People of the Fire (11 page)

 
          
 
She laughed to herself, a fullness in her
heart. Yes, food for everyone. They'd all eat. And maybe, just maybe, Hungry
Bull and Three Toes and Black Crow might have made a trap. Or possibly one of
the other parties who'd gone out from the
Moon
River
in various directions to hunt had found a
herd.

 
          
 
She shaded her eyes, looking southwest toward
the cool spikes of the mountains. The snow line had been higher than she'd ever
seen this last winter. Down by the main camp, the river could be waded, water
never coming higher than her knees. Even the cottonwoods looked dusty, the new
leaves a darker green. Through it all, the wind continued to blow out of the
southwest, hot, dry, sucking any moisture left from the prostrate dust.

 
          
 
"Sage Root?"

 
          
 
She turned at the cautious call, seeing
Meadowlark gesturing down the drainage. Three people picked their way through
the sage. She didn't need to squint to know Heavy Beaver's lumbering walk.

 
          
 
"I think it's a good time to leave ... go
hide under the bones in the arroyo," Makes Fun observed dryly.

 
          
 
"No. Just keep doing what you're
doing." Sage Root straightened, a queasiness in her gut. "I'll go
talk to him before he gets here. Keeps the rest of you out of it that
way."

 
          
 
"Careful," Chokecherry warned from
the side. "Don't antagonize him. You saw what happened the other night.
Don't get him mad, girl. Don't do anything to make him Curse you. You know what
he's saying about the women as it is."

 
          
 
"I know." Her throat constricted,
premonition choking her. With iron nerve, she forced herself to walk steadily
toward him. Old Two Elks came second in line, a nervous set to his sagging
shoulders. Heavy Beaver's wife, Red
Chert
, walked
last, eyes downcast in her round face. Her petulant lips pressed tightly
together in a pouting expression.

           
 
Heavy Beaver stopped, pulling himself up, and
stared at her through expressionless eyes.

 
          
 
"It's good to see you back, Heavy Beaver.
You had good Dreaming?"

 
          
 
He tilted his head slightly, a distaste
forming in the set of his wide brown lips. "Dreaming isn't your concern,
woman. Looking behind you, I'm starting to wonder what is."

 
          
 
The crawling feeling in her stomach went ill.
"Feeding the People should be everyone's concern. Don't look at me like
that. You're Two Stones moiety. I'm Wolf Heart. I'm under no kin obligations to
even be polite. But I will . . . since you Sing and Dream for the People. For
that I respect you."

 
          
 
A slight curl of smile ghosted at his lips,
but his gaze remained hard, cutting like freshly struck
chert
.
"I'm glad you're an obedient daughter of the People, woman. If your piety
is so great, what have you done here? Hmm? Could it be that you've killed
brother antelope? Ah, yes, I suppose so. And the ritual? Did you Sing that?
Dance it like Antelope Above likes it Danced?" His expression tightened.
"Or perhaps you didn't. Perhaps you fouled the ritual . . . offended
Antelope Above like
Buffalo
has been offended. What then, woman of the People? Who will feed us all
if the animal spirits have risen to the Wise One Above, and told him to stop
Rain Man from Dancing water from the clouds? What have you done?"

 
          
 
She crossed her arms, meeting his hot glare,
refusing to cave in to the feeling of terror. "I fed my people. I told the
antelope mother what I did. She knows. I—"

 
          
 
"And I suppose you're bleeding on top of
it all? Menstrual blood? On a hunt? If there's trouble these days, you always
seem to be at the bottom of it."

 
          
 
At the memory of Dancing Doe's infanticide,
she bristled. "As if it was any of your business, I'm not. My moon passed
two weeks ago. You should know, Heavy Beaver, you seem to keep good track of
when each woman enters the bleeding lodge. Part of your Dreamer's responsibility?
Or something else?"

 
          
 
Watch it! You We getting mad. You know what
happens when you get out of control. She swallowed hard, trying to still the
fires of injustice tugging at her gut.

           
 
He actually forced a smile onto his lips.
"Times are changing, Sage Root. Oh, I know your lineage. I know the sort
of woman your mother was. Passionate . . . like you. That's where you get it, I
suppose. Your father never stood up to her, never taught you the manners to
make you a polite woman, dutiful. Then you couldn't wait to rut with Hungry
Bull—the name fits him. You've never—"

 
          
 
"Because I wouldn't bed you?" She
arched an eyebrow, instantly regretting it, exhaling. "Never mind. It was
long ago. You wouldn't have wanted me for a second wife anyway." And
that's one of the biggest lies I've ever told. Look at you, even now,
practically drooling. And you talk to the Spirit World?

 
          
 
Red
Chert
had stood
through it all, eyes downcast as always. Stolid of expression, she waited, the
wind tugging at her long black braids. A small dumpy woman, she'd never borne
Heavy Beaver a son—yet she bled like any other woman, taking her time in the
menstrual hut. Ever quiet and docile, she never even laughed at the crude jokes
the women told. She spoke rarely and then only of the essentials.

