People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (41 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“That’s what worries me.” The notion of finding the box and losing it again was more than his souls could bear.
“It’s using you for legs,” she told him cryptically.
“Legs? Me?” He stared down at his withered shanks.
Her eyes cleared, and she gave him a weary smile. “We had best give it to them. Hand it right over. We’re not Traders, after all. Too meek. No courage here.”
“So, if I get this straight, we just bluff our way through? Act like we’re high minkos and demand respect?”
“Not even arrogance can Dance in the future without getting thorns in its feet,” she told him positively. “We’ve got to be meek. Like mice in a jar. Scrambling, hiding. Don’t want anyone to see us when the blind man closes his embrace.”
Old White sighed and looked up as Trader appeared out of the gloom. “I’ve been talking to Two Petals.”
“Glad I missed it.”
“She’s got a plan for the Yuchi.”
“Better than drowning in the river?”
“Well, I guess that remains to be seen.”
Trader dropped his armload of wood. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
“We’re going to be the cockiest Traders on the river.”
“Oh, really?”
“Absolutely.” Old White swelled his chest. “After all, I’m the Seeker.” He grinned with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You know, I’ve been waiting all my life to boss a bunch of Yuchi around.”
“Didn’t your father go off to boss a bunch of Yuchi around once?”
Old White deflated like a punctured bladder. He stared up at Trader from under lowered brows. “You’re as charming as a windstorm. Gods, let’s get some supper cooked. Then I’m going to sleep until I wake up.”
“Good,” Trader noted dryly. “I’d hate to see you break old habits.”
 
 
A
thousand angry thoughts whirled around Smoke Shield’s souls as he glared around the tchkofa’s smoky interior. He could see the stewing anger in the other chiefs’ eyes, could read it in their stiff expressions. The Power they had drawn to them with the success of the White Arrow Town raid was dissipating, robbed away by the murder of their captives. Action was demanded.
At his station, the tishu minko, Seven Dead, betrayed a poorly harnessed fury. Biloxi Mankiller had been his captive, and Smoke Shield knew the tishu minko had been looking forward to killing the whimpering fool at solstice. Now he only had body parts to pass around to his worthy Raccoon Clan warriors. Such trophies were carefully cleaned, sometimes turned into ornaments, and often buried with the dead as mementos of their valor on the war trail. Whatever was left over of Biloxi Mankiller would still be prestigious, but always tainted, the Power diminished by the premature murder of the captives.
The
Hopaye,
Pale Cat, stepped forward, a large whelk shell cup filled to brimming with steaming black drink. This he carefully placed beside the Eagle Pipe, and then prepared the latter, filling the bowl with tobacco and placing a punky stick in the fire. “Sister Tobacco, carry our words to the heavens, that all Powers may know the truth of what we say.” Then he nodded to the sacred fire where it burned in the center of four logs. That seen to, he retreated to his station.
Flying Hawk, as high minko, was given first right to speak. He paused, leaning close to Smoke Shield, speaking softly. “I would remind you, Screaming Falcon was
my
captive. I would ask you not to act in Council as if he were yours.”
Smoke Shield ground his teeth, jerked a terse nod, and watched his uncle step forward. The high minko knelt, drinking from the shell cup. Then he lit the pipe with the smoldering stick and drew smoke deeply into
his lungs. When he exhaled, he called a prayer to the Spirits, and turned, looking from chief to chief.
“We know what has been done. Before coming here, I asked some of the warriors to patrol the city. In small bands of two and three, they are searching for any strangers, seeking anything out of the ordinary. I have already sent spies to inspect the few Trader camps at the canoe landing. I only know of a couple of Pensacola Traders up from Bottle Town. They came with loads of shell to Trade for sandstone paint palettes and fabrics. Another Trader, a Tallapoosie, left the day before the fog rolled in. I have sent a fast runner to see if he can catch the man. In this fog, I doubt the Tallapoosie made it very far. These things I have already done. Does anyone else have anything to offer this Council?”
