People of the Fire (12 page)

 
          
 
The thief stopped, raising, poised to flee,
head cocked to listen while sharp brown eyes glinted in the graying light.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull froze again, tense as a green
willow stalk.

 
          
 
The thief hesitated nervously, as if warned by
some sixth sense.

 
          
 
He's going to bolt! Hungry Bull, not quite as
balanced as he wanted to be, struck. Trained muscles flexed smoothly, arm
hissing forward as he released his weapon. One chance only. Hungry Bull put
body and soul behind the throw, knowing a miss would allow the quarry a clean
escape.

 
          
 
The hardwood stick, curved into an L shape,
warbled slightly in the air, and caught the thief low, tumbling him in a heap.

 
          
 
"Got you!" Hungry Bull yipped and
vaulted the sagebrush in pursuit.

 
          
 
To his surprise, the thief pulled himself up
and scrambled into the denser mat of sagebrush and grass.

 
          
 
Perplexed, Hungry Bull bent down, studying the
tracks through narrowed eyes. "Huh! Must have been just a little off.
Broke a leg."

 
          
 
Growling, he bent over a sagebrush, grasping
the stiff gray branches and twisting them round and round until the root parted
with a soil-muffled pop. Satisfied, he picked up his throwing stick, slipping
it behind the buffalo-hide belt he wore, and took up the scuffed track of the
thief. Using the uprooted plant for a flail, he smacked clumps of sagebrush,
poking here and there, seeking to flush his wounded prey.

 
          
 
"All right, where
ti
you go? Look, you can't get away. You've got a broken leg. Come on out. Better
I eat you than some tick-infested coyote."

 
          
 
Hungry Bull bent down, peering into a thick
shock of grass, seeing a gleaming brown eye staring back in the breaking light
of morning. The pink tip of nose quivered, a wealth of silvered whiskers
shivering.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull jabbed his bush at the hole,
satisfied to see a hobbling streak of brown shoot out the other side.

 
          
 
He jumped the sagebrush, charging after the
wounded creature, sprinting a zigzagging course through the unresisting brush.
The quarry shot to the left. Hungry Bull planted a foot, leaping after him—only
to step on a curled chunk of dried sage stem that leapt up as if alive to trip
him. Bull slammed down, catching sight of his quarry disappearing. Frantic, he
scrambled after him on hands and knees, spitting a curse as he stuck his hand
in a clump of brown-
spined
prickly pear.

 
          
 
Getting his feet under him, he lunged,
grasping for the thief's body, missing. Again he pelted after the small
brown-and-white shape, sage crackling and snapping before his charge, scenting
the air with its tangy aroma.

 
          
 
They'd crossed most of the drainage bottom
now, closing on the gentle slope that led up to the rounded ridge top. If the
thief got to the rocks up there, got to a hole, it would be all over.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull slid to a stop. "Lost
you!" He cocked his head, sensitive ears tuned for the soft rustling. A
meadowlark trilled, followed by a robin calling in crisp melody to greet Father
Sun.

 
          
 
There! Bull jumped for the sound of scurrying
feet. The thief had doubled back, making a wide circle as Bull crashed down on
him. Again the mad scramble continued, the thief belying his broken leg as he
slipped through the small spaces. Bull—condemned by size—had to pound through
by dint of brute force.

 
          
 
As the thief shot across an open space, Bull
launched himself again, slapping belly-down on the dust.

 
          
 
Roaring rage, Hungry Bull got a foot braced
and lurched again, his grasping fingers slipping off the creature's back as he
planted his other hand in a wicked patch of cactus. Bellowing from the sting
and cursing the extraordinary luck of his wounded prey, Hungry Bull went
momentarily berserk, diving headfirst into the thicket of sage, barely aware of
the scratches it tore in his cheek.

 
          
 
Worming after the scrambling fugitive, he
slapped at him, finally got a grip on his tail, and pulled. The captive clawed
frantically at the loose dirt as Hungry Bull dragged him back.

