People of the Silence (63 page)

The vista appeared so peaceful. How could such tranquility lull a country where the storms in peoples’ hearts tortured the body and soul? Thistle bit her lip. She needed but to look inside herself to see the source of the ugliness.

Thistle heard Leafhopper stumble. Had she fallen again? Thistle slowed and looked back. Leafhopper’s pudgy legs trembled and she weaved from side to side as she tottered down the dirt trail. Sweat drenched the young woman’s green dress and matted the cotton fabric to her squat frame. Chin-length black hair straggled about her round face. Eyes glazed, mouth hanging open as she gasped for air, Leafhopper appeared ready to collapse.

Thistle had been running as though pursued by witches flying on rawhide shields. But she
could
run all day. She had been a mason her entire life, and despite her slim appearance, wiry muscles packed her body. Leafhopper, on the other hand, had spent her short life caring for children and grinding corn. Several times today, the girl had crumpled in the trail, and Thistle had been forced to turn back and coax her to continue.

Leafhopper looked up and saw Thistle watching. “Thistle?” she panted eagerly. “It’s late. Shouldn’t we make camp?” Leafhopper stopped and braced her legs. “Please?”

Thistle wiped the sweat from her fine-boned face. “If we just run a little longer, Leafhopper, we can make it to—”

“No!
Please?
My legs feel like boiled grass stems.”

Thistle looked longingly southward, then, after a moment, nodded and walked back. She took Leafhopper’s arm in a friendly grip. “I’m sorry. You’ve been doing so well.” She pointed to a line of low hills just visible through the tops of the piñon and juniper. “How about making camp up there? On top of one of those hills, where we can keep an eye on the trail.”

Leafhopper nodded. “Thank you. I couldn’t run another step. I swear.”

Thistle put her arm around Leafhopper’s hot, sweaty shoulders and helped her toward the cluster of hills. Leafhopper’s knees kept trying to buckle. “You’ve been very brave, Leafhopper. Not even Cornsilk”—she flinched, and continued more softly—“not even Cornsilk could have done so well today. I’m very proud of you.”

The words seemed to soothe Leafhopper. She patted Thistle’s hand.

Slabs of sandstone lay tumbled down the slopes beneath the fractured rimrock. In the fading gleam of sunset, pale blue light struck the flat faces at different angles, creating an iridescent mosaic of purple and lavender.

“I pick that hill,” Leafhopper said, gesturing to the closest one.

Thistle smiled. “I think that will do nicely.”

When they reached a narrow game trail that led up the face of the hill, Leafhopper climbed doggedly, setting one foot ahead of the other, probably anxious to get to the top so she could collapse. Sprigs of wild onion and biscuit root grew among the stones. Leafhopper plucked and chewed them as she edged around boulders and canted slabs.

Just as they crested the hill, Thistle caught a hint of movement from the corner of her eye.

“Blessed gods!”
She tackled Leafhopper from behind, dragging her to the sandy ground.

“What—”

Thistle clamped a hand over Leafhopper’s mouth with such strength that Leafhopper cried out and squirmed like a snared rabbit.

“Shh!” Thistle hissed. “Don’t make a sound and
don’t
move!”

Leafhopper silently peered at Thistle through frightened eyes. Thistle’s gaze was riveted on the sheltered valley that lay cupped in the midst of the hills. Faint voices rose from the warrior’s camp.

Thistle let Leafhopper look, then released her and crawled behind a tan boulder. Leafhopper did the same, craning her neck to see.

“Who are they?” Leafhopper whispered.

Dozens of men moved through the valley, packs, quivers and bows on their backs. Some carried shields. At some signal, they slowed, broke into groups and began twisting out sagebrush, snapping off juniper branches, and removing their packs. One young man immediately trotted for a high spot just to the east. A lookout, no doubt.

Thistle whispered, “
Fire Dogs.
See the short haircuts and the knee-length capes they wear, black on top, white on the bottom?” She pointed to a man standing by himself on the south side of the camp. “And look at the flat woven yucca hat he’s wearing. They’re Mogollon, all right.”

Leafhopper paled. Now that she’d lain down, her whole body shook with exhaustion. “But—but what are they doing here? So close to the sacred South Road?”

