People of the Earth (18 page)

 
          
 
"Witching?" He couldn't help but
glance at Black Hand, who sat smoking his pipe, expression blank. Blue tendrils
of smoke rose from the end of the gray stone pipe to drift toward the smoke
hole. He looked too relaxed.
Tiber
's
accusations stirred in Bad Belly's memory.

 
          
 
It's true! And Warm Fire had died while Black
Hand Sang a Healing. There would be more whispers, more accusations.

 
          
 
"What if no one talks about it?"

 
          
 
Larkspur gestured absently. "They know
you, Bad Belly. You like to listen to people. If people are worried about it,
they'll bring it up." Her voice hardened into a direct order. "We
have no worries about witching at Round Rock. You don't need to speculate while
you're there. Just listen. That's all."

 
          
 
Bad Belly nodded in assent and refrained from
glancing at Black Hand. "When do you want me to leave?"

 
          
 
"Tomorrow. Looks like the weather is
clearing. Just be yourself. Let people talk to you. I always thought Green Fire
liked you. I know that husband of
Owlclover's
—Makes
Wood, that's his name—he likes you. You'll hear enough about what's going on. I
want to know anything that might make trouble."

 
          
 
He nodded again, a tightness in his chest. He
had to be a perfect spy. Creator help him if he made a mistake.

 
          
 
"Good. Then we have only one thing to
clear up." The way her eyes blinked—a nervous thing that always distracted
him—added to his unease.

 
          
 
Bad Belly waited. He knew that look, knew how
her mind worked. Finally he could stand it no longer—as she had known he
couldn't. "And what else?"

 
          
 
Larkspur worked her thin lips, sucking them in
and out over her gums. "You talked to Warm Fire before he died.
Bitterbrush said there was something about a promise. She says you won't tell
her what it was."

 
          
 
Bad Belly took a deep breath. "It was a
thing between the two of us."

 
          
 
Larkspur said nothing, her black eyes
implacable and demanding.

 
          
 
"Just a thing between friends . . .
that's all." He knew he sounded lame. She waited, immobile, her hard eyes
sharpening, insisting. The set of her mouth betrayed growing displeasure.

 
          
 
Curse her! She'd sit there and dominate him
with those unforgiving eyes. Bad Belly's skin prickled and he began to sweat—as
if that obsidian glare could burn him. Tension built; he could practically feel
it snapping in the air.

 
          
 
I can't tell. I can’t. I made the promise to
Warm Fire. She’ll hold it against me . . . against everyone. It will be a
lever, just like a digging stick used to pry a rock from the ground. She’ll use
it against Warm Fire's memory . . . and against Bitterbrush . . . and Tuber and
Lupine.

 
          
 
The silence stretched.

 
          
 
Bad Belly wiped his forehead. His gaze locked
on the fire to avoid the cutting anger he knew had come to the old woman's
eyes.

 
          
 
"Bad Belly?" She spoke in careful
tones, low, threatening.

 
          
 
He swallowed, throat constricted. "It was
. . . between us. That's all."

 
          
 
She sighed, as if under a stifling burden.
"Anything that happens in this camp is my concern. You are my concern.
Warm Fire was dying, his soul coming loose from his body. I can't let any crazy
thing he might have said make trouble between us."

 
          
 
Bad Belly's mouth went dry. "It was
between the two of us."

 
          
 
She tapped
taloned
fingers on her knee. "I wouldn't like to be forced to discipline you.
Doing so wouldn't be good for the clan. Not now, not so soon after Warm Fire's
death."

 
          
 
His cheeks quivered, the muscles jumping and
tense. A sick sensation rose in his gut.

 
          
 
"I wonder, Bad Belly, do you ever think
of the others? If I'm forced to take harsh measures, how do you think it will
affect the children? Don't you care for Lupine? Tuber?"

 
          
 
"Yes." His voice broke.

 
          
 
"Then perhaps you should show a little responsibility
to the people for once. Warm Fire is dead. It's no longer between the two of
you. You are the only one now. It's you alone. What was this promise?"

 
          
 
Warm Fire would never have let himself be
roasted by the old woman. He'd never have sat here sweating his fear like a
cornered hare. Why can't I be like him?

 
          
 
"Grandmother, it's a soul thing. A
promise. That's all. I just can't tell you. I promised."

 
          
 
Her eyelids narrowed, the gaze smoky,
promising retribution. "I will ask you only once more."

 
          
 
He dropped his eyes, skin crawling at what
would come of this. "It was between Warm Fire and me."

 
          
 
She exhaled her irritation. "Get out.
I'll find someone else to send to Three Forks. In the meantime, you think about
yourself, Bad Belly. You think about the people here who keep you fed and warm.
You think about what you owe the clan. You think about responsibility."

 
          
 
He rose unsteadily to his feet, unable to meet
her eyes. Without looking back, he ducked through the flap and into the outside
world, into freedom and space. His panicked heart beat frantically against his
ribs.

 
          
 
He found Trouble lying in his usual spot, tail
wagging, anxious to have his ears scratched. Bad Belly motioned to his dog,
retreating to the junipers behind the camp. There in the shelter of the trees,
he pulled Trouble close, burying his face in the thick, warm fur.

 
          
 
Wind Runner panted as he ran. Frost had built
up around the lining of his fox-fur hood. On legs that quaked and wobbled, he
continued on his way, weaving along the rocky spine of the northward-tending
ridge. He had first noticed pursuers at dusk two days earlier. And he'd lost
them in the night—he hoped. Now another group, smaller than the first, had
appeared to dog his tracks. Had these hunters cut this trail the way they had
his first one? A skilled tracker could have backtracked, found where he'd
circled and slipped off.

