People of the Fire (76 page)

 
          
 
He jerked awake, crying out, and sat up. Blood
rushed in his veins as Red
Chert
blinked awake,
staring at him through dull eyes.

 
          
 
He ripped the covers off, stumbling to his
feet, pulling on his ceremonial shirt. Desperately, he jerked the hanging aside
and stumbled out into the cool air. From the faint graying of the eastern
horizon, dawn lay at hand.

 
          
 
He stared at the lodges, at the parched trees
overhead. Cool, peaceful. It had only been a Dream. A terrible Dream. Yes, a
real Power Dream.

 
          
 
They would start the Blessing today. All would
be as it should. He gasped and wiped at the fear-sweat beaded on his fleshy
forehead. Panting, he walked around, enjoying the mangy dogs that came to sniff
and scampered away as he kicked at them.

 
          
 
"It's all right. It's all going to be
fine."

 
          
 
Then why did a fist seem to grip his heart?

 
          
 
A hot, brassy day. Another in a long pattern
of hot days. The morning breezes rose up the canyons, bringing the smells of
dry grass and suffering pine. Tanager ran fingers through her hair, braiding
it. She needed this fight. Her blood fairly pulsed for it.

 
          
 
What had it been? What Power had the Dreamer
wrought? Her sleep had been tortured, flashes of the rape filling her with
dread. The images of men dying on her darts replayed over and over again. She'd
listened to the wet smack time after time as she crushed an enemy's face with a
heavy stone. Each time, she'd reveled in the anger set free, feeding her hatred
for the men who'd come to brutalize her and her people.

 
          
 
The memory stirred the anger. Not long now,
only the slight movement of a shadow or two and she'd let loose her wrath, vent
the stirring rage that burned within. After that, she'd lead attack after
attack, bunching the enemy, assuring their destruction. A warm anticipation
vied with the soul thirst for revenge.

 
          
 
The Short Buffalo would rue the day they'd
climbed the trails. Warriors would sing for many generations of Tanager, who
trapped and killed the Short Buffalo People.

 
          
 
A grim smile curled her lips.

 
          
 
She squinted at the trap. Scouts reported the
Short Buffalo warriors climbed even now. Steep rocks lined either side of the
trap while her warriors waited in the tangle of service-berry, screened from
view. The enemy would walk out into the small open space, winded from the long
climb. In that moment, she'd have them, her warriors cutting off retreat back
down the trail. Only one avenue would be left open for their escape—into the
black timber. There, she'd hound them, driving them deeper into the trees,
leaving them to their fate. Her heart raced with the high fever of a hunter who
has his quarry.

 
          
 
Each time she killed, it fed that desperate
need within her to hurt them as she had been hurt. Each time, she paid them
back for that wretched evening in the camp when they'd hurt her so deeply. The
body had mended, but the mind continued to cry out, in haunting Dreams like she'd
had last night.

 
          
 
White Calf's ghost had walked the land, that
knowing squint in the old woman's eyes.

 
          
 
"Help the Dreamer . . . the Dreamer. . .
. " White Calf's words echoed.

 
          
 
Help him how? What did she know about
Dreamers? She jumped at the feel of tiny feet running up her arm, looking down,
expecting an insect. White Calf's
atlatl
lay in her
hand, a deadly dart
nocked
for release.

 
          
 
“Why me?" she wondered, licking her lips.

 
          
 
"You must listen to the Dreamer."

 
          
 
“The last man I listened to was Blood
Bear." Anger rose again as she remembered the way he'd undercut her,
forced her to lose herself. And if she'd struck? She closed her eyes, trying to
rid herself of the image. Not even Fire Dancer's arrival could have saved her
from that.

 
          
 
No, she'd stay here, ensure her people got out
in time— and kill more of the enemy at the same time. What business of hers was
it what the Dreamer did with Two Smokes up in the high country?

 
          
 
"Are you strong enough?" White
Calf's question left an uneasiness in her mind.

 
          
 
“I'm strong enough—and the Short Buffalo
People will prove it."

 
          
 
"That's passion." White Calf's words
came from the depths of her memory. "Can you force yourself to look beyond
your rage ?''

 
          
 
"Trust the Dreamer?" she whispered
to herself.

 
          
 
Suddenly she remembered Two Smokes' words
about a dart in the back. No, not even a Dreamer could counter that. But what
mad scheme could | him? Alone, Two Beaver's camp simply to Dream? Who'd watch
their back for that deadly dart?

 
          
 
She wiped unconsciously at the prickle on her
arm, realizing again that nothing crawled there.

 
          
 
"It's insanity." Then she stood,
hastening to where Snaps Horn waited in hiding. "Snaps Horn, do you know
what to do?"

 
          
 
The young man looked at her and grinned.
"Kill as many as possible and chase them into the black timber."

 
          
 
"There's more," she added
desperately. "You've got to keep together, drive them in until they get
confused, split up. Keep them there. Watch the skies."

 
          
 
"In the black timber?" He cocked his
head.

 
          
 
"You'll know." She glanced toward
the trail head. "When you see the sign, run! Get everyone out. Follow the
winter elk trail and run like the wind. The Short Buffalo will be taken care
of. You can do that?''