“I don’t know, but we should get far away from here. Come on, let’s back down—”

“Oh, Thistle, please,” Leafhopper begged. “Let me rest for a short while. I need a drink of water.”

Thistle grimaced at the warriors. The men were rolling out blankets, taking cooking pots from their packs and building fires. She watched as a warrior walked through the camp, pointing to high points, and sentries were dispatched to keep watch.

“Just for a moment, Leafhopper. Then we must go.” Thistle chewed her lip, frowning thoughtfully. This was a disciplined party, not just a group of men who’d decided to raid Straight Path lands.

Unslinging her pack, Leafhopper took out her gut water bag, and began gulping. Her arm trembled so badly that trickles spilled down her dress. She sighed, “Oh, I needed this.”

Thistle untied her own water bag from her belt and took three swallows, just enough to wet her mouth and ease her stomach. She kept her eyes on the warriors. As twilight deepened, draping the hills like charcoal veils of mist, the warriors’ cloaks blended with the night, turning them almost invisible.

Thistle started to take another drink and halted midway, the bag suspended before her chin. A man in a long red shirt walked across the camp. Short and stout, he wore a large coral pendant around his neck, and his long black hair hung in a braid down his back.

“That’s…” Thistle’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a Straight Path warrior.”

Leafhopper jerked around. “What? Where?”

“In the red warrior’s shirt.”

Leafhopper wiped water from her mouth with the back of her pudgy hand and pulled a bag of dried venison from her pack. “But why would one of our warriors be in a Fire Dog camp?” She gave Thistle a confused look.

Thistle ground her teeth, thinking. The Straight Path warrior walked right through the middle of camp. Even from where she sat, Thistle could see his tension. When he reached the base of the hill, he disappeared behind a jumble of boulders. Another part of the camp, hidden from view? Silently, Thistle counted warriors.
Forty-four.
Given the growing darkness, and the number of rocky niches, she’d probably missed several.

Leafhopper’s fear had begun to outweigh her exhaustion. “I think I’m ready to go now.”

Thistle touched her arm. “Don’t move. With those sentries out, we can’t leave here until it’s completely dark.”

Leafhopper’s eyes went wide. “Will we be safe?”

Thistle examined the big rock they hid behind. “I think so. At least for another hand or two of time.”

As night deepened, the six fires in the valley twinkled brilliantly, and the scent of burning sage drifted on the cool breeze.

Thistle murmured, “Why such a large camp?”

“Do you think they’re massing to attack one of our villages?” Leafhopper asked through another mouthful of dried venison. The venison bag lay on a rock in front of her.

Thistle reached over and pulled out a piece. As she chewed, she tried to place the closest villages. High Stone was immediately north of Humpback Butte, but, living this close to the Mogollon, its brawling warriors had a reputation even the Fire Dogs respected. “Maybe, but raiding parties rarely have more than twenty or thirty members.”

Beargrass’ handsome face appeared on the canvas of her soul, serious, a hard glint in his brown eyes. Seventeen summers ago, they’d been sitting outside of Talon Town, Beargrass knapping out a fine chert arrow point, while she stirred a length of cloth in a vat of fermented prickly pear fruit juice. The cloth had been soaking for seven days and had turned a beautiful reddish brown. Beargrass frowned thoughtfully, and said,
“Ironwood told me this morning that a raiding party of more than thirty is almost impossible to control. He said that the more men you take, the more quarreling breaks out.”
He gestured with his half-finished point.
“Someone always becomes dissatisfied. Men split up and choose leaders for their own clan groups within the party—then the trouble begins.…”

Thistle clenched her fists, trying to forget his smile, and how very much she missed him. “No one would take this many warriors on a simple raid for slaves and food.”

“Maybe they’re planning on splitting up,” Leafhopper suggested, “to dispatch two or three parties from here.”

“It’s possible. But who’s that Straight Path warrior? Why is he walking free? The Fire Dogs should have killed him right off, or tied him up and tortured him, if nothing else. This doesn’t make sense.”

Thistle lifted her head to peer down. A golden halo of firelight swelled around the tumbled rock below; it silhouetted the tilted rocks and showed three men standing at the edge of the firelight. The Straight Path warrior stood among them, sipping a cup of tea. He had his head down, frowning.

“The other possibility,” Thistle said to Leafhopper, “is that they need this many warriors not for an attack but to protect a very important person.”