 
          
 
"Got you!" he howled in victory.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull stood, grinning, his prey dangling
by a brown-and-white tail, front legs outstretched, broken hind leg limp. Under
the sleek buff-brown coat, lungs labored, whiskers trembling. The smooth white
underbelly gleamed like snow in the sun, in contrast to pink-padded feet.

 
          
 
Bull lifted him up to stare into the
frightened black eyes. "You ate the last of my jerky. What you didn't eat,
you pissed and shit on. To make matters worse, you chewed the thong of my
atlatl
in two! It takes time to make an
atlatl
just so . . . get the right Spirit Power into it."

 
          
 
The whiskers continued to quiver, the beady
eyes bright with terror and hurt.

 
          
 
"So what I'm going to do," Bull
continued, "is get even. Tonight, we're going to eat you for dinner. Get
you back for our jerky, huh?"

 
          
 
He winced at the sting of the cactus spikes in
his flesh and grabbed the beast about the chest, ready to break its neck.

 
          
 
Undaunted, the scrambling captive sank long
white teeth into the web of skin between Bull's thumb and forefinger. He howled
in pain and surprise, slamming the creature to the ground. Again, Trickster
Coyote made a fool of him, providing a soft tussock of grass for the thief to
land in. Like a shot, it bolted into the sage.

 
          
 
Bull stared stupidly at his hand for a second,
realized what had just happened, and thundered his anger as he crashed after
his vanishing quarry.

 
          
 
The threads of the
Starweb
had begun to tighten. The Wolf Bundle had watched as the world changed. Part of
it had cried out as the last of the mammoth died under the hunter s darts. The
way of the Spirals permeated everything, reaching from the roots of the
winter-dormant plants to the shining glitter of a fly s buzzing wings. How odd
that the last mammoth had been an orphaned calf. When the Wise One Above
created the universe, he made everything balance, pain and ecstasy, birth and
rot, heat and cold.

 
          
 
Now the Circles were coming full again. Wolf
Dreamer waited, watching from his Dream. Something new would be spun into the
Starweb
. . . or its new Dreamer might fail where Wolf
Dreamer had succeeded. It did not matter. If this Circle of the Spiral would be
famine, the next might be feast.

            
As the morning sun
threaded yellow beams into the canyons, Hungry Bull trotted along a deer trail
that wound through the thick sage in the canyon bottom. As his legs pumped, he
bit cactus spines one by one from the palm of his hand, spitting them away.

            
To either side, the
eroded hillsides rose in gentle slopes dotted with sage and occasional bitter
brush. This buffalo hunt had turned into another debacle. Occasional chips had been
located—all of them years dry, beetle-riddled and gray white from sun
bleaching. Where were the buffalo? As he trotted down the trail, a limp
brown-and-white body dangled and jerked from his swelling right hand.

            
He could count off a
finger for each day since he'd left Sage Root and camp and add another three
toes to the list.

            
Never had the animals
been so few, so far between. And if the faces of the People had looked gaunt
when they left—

            
"Hey, you!"
The cry hung on the still morning air.

            
Bull slowed to a
stop, looking around warily as he tried to pin the location of the call. Cautiously
he slipped his
atlatl
from where it hung on his belt.
He pulled a long dart from the quiver over his back. Practiced fingers
nocked
the dart in the hooked end of his spear thrower. The
atlatl
added leverage, acting like an extension of
his arm, allowing a man to catapult a dart three times as far as he could throw
a spear by hand. He missed the chewed-away rawhide loops that had secured his
fingers to the polished shaft.

            
"Who is
it?" he shouted.

            
"Here!"

            
This time he caught
the direction of the voice. Looking up along the ridge, he squinted against the
brilliance of the sun.

 
          
 
He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand;
the body of his morning victim bounced limply in the process.