Smoke Shield cleared his throat hoping to be recognized, but Flying Hawk nodded to old Night Star. The dwarf woman stepped forward, drank from the shell, and took a pull from the long pipe stem. She turned, but ignored Smoke Shield’s simmering eyes as she surveyed the Council.
Her reedy voice rose. “If we are searching for culprits, I say that we send a large party of men to comb the territory between us and the Chahta. Looking at this as calmly as I can, I can think of no one else who would have reason to rob us of the captives’ lives. I think we can dismiss the Pensacola Traders. They honor the Power of Trade, and they could care less who we torture, as long as it isn’t their people.” She looked around, sharp old eyes taking in the chiefs. “Some here might say the Pensacola have an interest in keeping good relations with the Chahta, and such an interest might have urged them to take such drastic measures. Yes, they do considerable Trade with the Chahta, and yes, the Chahta might think kindly of them for doing this thing. But, think a little further and you will realize—as I’m sure the Pensacola would—that eventually it will get back to us. Someday in the future, some foolish Chahta would
brag about it. When that day came, the Pensacola are fully aware that we would turn our wrath upon them. So, while yes, the Pensacola Trade with the Chahta, they Trade more with us.”
She gave them a thoughtful expression. “Again, if you are searching for a motive behind these murders, look no further than the Chahta. Do not waste your time looking for a large party, but for a single warrior, a lone man. He will be someone who could pass unseen, sneak into our city, do this thing, and slip away again.”
Once again Flying Hawk ignored Smoke Shield by acknowledging Two Poisons. The Deer Clan chief drank, smoked, and offered his prayers. Then he said, “For the most part, I agree with Night Star. The Chahta have the most to gain from this. And if one of them did kill the captives, we will eventually learn of it. No man who has accomplished such a deed will be silent upon his return to his people. I know the Chahta. They are a proud and boastful people. The man who did this will be feted, feasted, and honored in many ways. Committing this crime against us is almost meaningless if it is not rubbed in our noses. My counsel is to wait. Within a moon, word will reach us one way or another. When it does, we can prepare properly. When the Chahta have grown complacent, we strike, sending a large war party to attack the town where the culprit lives. We may not be able to fill the squares with a high minko, a Priest, and a war chief, but where five squares now stand, we can fill ten or twenty.” He looked around. “Consider this, my chiefs. Think carefully about it. Thoughtful planning will give us much more in the end than a rash act committed in a moment of rage.”
When he sat, Flying Hawk acknowledged Wooden Cougar. The Crawfish Clan chief took his turn at the black drink and the Eagle Pipe. Only when he had offered his prayers did he face the Council. “Many of the dead at Alligator Town were Crawfish Clan. We rejoiced in the success of Smoke Shield’s raid, and my people
heaped indignities upon the captives, calling to the dead to come and see, to watch what we do to those who would kill them without provocation.” He considered his next words. “I, too, suspect the Chahta first and foremost, but I have been a chief too long not to look for other explanations. I notice that this Council is called, but the Albaamaha are absent. Is there a reason for that, High Minko?”
Flying Hawk nodded. “Some have hinted that the Albaamaha might have been complicit in the killings. I made the decision that we should discuss this among ourselves.”
It’s about time the Albaamaha were brought up
, Smoke Shield fumed.
“I wondered that very thing,” Wooden Cougar said. “But if they are accused, should not their representatives be here to answer to the charges? I myself—though never completely trustful of Albaamaha—have doubts about their reasons for attempting such a thing. While many of the dead at Alligator Town were Crawfish Clan, a great many Albaamaha were killed there as well. How would it serve the Albaamaha dead to have their killers escape justice?”
Smoke Shield bounced from foot to foot, clearing his throat.
Flying Hawk turned. “It would seem that the fog has clogged my nephew’s throat. Does he wish to speak as a means of clearing it?”