“Who?”

“That’s what I must find out. I need to go down there, Leafhopper. I want you to stay here. If I’m not back in a hand of time, sneak down to the holy South Road and find a place to hide. I’ll meet you. If you don’t see me by dawn, run as fast as you can for Talon Town. Do you understand?”

Leafhopper’s mouth trembled. “Let me come with you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“But w-what are you looking for down there?”

“I need to see if this really is a raiding party, or some sort of escort. Then I’ll be back. It shouldn’t take long.”

Leafhopper wet her lips. “Thistle, I—I’m afraid to go to Talon Town. I don’t know anyone there, and I’ve heard that many witches—”

“Cornsilk is there,” Thistle said, and cupped Leafhopper’s chin to peer into her frightened eyes. “I’m almost certain of it. But I
will
be back in one hand of time, Leafhopper. Don’t worry.”

She nodded bravely.

Thistle said, “Remember, stay behind this rock, and don’t move around too much or one of those sentries might see you.”

“I promise, Thistle.”

Thistle smiled at her, then started down the hill, sliding on her belly a few hands at a time. She fell into a watchful rhythm that Beargrass had taught her: slide, stop, look, listen, slide …

Blackness swallowed the dusk as Thistle crawled through the rocks and cactus that dotted the hillside. As she slithered to the sandstone rim, she saw that the caprock had been undercut, and the whole hillside had slumped and fallen, toppling square sandstone boulders down the slope.

Cupped in the midst of this cluster of low hills, the narrow valley made a perfect hiding place. Unless right on top of the camp, no one could see the fires, or hear the warriors’ soft voices.

Pushing with her toes and pulling with her hands, she worked her way into the tumbled landslide of boulders, some as huge as small houses. The odors of packrat dung and urine rose strongly. When Thistle eased into the shadows between two tilted rocks, little feet scurried and tiny eyes peered out at her from a crack in one of the rocks. Thistle smiled at the packrat and tried to still her heavy breathing.

A man walked by, no more than two body-lengths away.

He unrolled his blankets at the base of the slide and returned to stand by the fire. Thistle edged forward. Five men now stood around the flames, talking quietly. A tea pot sat at the edge of the coals. Black-and-white cotton capes billowed around the mens’ broad shoulders. One wore a turquoise plug that curved through a hole in his lip.

Her breathing went shallow. She’d never been this close to Fire Dog warriors.

The tallest man yawned and tossed the contents of his cup onto the fire. The flames sizzled and spat. He had an ugly, deeply scarred face. He said, “A pleasant evening to you. I think I’ll—”

“Wait, Howler,” the Straight Path warrior said. “I’m still worried. This must work perfectly or—”

“
How
can it go wrong? Hmm? Unless you’re not telling us everything.”

Thistle frowned. They both spoke the Straight Path language?

“Of course I’m telling you everything. If we make this happen, both of us will gain.”

“I’m tired, Cone,” Howler said, “It was a long day. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“We’re running out of time! The Chief’s body is almost ready. We wouldn’t have had this much time if old Dune hadn’t had to send for his pack. There are things we must discuss tonight!”

Thistle edged forward another hand to get a better look. Short and stout, the Straight Path warrior had his back to her; she couldn’t see his face, but that voice … she knew that voice.
No, no. It can’t be.

Howler propped his hands on his hips and the hem of his cape whipped and crackled. “Well, then, what is it?”

Cone tossed the dregs of his tea onto the ground. “I’m not sure we have enough men. Perhaps we should wait to attack. If we gather another twenty warriors, then—”

“Then we’ll have eighty warriors, and far too many to make a quick, clean strike! What’s the matter with you? I thought you said your friend Snake Head is bringing only five warriors?”

“Yes, but, what if—”

“Stop worrying. Jay Bird knows what he’s doing.”

Jay Bird!
Thistle edged closer.
But is he here, or still at the Gila Monster Cliffs?

“I’m not so sure, Howler.”

Howler gestured irritably. “Even if Snake Head brings fifty warriors, we have surprise on our side. Besides, didn’t you say the new War Chief—what was his name?”

“Webworm,” Cone murmured.

“Yes, Webworm. Didn’t you say he was a weak fool? That he jumped at the sound of moth wings and did anything people told him? How could such a man refuse the orders of the new Blessed Sun?”