 
          
 
A hunched figure stood silhouetted by the
morning rays. Hunched? Indeed, the way Trickster Coyote could do when the urge
came on him to take human form. In an attempt to fool men, he sometimes came
looking like an old hunchbacked woman, or so Heavy Bull had heard. The only way
to tell was to pull up his skirts and look for a penis and testicles. Trickster
Coyote couldn't change that—wouldn't. He was too proud of his man parts.

 
          
 
Already unsettled, Bull stepped off the trail,
wary, climbing
careftilly
, eyes searching the
surroundings. Just as he'd trapped the little thief, so could he, too, be
trapped in the endless game of life and death. Where they waited in hunting
camp, Three Toes and Black Crow would never know the difference—if they hadn't
already been caught.

 
          
 
"Here I am, already assuming it's an
Anit'ah
war party," Bull told himself. 'The voice
called in the tongue of the People." He bit his lip, seeing the figure
above more clearly now. Silhouetted against the light, it waited, ominous,
balanced on skinny legs, body bulky. Chill fingers of premonition tickled along
Bull's backbone.

 
          
 
This isn't good. What did Heavy Beaver say? A
Curse is loose on the land? Heavy Beaver says we '
ve
offended Buffalo Above and He's taken His children away, caused the rains to
cease falling, made everything harder for Father Sun's people.

 
          
 
And this? Is this Trickster Coyote? Or some
worse spirit? A wandering ghost? Something to take me and kill me?

 
          
 
By Buffalo
Above's
bouncing balls! It did look like Trickster! A cold shiver closed on Bull's
heart. At the same time, some hidden memory tripped in his mind.

 
          
 
"I don't like Spirit Power. I don't have
any use for that stuff. Just trouble . . . that's all." His heart had
begun to thud and he stopped, swallowing hard as he stared at the sun-silhouetted
apparition.

 
          
 
Wary now, ready to run, he stared around,
looking for ghost sign, for a hint of evil—as if he knew what that might look
like. That inner sense of trouble kept pricking at him like the cactus spines
still in his hand.

           
 
Nerving himself, he called, "Trickster?
That you? Coyote?"

 
          
 
A cackling laugh rolled down from above,
almost irritating in the obvious enjoyment communicated.

 
          
 
"Coyote? Me?" The silhouetted figure
slapped a thin arm against its side with an audible pop. "Hah! That's what
they're teaching you kids these days? Horn Core gotten a little crazy in his
old age, or what?"

 
          
 
Horn Core *s dead! Smoke and fire! Is this
some spirit joke? He swallowed hard, beginning to back away,
ticklings
of fear running through him like tiny ant legs.

 
          
 
"Oh, come on," the silhouette
called, gesturing. "I'm not wandering all the way down there. I've walked
too far for that. I need your help. Eh? What's this? Going to run?" The
voice cackled hysterically. "I'm going to walk into a village of the
People and tell them how one of their brave young men turned and bolted from me
like brother jackrabbit from a wolf? Ha-ha, I can hardly wait!"

 
          
 
Slightly shamed, Hungry Bull continued to pick
his way up the slope, searching his memories of the elders to place the voice.
Against the light of the morning sun, he couldn't identify who it was.
Chokecherry? Not fat enough to be her. Sleeping Fir? Too tall.
Walkalot
Woman? Maybe, but the figure on the hill didn't
look right. Still, something about her . . .

 
          
 
"Or Coyote trying to trick me." But
Coyote usually did that during visions and Dreams. Sometimes, disguised as a
hunchbacked old woman, he'd lull a pretty young girl to sleep. Then his penis
would sneak out and impregnate her and she'd never know.

 
          
 
One of the Dog Crow Clan? If so, she was
awfully far west. From this angle, he could make out her form. The hunchback
look came from the pack she carried. The face might have been beautiful once,
broad-cheeked and full. Indeed, even through the sucked-dry look of age, she
still bore the trace of proud beauty. And he couldn't shake the feeling he knew
her.

 
          
 
But who is she?

 
          
 
He reached the ridge top, carefully looking
around, still uncertain if he'd walked into the middle of an
Anit'ah
trap—uncertain about a lot of things. Wind-polished
cobbles, scraggly sage, and wispy clumps of wheatgrass met his eyes, all
stroked by the caress of the morning breeze. But no warriors waited to ambush
him.