 
          
 
"Yes, but what about—"

 
          
 
"I have to help the Dreamer! Trust
me." And she was running, knowing now the path Two Smokes had taken.

 
          
 
Under her breath, she added, "Curse you,
White Calf, you'd better be right!"

 
          
 
Ramshorn
stepped out
on the point, looking down over the sprawling basin that stretched west of the
Buffalo
Mountains
. The land reflected stripes of brown mixed
with clots of tan and light gray. The eye could lose itself out there, while
beyond, the
Stinking
Water
Mountains
lay where the earth bubbled and boiling
water shot high into the air. A land of ghosts, some said. The distance drew
him, appealed to something in his soul. Even an eagle would be hard pressed to
fly across that in a span of days.

           
 
But Tanager had Dreamed, and while he might
come back here someday, more than ghosts lay behind him. Tanager had picked
this place with unerring accuracy. From here, the fire would spread, bringing
destruction to the Short Buffalo People.

 
          
 
Ramshorn
squinted
into the distance one last time. Turning his back, he walked down from the
point and began pulling up the dry brush. He worked until a fine sweat coated
his body. Already the west winds had begun to blow hot across the basin behind
him.

 
          
 
He studied the trees, the wonderful trees
whose branches waved in the wind.

 
          
 
"I'm saving the world," he told
them. "Forgive me for this."

 
          
 
He bent down, reaching for his fire sticks
where they lay in his pack.

 
          
 
Two Smokes led the way carefully, gritting his
teeth every time he stepped over a deadfall and his bad leg took his weight.
Despite his clamped teeth, a groan escaped his lips as agony shot up his leg.

 
          
 
"Should we rest a bit?" Fire Dancer
asked.

 
          
 
Two Smokes swallowed at the pain. "At
that rate you'd never get to the People. Heavy Beaver would have died of old
age. Go on. If Power calls, you can't wait for an old
berdache
."

 
          
 
Fire Dancer smiled thinly, the detached look
in his eyes * unfocused. "No, old friend. Here, sit."

 
          
 
Two Smokes gratefully lowered himself on a
log, panting '. his relief.

 
          
 
Fire Dancer reached into the pouch, producing
the Wolf I Bundle where it lay wrapped in the black wolf pelt. Two Smokes dug
worried fingers into the rotten bark underneath him. "What are you
thinking?"

 
          
 
Fire Dancer unwrapped the bundle, resplendent
where lines of wolf blood had been copied meticulously on the smoothly
stretched hide.

 
          
 
"We've restored the Wolf Bundle."

 
          
 
"We think we've restored the Wolf
Bundle," Two Smokes corrected, a tingling of premonition charging his
veins We did what we could."

 
          
 
"And that counts with Power," Fire
Dancer said. "Let me Sing over your knee."

 
          
 
"And if it doesn't work? If the Power's
not right yet? Let's not be hasty. Maybe a little pain's not a bad thing. You
just watch, I'll .

 
          
 
But Fire Dancer had closed his eyes, lifting
the Wolf Bundle to the sky. He chanted a Spirit Song, calling to the Power, a
benign expression modeling his face.

 
          
 
Two Smokes gulped as the Bundle lowered to his
knee. He quivered at the feel of it, the old sensations returning, drawing him.

 
          
 
And if we turned the Power? He didn't have time
for more. The world seemed to pitch on its side. Searing fire shot up Two
Smokes' leg.

 
          
 
Tanager burst into the cove, a rush of relief
bottling her throat as she walked up to the sweat lodge. "Two Smokes? Fire
Dancer?"

 
          
 
Silence.

 
          
 
She lifted the flap, finding nothing but a
tripod and rocks inside. She bent down and felt of the rocks, cold. Moving to
the fire, she rubbed the ashes in her fingers, detecting the heat. Not gone
long.

 
          
 
She looked around, starting at the sight of
the wolf. Skinned, the animal rested on a platform, face to the west. Suddenly
unsure, she walked carefully around it, noting the dart wound, seeing how the
entrails had been carefully repacked in the body and the gut sewn closed with
infinite care.

 
          
 
A pool of blood marked the animal's spot of
death.

 
          
 
A knot formed in the back of her throat as she
backed away. "Forgive me, Spirits," she called, fearing to raise her
voice. "I came only to help the Dreamer and the Spirals, In your presence,
I pledge to do this."

 
          
 
Step-by-step, she retraced her way, careful to
disturb nothing. Beyond the cove, she waited for her heart to stop throbbing.
She, Tanager, warrior of the Red Hand, quivered.

 
          
 
She turned, cutting for tracks until she found
Two Smokes' hobbling trail. A smile of relief lit her lips for a brief instant.
As she looked up, she caught the rising pall of yellow-brown smoke, bent by the
winds, blowing east across the timber. It moved so gently, looking as if barely
pushed. Any Red Hand could tell you the lie of that—especially in a year this
dry.

 
          
 
Looking frantically to the north, she noted
yet another plume of smoke. She had to hurry.

 
          
 
* * *