People of the Fire (8 page)

 
          
 
In spite of it all, his ribs stood out. The
muscles of his frame remained perpetually gaunt. The growl in his belly might
be assuaged by a gorging feast after a kill, but within days the carcass would
be down to stripped bone. Starvation followed him, hovering like a phantom over
his shoulder. He crushed bones for the marrow and boiled the grease from the
fragments. This he skimmed from the top of the water before he drank it,
spitting out the sharp chips.

           
 
From where he sat on the ridge top, staring
out over the vast basin of the
Mud
River
, he could look back at the
Buffalo
Mountains
and remember the warm, friendly lodges of
his people. In his heart, an emptiness beat in tune with each breath.

 
          
 
He'd led the party of warriors after Clear
Water. Throughout the fruitless chase, the reserve in their eyes haunted him.
At night, they'd whisper among themselves, demoralized by the theft of the Wolf
Bundle. Each man's expression reflected the thoughts within: The Wolf Bundle
has left the Red Hand. This man who leads us chased it away. This man, this
Blood Bear, killed the Spirit Man. He broke the Power of the People.

 
          
 
Of course they had failed to find Clear Water
and Two Smokes. Their hearts had lost the fire. One by one, his party melted
away into the night to return to the camps, telling of failure, of defeat. When
Clear Water left, she'd taken the soul of the Red Hand with her.

 
          
 
"I'll find it," he promised.
"One day, I will find the Wolf Bundle. And when I do, I'll return. Hear
that, my people? I will return to the Red Hand . . . and bring back the soul
Clear Water and Two Smokes took from us."

 
          
 
Until then, he would not go back. The thought
of their eyes chilled him; the way they'd look at him couldn't be endured.

 
          
 
Raising his gaze to the endless blue vault of
the sky, Blood Bear shook his head, standing, lifting his clenched fist
overhead.
Hiraing
to face the blinding sun, he swore,
"By my blood and soul, I ask you to honor my request. Give me the Wolf
Bundle! Give me a sign ... a way to find it! Do this, Wise One Above, and I
shall humble myself before you. Hear me. Hear my plea. I would give my life for
the Wolf Bundle. I would give everything dear to me!"

 
          
 
A stillness fell, the wind ceasing, sage
thrashers going silent in the brush. Not even the call of a meadowlark intruded
on the silence.

 
          
 
"Hear me!" Mouth working, he
squinted up at the searing sun. From his pouch, he took his sharp
chert
knife. Crouching, he placed his left hand on a
rounded quartzite cobble, looking down only long enough to center the sharp
stone blade over the end joint of his little finger.

 
          
 
The sting of the knife gratified. The warm
spurt of blood on the blade and hafting sent a shiver of excitement through his
trembling body. He sawed through the tendons and ligaments, his face as hard as
lightning-
riven
wood, severing the last bit of
clinging skin.

 
          
 
Ignoring the pain, he plucked the bit of flesh
from the blood-smeared rock and lifted it. "I offer of myself! With my
flesh I bind myself to you! Take what you will of me, but give me the Wolf
Bundle!"

 
          
 
With all his might, he threw the tip of his
little finger up into the air, losing it in the burning glare of sun.

 
          
 
For a moment, he reeled, vision blurring. The
glaring rays of the sun shimmered through the tears in his eyes to split the
light into rainbow colors. For a moment, the image might have been a man, a man
of light staring down at him, weighing his words. He blinked; the afterimage of
the sun man burned darkly against his clamped eyelids. Trickles of water traced
his cheeks as he opened his eyes, seeing only the too-radiant orb of the sun.

 
          
 
A puff of breeze cooled the tear tracks on his
cheeks. A grasshopper clicked as it rose on the
midday
air. A bird warbled in the sage below him.

 
          
 
Had the Spirit World heard? After all his
years of mocking, had anything happened? He heard and felt the spatter of blood
on his moccasin top. Looking down, he stared dumbly at his throbbing finger.

 
          
 
Had anything happened? Or was it only in his
mind?

 
          
 
Search as he might, he couldn't find the
severed tip of his finger.

 
          
 
Pain . . . pain . . . pain . . .

 
          
 
Two Smokes hadn't felt so wretched and hurt
since that day so long ago. Eight long summers had passed since he and Clear
Water had fled Blood Bear and the Red Hand People. Now his soul shriveled as if
burned in fire.

 
          
 
Across the lodge, Little Dancer slept, the
muffled sounds coming from his lips echoing tortured dreams. Yes, he knew. Born
under the Wolf Bundle, Little Dancer understood the horror of what had
happened. His mother's Power lived strong in him, almost a throbbing presence
that constantly sought relief.

 
          
 
"And I made a promise on the Wolf
Bundle," Two Smokes whispered.

 
          
 
In his hands, he stroked the holy bundle,
wounded by the damage done to the sacred object in his care, frightened at the
future retribution he knew lurked just over the horizon. He could feel it,
powerful, heavy in the air like the coming of a storm.