 
          
 
The old woman cocked her head, watching as he
looked over the crest of the ridge, casting about suspiciously.

 
          
 
"At least you're not entirely a
fool." She winced in the sunlight, as if at a hidden pain, and walked
forward.

 
          
 
Warily, he waited, palms sweating where he
held the dart ready to cast. He knew he'd seen her before. But Coyote could
trick a man that way. Take the face of a dead person— or maybe even a live one,
for all he knew. From the look of her tattered dress, the gauntness of her
flesh, she might have been a childless widow woman with no one to look out for her.
Then he met her eyes and his soul froze.

 
          
 
“Who are you?" he whispered, the firm
grip of the
atlatl
reassuring. The wood fairly pulsed
with the spirit he'd breathed into it at Blessing. And what good is a crafted
dart against a ghost? If only he’d had Heavy Beaver Sing Ghost Medicine into
his . . . but he hadn’t.

 
          
 
“You don't know me?" She cocked her head;
a glitter of amusement animated her black eyes. “If you're who I think you are,
boy, you've aged well. Handsome."

 
          
 
He half started. She called him “boy"! “I
am Hungry Bull, son of Seven Foxes and Bright Cloud. My grandfather was—"

 
          
 
“Yes, yes, I know you. Knew your father. Know
of him, I should say. Knew your grandfather, Big Fox, well." A saucy gleam
filled her eye as she looked him up and down. "Knew him well, indeed. The
ways of the wind lead us round and round, don't they? What a person starts
always comes back . . . somehow, someway. The Vision was right. It was time to
come."

 
          
 
Visions? He squinted, slightly irritated,
still unsure. A man never knew what the demons might do to him. Could she be
some spirit? If so, good or evil?

 
          
 
Close now, unsure, his heart beat like a stone
maul on green wood. Swallowing hard, he set himself, terribly afraid. Quick as
lightning under a thunderhead, he flicked the point of his dart down and jerked
her skirts up.

           
 
"What?" she screamed, jumping back,
arms flailing for balance, hindered by her walking stick.

 
          
 
In the melee, he ducked, looking under her
skirt. A woman.

 
          
 
Only quick reflexes saved him as the walking
stick descended in an arc. Crabbing sideways, he rolled under the blow as the
stick whistled over his head.

 
          
 
"Hey! Don't kill me!" He scrambled
sideways, the walking stick whacking the cobbles on the spot he'd just been.
Before she could recover, he got his feet braced and scampered back.

 
          
 
' '
Waaaa
! '
'
The war cry tore past her old lips as she charged after
him.

 
          
 
"Wait!" he called, racing away from
her. "I was just checking!"

 
          
 
Her old body wasn't up to the chase. The
pack—still on her back—slowed her even more. Panting and wheezing, she glared
at him, walking stick raised high as strangled sounds gurgled in her throat.

 
          
 
"Coyote disguises himself as a
woman!" Hungry Bull pleaded.

 
          
 
She started forward again, intent on cracking
his skull.

 
          
 
"What would you think?" He
backpedaled out of her reach, hands raised.

 
          
 
Lungs laboring, she slowed, jaw thrust
forward.

 
          
 
"I'm
sorryl
"
He gulped a breath. "I'm just a hunter. All I know about Coyote is what
Spirit Dreamers tell me."

 
          
 
"You ever . . . seen Coyote . . . look
like an . . . old woman?"

 
          
 
"No!"

 
          
 
"Then why-"

 
          
 
"Because he might! And if he wants to
trick someone, can be someone besides me! I got enough troubles!"

 
          
 
At the stricken look on his face, the old
woman stopped herself short of the next attack and laughed, breaking into
coughing fit in the process.

 
          
 
"Okay," she admitted between
lung-racking hacks, "I believe you."

 
          
 
Hungry Bull took a deep breath. "Good.
Who are you?"