 
          
 
The realization settled in Sage Root's mind.
How terrible to be the object of so much sympathy. What a wretched life that
would be. Imagine having a husband you never laughed with, never hugged, or
coupled frantically with, or fought with. Imagine living all your life like a
wounded puppy. Where would the purpose be?

 
          
 
"Indeed, you'd have made a very poor
second wife." Heavy Beaver's words sank into her thoughts. "And I'll
hope you haven't ruined the People forever with this little display of
yours."

 
          
 
The anger broke loose.

 
          
 
Despite the warning voice in her head, she
jabbed a finger into his breastbone. It all came out, spurred by the fear
eating at her gut. She had to strike back, she just had to—or it was all lost.
"And where are the buffalo you've been Singing to for so long? Do I see
the hills black with their bodies? All that Singing, Heavy Beaver? All that
time the People have been giving you the best of what little remained so you
could spend time in the Dream without worries about your fat belly going gaunt?
Maybe you haven't listened past the sound of your own voice. The children of
the People are crying]

 
          
 
"And what have we got? Rain? You see any
of that this spring? No, all we get are your accusations that women are
spoiling the world, killing the People! There wouldn't be any People if it
wasn't for everyone doing what they can. Including women! Have you seen Dancing
Doe recently? Have you seen the misery in her eyes every time she thinks about
what you made her do?"

 
          
 
"You push too far, Sage Root." He
said it so softly, she almost missed it in her tirade. The chill of fear,
overly damped by anger, reasserted itself. She swallowed hard. This fool could
Curse her. And he had every reason after she'd ridiculed him that night he'd tried
to take her. Ridicule wasted a man, ate at him . . . and Heavy Beaver didn't
forget.

 
          
 
"Yes, you understand." He lifted his
chin, studying her through lowered lashes. "Perhaps you do too much—take
on too much. You would divide the People when they must pull together, Dance
and Sing and apologize to the Spirit World Above for so many transgressions. In
you, I see only arrogance, and pride. So much pride. Is that because of your
beauty? Because of your husband? Do you think you're better than the rest of
the People?"

 
          
 
She bit her tongue to still the hot response.

 
          
 
"Remember," his smooth voice grated,
"the Wise One Above led men up from under the ground and into this world.
A being who crawled out of the earth like mole shouldn't be too proud."

 
          
 
“I stand on my own under Father Sun as you do,
shaman."

 
          
 
"But I Dream the Powers, woman. And I
think you're too proud. Go ahead, eat your meat. I refuse to touch it, to foul
my lips with your sacrilege. We'll see where your impudence and arrogant pride
get you in the end."

 
          
 
He pushed past her, raising his arms and
shouting for all to hear: "Antelope Above! I see what the woman has done
to you! I see the insult to your children! I see the defiling of my brothers!
Know that I, Heavy Beaver, refuse to taste, eat ... or even smell of this
violation! I declare this meat to be putrid and fouled by a defiler of You . .
. and my People."

 
          
 
And with that, he whirled, a gleam of triumph
in his black eyes as he shoved her aside and strode down the trail back toward
the camp.

 
          
 
In stunned silence, Sage Root stared,
disbelieving, unable to comprehend that he'd act to waste a good kill, a clean
kill, defiling the meat in the very mouths of the People.

 
          
 
Like a great hand from above, a darkness
descended on her soul.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull froze, half a breath caught in his
lungs. The amber grass rustled again and went quiet as the thief moved in the
gray light. He cocked his head to listen, tightening the grip on his weapon.
The feeling of the smooth wood, balanced so perfectly in his knotted fist,
reassured him.

 
          
 
The morning birds had begun to chirp. A light
breeze puffed against his skin, dampening the excitement of the stalk. Still in
shadow, the sage loomed purple blue in the predawn light. Not much time left
now. The thief would escape, his night's raid left unpunished.

 
          
 
Grass whispered as Hungry Bull's quarry
shifted position. Close, so close, just there, on the other side of the sage.
Hungry Bull tested the balance of the trimmed wood in his hand, feeling the
heft, waiting to dispatch his enemy.

 
          
 
Life and death, the old dance continued. Even
here, in the deep sagebrush, the greatest game played out. This game, Hungry
Bull played very well. Few matched his skill with weapons or cunning ambushes.
His quarry retreated ahead of him.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull took the rest of the breath,
feeling his heart pound harder in his chest as his air-starved lungs began to
labor. Using all his craft, he slowly lifted his foot, drifting it silently
forward, placing it between dry clumps of grass, delicately resettling his
weight to the ball of his foot.

 
          
 
Ahead of him, the grass crackled and went
still.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull studied each pattern of the
shadows, searching for the outline of the raider. Tension hung in the air,
straining at him, speeding his heart. He throttled the urge to charge forward,
to match wits with his quarry. Killing took patience. Revenge would be all the
better if the thief never knew his danger.

 
          
 
He eased another step forward, careful eyes on
the spiky uplifted arms of the sagebrush around him. The muscles in his leg
trembled slightly as he shifted his balance, peering into the hollows where the
brush thinned.