other survivors of that village of death could not risk their own lives to care for a dying child. They might have families of their own, and their first duty would be to those.
And I have no one
, she thought glumly.
No husband, no children. They are grown and successful. No one really needs me. I am more a burden than a help to anyone
.

How ironic, then, that she was of no use while the dying child had no one to care for her in her last days. Deer ran this strange situation through her head again, and came to a conclusion;
This is meant to be!

She very nearly wheeled the gray mare around at that very moment, but realized that there were those who would try to stop her. No, she would bide her time, act as if she had no such plan, and then slip away after dark.

Yes!
This was even better than her original plan, to challenge Cold Maker in the Moon of Starvation. She could bring comfort to a dying child. Probably, she would then die with the sickness herself. It struck her as appropriate, somehow, that she would bring comfort to the dying, and then she, too, would cross over to the Other Side. What better place to be when one was ready to cross over than among the dead? She smiled to herself.

It was not long before shadows grew long and the band stopped for the night. Running Deer was careful to place her saddle a little way apart as they settled in. She hoped that the mare would not be too hard to catch. She busied herself with her few belongings, managing to hide a stout length of rawhide thong for a rein. No one must suspect her purpose, or they would stop her. But once she was successful in reaching the abandoned camp, there was nothing anyone could do. She could
not
rejoin the People.

She had been very careful to note landmarks that could be seen at night, so that she could find her way back. There should be a nearly full moon tonight to help her on her way.

Her sons would come back to look for her, of course, but by that time they could do nothing. The People would long tell the tale of Running Deer, the old woman who took pity on a dying child. She did not know how painful such a death as this might be, but surely it was no worse than freezing. She would greet it with dignity. The People knew how to die with pride, and she could do this thing.

She lay sleepless, waiting for the camp to quiet down. It seemed a long time. Finally she rolled out of her robe and stretched. This must look as if she were only going to empty her bladder, in case anyone noticed her. She might need the robe … At first she cast it aside, but then came back, hugging her shoulders as if she were cold, in case someone noticed her. She picked it up and drew it around herself, walking toward the brushy area which the women were using to answer the call of a full bladder. No one seemed aware of her.

Once out of sight, Deer waded through the stream and paused to locate the young man who would be watching the horse herd. He must be avoided.
Ah, there, by the tree!
She edged around the other way, threading her way among the horses. It was dark … But now she saw the gray mare, and moved in that direction.

Three tries she made. Each time the animal waited until Deer touched her neck, and then spooked away. Deer felt her anger rise.
Well, enough!
The longer she remained here among the horses, the greater the chance that she would be discovered.

“Stay, then,” she muttered to the gray. “There are many better than you!”

She slipped her thong around the neck of a bay that stood quietly and allowed her to do so. The horse did not object when she led it out of the herd and to the brushy area where she had left her saddle.

It required some effort to swing up. It was a long time since she had mounted without one of her sons hurrying to help her. There was a satisfaction in it.

Very quietly she walked the horse away from the
camp. When she thought it safe, she urged the bay into a trot. It was a rough gait, not nearly so comfortable as that of her gray mare, but so be it. It was not for long.

She sighted across the hills to verify her landmarks, and headed toward the village of the dead.

“H
ave you seen our mother this morning?” asked Singing Wolf.

Beaver Track glanced up from his task, tying packs to the
travois
.

“No … Why, Wolf?”

“I do not know. No one has seen her.”

“Were her robes slept in?”

“Her robes are not here.”

“Was she not with your family, Wolf?”

“Near us, yes. You know how she draws aside to be alone sometimes. We thought she might have joined you.”

“No!”

Both were alarmed now. They widened the circle of inquiry. Someone thought he had seen her go to empty her bladder, but no one was certain.

“Her horse!” exclaimed Beaver Track. “Maybe she rose early to catch her horse.”

The two men hurried out to the herd, where people were catching their animals and preparing for travel.

“There is her gray mare,” Wolf noted.

Their attention was diverted by an argument between one of the young men who had guarded the horse herd and an older warrior.

“I do not know, Uncle,” the young herdsman said respectfully. “I saw nothing.”

Wolf recognized the older man as Quick Otter, a respected subchief.

“What is it, Uncle?” he asked.

“My bay pack horse, Wolf. It is not here.”

“Maybe he strayed away.”

“No. My black does that sometimes, but not this one.” Otter turned back to the nervous youth. “Nothing at all? You saw nothing?”

“No, Uncle. They were a little restless about half through the night. I looked, but found nothing, and then all was quiet.”

Beaver Track had left the group to circle the area, and now came trotting back, an anxious expression on his face in the early light of day.

“Someone led a horse from the herd and across the stream there,” he announced.

“Of course,” snapped old Otter. “Many have, this morning.”

“No, Uncle,
away
from the camp. They stopped, to saddle maybe, in the brush there. Does your bay paddle a little on the left front foot?”

“Yes! He does!”

“This was the horse, then. I found the tracks on the sand bar where they crossed.”

“But this makes no sense!” protested the herdsman. “If one steals a horse, he steals the best buffalo runner, not an old pack horse. Besides, we have no enemies here.”

“Not that we know of,” Singing Wolf agreed. “But he is right, Uncle. Why? Would anyone want to play a joke on you?”

“No. It is a bad joke, anyway. The bay was not worth much, but he was always easy to catch. Even a child could catch him.”

The sons of Running Deer looked at each other, a light dawning.

“Or an old woman,” said Wolf softly.

“What?” demanded Quick Otter.

“Nothing, Uncle. We will try to find your horse.”

Wolf and Beaver Track drew aside.

“Could the tracks have been hers?” asked Wolf.

“Maybe. They were small. I was thinking of a young person … a joke.”

“But where would she go, and
why?”

It took only a little while for Beaver Track to determine that the rider on the stolen bay had headed straight on their back trail.