Smoke Shield stepped forward on charged muscles, bent, drank of the bitter black drink, and took a pull of the sweet smoke. He offered his fervent prayer and stood, letting his audience absorb the rigid muscles, his stiff posture. “I will tell you what races through the minds of the Albaamaha: the same thing that urged them to send a runner to warn White Arrow Town that we were about to attack. They chafe under our leadership, and would rather see themselves at the mercy of the Yuchi, the Pensacola, or the Chahta than protected by our warriors. When they
come to Split Sky City, they do not see the grandeur of our works, but only note a blot on a land they think of as their own.”
He stalked around in a circle, feeling the heat build inside him. “The time has come for us to wake up! The Albaamaha have been brooding long enough without a response from us. We have a choice. We can remind them of their position, or the next time they strike, it will not be to murder captives.” He thrust a hard finger at each chief in turn, saying, “Will it be you? Or you? Or you? Which of us will be awakened from his sleep by a stab to the heart? They have proven they can slip through the night in obscurity, murder, and vanish again.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Flying Hawk asked uncomfortably.
“I say we hang five of their mikkos in the squares until the person who did this comes forward. Let them see that Sky Hand vengeance is a thing to be reckoned with.” He glanced at the worried chiefs. “You doubt me? Oh, no. I doubt it will take longer than a day of hearing their beloved mikkos moaning in the squares before the cunning Albaamaha offer us the perpetrator of this foul deed.” He nodded firmly. “
That
is a language they will understand.”
Flying Hawk appeared to be controlling his voice when he asked, “Does anyone wish to take the floor and add anything to this suggestion?”
Vinegarroon nodded, stepping forward. Smoke Shield gave him a piercing glare before yielding. The Skunk Clan chief knelt, sipping the black drink, then puffed from the pipe. When he turned, his ugly face was awash with uncertainty. He ran a hand through his bristly hair. “I am concerned by what I have heard here today. Concerned not only that someone would kill our captives, but by some of the suggestions as to who has done this thing. I do not question the suspicions about the Chahta. That I can understand. The Traders? No, I don’t think so. They would never profit by such doings.
But I find myself most upset by the accusations against the Albaamaha.”
Smoke Shield growled loudly enough that everyone could hear. It was rude, but he couldn’t care less. Didn’t the fool understand what was happening under his nose?
Vinegarroon took a moment, then said carefully, “Yes, an Albaamo was implicated in trying to warn the White Arrow. But that man is dead, killed before we could question him.” He pointedly avoided Smoke Shield’s burning gaze. “Myself, I have given this a great deal of consideration since we discussed the Albaamo traitor here last time. That he named only one accomplice, I think, tells us something.” He paused. “This is not some grand Albaamaha conspiracy. Rather, this Paunch, for reasons of his own, dispatched young Crabapple to warn the White Arrow.”
Smoke Shield snorted, receiving disapproving glances from the others.
Vinegarroon ignored him. “I believe this because had the Albaamaha mikkos been party to treachery, they would not have sent some foolish young man on a mission of such great importance. The Albaamaha are not stupid, and those who think them so do it at great risk.”
Smoke Shield crossed his arms angrily.
“Do the Albaamaha chafe under our rule?” Vinegarroon looked calmly around the room. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they? But they also realize that we are the ones who stand between them and the Yuchi, the Chahta, and the other chieftains. Rather than hang their elders in the squares, I would ask them to Council with us. If they have grievances that are so pressing as to lead them to revolt, perhaps we can come to a mutual satisfaction.”
“When they live in our palaces,” Smoke Shield muttered under his breath.
Vinegarroon narrowed an eye, having heard. “The Albaamaha are a large and diverse population. Some, a few, are no doubt delighted to see us suffer any calamity. But most of the Albaamaha no more wish to infuriate us
than we wish to infuriate them. If we overreact to the killing of the captives and it turns out that it was a Chahta who committed this crime against us, we will have played into the hands of the few. Why should we do the work of the malcontents?”
Vinegarroon looked around reasonably. “I have heard good counsel here today. Rather than act rashly and give the Albaamaha real reason to rebel against us, I urge this Council to show restraint. Let us wait, think this thing through, and allow all other trails to be followed before we commit some act that would turn even the most reasonable of the Albaamaha against us.”

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