 
          
 
His responsibility. He blinked wearily,
remembering Dancing Doe as she dashed her child onto the rocky terrace top. A
child saved, a child taken. Would that be all? Would the defiled Wolf Bundle
ask something more? Some other terrible retribution for his failure?

 
          
 
Last time, it had been his leg—and Clear
Water's life-claimed in payment for his incompetence.

 
          
 
He went back to that day eight summers ago,
reliving the pain. . . .

 
          
 
Just a
berdache
and
a Spirit Woman, they had no business trying to work a trap like that.
Experienced hunters could read the bison, understand their ways. Clear Water
had located the small herd. His idea had been to hem the beasts between the
banks of the arroyo above where they fed.

 
          
 
The drive had been easy, like in the stories
told by hunters. They'd pushed the animals gently, the buffalo always drifting
beyond dart range until the walls of the valley rose around them.

 
          
 
Clear Water had looked across, excited eyes
flashing, seeing the buffalo milling before the mouth of the arroyo.
"Now!" she'd cried. "Rush them! Frighten them!"

 
          
 
And he'd charged the big beasts, afraid of the
lances of sunlight glinting off their long black horns. Looking placid, almost
stupid, they bawled and wheeled, those crowded against the wall of earth goring
angrily at their neighbors. Flies had risen from the curls of rust hair to
spiral in the swirling dust.

 
          
 
The lead cow had turned to face him, head
lowered, and he'd jumped to the side in fear. Seeing him give way, the cow
whirled with blinding speed, bolting for the hole to freedom.

 
          
 
He opened his eyes, looking miserably over at
Little Dancer. From the soiled Wolf Bundle on his lap, his hand lifted, as if
to reach for the boy.

 
          
 
His inexperience had killed the only woman
he'd ever loved.

 
          
 
Two Smokes remembered lying there in
soul-searing pain. He'd tried to swallow, his tongue swollen and dry. He shut
his eyes tight against the burning agony in his leg. Despite his thirst, sweat
beaded to trickle hot and salty down his face. Whimpering at the attempt, he'd
tried to move again, digging his trembling fingers into the gray silt of the
arroyo bottom. The effort sent burning spears through his mangled leg. The cry
tore from his throat like a thing alive and he collapsed limp on the arid soil,
lungs heaving as he gasped. The rich smell of the earth clung musty and rich in
his nostrils. Crumbly ground cushioned his sweat-damp cheek.

 
          
 
The infant. Got to get back to the infant!

 
          
 
Against the gritty feeling, Two Smokes stared
at the assorted gravels in the main channel—beaten and pocked now from the
milling feet of mad buffalo.

 
          
 
"My fault," he groaned. "What
did I know about trapping buffalo?" And without me, the child will die . .
. alone . . . hungry. Maybe a coyote will come first, poking its long nose down
into the bundle, baring teeth to . . .No, don't think it. I'll make it back.
I've got to. I’m all he has.

 
          
 
“ . . . All he has." He hadn't been able
to bear the thought of looking for Clear Water's body. Enough horror would
remain without that. Teeth clamped hard, he'd braced himself, pulled with his
arms, and almost vomited as he levered himself forward, the mangled leg
dragging behind.

 
          
 
Head spinning, lungs heaving, he sucked air to
still his racing heart.

 
          
 
“My fault."

 
          
 
In his mind he replayed the final moments—that
last desperate instant when the buffalo charged over them, eyes rolling, silver
streaks of saliva slung from the corners of their mouths. He felt rather than
heard the thick hooves clawing, pounding for traction. Sunlight gleamed from
clattering black horns as clearly as it had that long-ago day. He could smell
the dust swilling up around their curly haired brown hides.

 
          
 
He would die with Clear Water's shriek echoing
in his mind. He would rise to the Wise One Above, reliving her efforts to stem
the rush, waving her robe to frighten the stampeding animals, seeing her danger
too late, turning to run.

 
          
 
The image slowed, as if in Spirit Dream. Clear
Water's legs seemed to stiffen, reactions sluggish so soon after giving birth.
Then the buffalo calf, eyes glazed wide with fear, broke left, passing on Clear
Water's far side, bawling its terror.

 
          
 
The huge cow planted a foot, dirt spraying as
she spun, twisting at the sound of her calf. Dropping her head, hind quarters
lowered, massive back feet planted, muscles rippling down her flanks, she'd
pushed off, the long horn tip catching Clear Water in the small of the back.

 
          
 
Helplessly Two Smokes had watched as the
enraged cow tossed her head. The horn tip ripped upward, splitting the skin
under Clear Water's milk-rich breasts. His eyes met hers for a split second, a
communication of terror and disbelief.

 
          
 
Frantic buffalo obscured the rest.

 
          
 
He remembered the sudden impact to his own
body, clipped from behind as he turned to run. Then pain . . . and silence . .
. and . . .

 
          
 
He recalled the way his vision had shimmered when
he came to, a mirage dancing his sight away and out of focus. In the depths of
his mind he could hear a baby crying; the pitiful wailing bruised his soul.