 
          
 
Around him the land waited mutely for the
outcome of this grim race. Rocky prominences thrust up through the crusted snow
like somber spectators. Sunlight lit the drifts in blinding rays. Here and
there, sagebrush poked up. The spikes quivered absently in the wind, a memory
of last fall's bounty of seeds. In the distance, buff sandstone-capped ridges
rose one after another in sinuous lines—defiant obstacles through which he must
make his way. Beyond, the resolute guardian walls of the mountains reared
against the sky, slopes blanketed in patches of blue-green and sun-glazed snow.
Overhead, the sky stretched into an infinite blue dome, marred here and there
by fluffy clouds.

 
          
 
Wind Runner staggered on, crunching through
the crusted drifts, the soles of his feet bruising on the angular rock now
locked in the grip of icebound soil. His breath sawed at his throat, laboring
with his burning lungs. Every muscle in his body complained. Sweat poured down
his skin to soak the thick wrappings of hide he wore.

 
          
 
He'd been lucky and caught sight of them
almost immediately: seven men trotting along his trail. Seven unknown men
bearing darts that glinted in the sunlight. Perhaps they were more of the Wolf
People from the Grass Meadow

           
 
Mountains. Perhaps others. Everyone in the
world, outside of the dwindling White Clay clan, had to be considered an enemy.
The last thing he wanted to do was to lead the warriors to his vulnerable camp.
The women of the White Clay could defend themselves and would probably drive
the warriors off, but some of the people would die, perhaps many.

 
          
 
No, far better to lead his pursuers astray and
lose them. No one could run with the power or stamina of Wind Runner. He had
slowly veered off his line, passing camp by a good half-day's walk to the east.
For a whole second day he'd run north, following the ridge tops where the snow
had blown free, making good time. Now he stopped periodically and looked back
from high points to see them dogging his tracks; like human wolves, they
trotted along in single file far behind him.

 
          
 
Wind Runner was playing a dangerous game, that
of losing his pursuers but several factors worked in his favor: his
enemies—whether Sun People or Wolf People—would know that if a Sun People camp
lay near here, a lone man would be reinforced. His pursuers would have to move
cautiously lest they walk into an ambush. Dropping to a careful walk, Wind Runner
slipped among the sagebrush, seeking to hide his tracks as much as possible.
Anything to slow them, to buy time, helped him.

 
          
 
He leaped from one clump of sage to another as
he climbed the windward side of a ridge. Reaching the crest, he looked around.
He stood on the southern end of a
windscoured
expanse
of cracked sandstone that stretched to the north for as far as he could see.
Snowfields lay in every other direction— a vast plain bare of cover. Where the
windblown rock tapered into snow at the edge of the low ridge, an unbroken
expanse of hard-crusted snow extended to the south. A solitary bit of sagebrush
poked up from the snow a dart's cast from the edge of the sandstone.

 
          
 
His heart pounded. Excellent.

 
          
 
He walked carefully down to the southern tip
of the pebbly sandstone and checked his back trail. How long did he have before
the pursuers crested the skyline?

           
 
Where the snow feathered over the irregular
surface of the ridge, he tested the crust. It wouldn't support a man's weight.

 
          
 
Swallowing hard, Wind Runner lay down and
padded his
atlatl
and darts in his coat. He began to
roll, careful to make no depression with elbows or knees, using the length of
his entire body to spread his weight over the crusted snow. Did he have time?
What if he broke through the surface?

 
          
 
Then I'm dead.

 
          
 
The patch of sagebrush he sought looked
infinitely far away; what if the hunters crossed over the ridge and saw him out
here in the snow flat? Better to trust in Power and hope than to think about
the alternatives.

 
          
 
Dizziness possessed him as he continued his
rolling progress. He blinked, trying to keep his destination straight in his
head. Careful! Don't drop an elbow or you '11 make a mark. Beneath him, the
snow moaned, taking his weight. And if a buried sagebrush had created a hollow
beneath the crust?

 
          
 
Why didn't I just keep running? Why didn't I
look for a better place? This is madness!

 
          
 
He forced the thought out of his mind,
ignoring the fear-sweat streaming down his body. How far? How long remained?
The world spun crazily as the horizon lifted and fell, lifted and fell, as he
rolled.

 
          
 
So close! He wiggled around the solitary
sagebrush, startling a white jackrabbit from its hiding place in the brush's
protected lee. The animal darted out, graceful, sailing, and pulled up,
standing on hind feet to watch him.

 
          
 
He packed the snow into a hollow, tucking
himself into a ball behind the sagebrush, attempting to shake off the
dizziness. Keeping his motions to a minimum, he pulled the
atlatl
and darts from his coat, wincing at the damage done to the fletching of those
long, beautiful darts.

 
          
 
He glanced back across the snow-glazed flats
and froze: Seven bobbing forms were crossing the far ridge.

 
          
 
Heart battering at his breastbone, Wind Runner
swallowed dryly. Bit by bit the warriors worked out his trail, following it
from where he'd jumped from sagebrush to sagebrush to reach the bare, rocky
ridge.

 
          
 
Wind Runner blinked hard, hating the trembling
of his exhausted muscles. With all of his concentration, he cleared his mind,
forcing himself to think of nothing, aware of his pursuers only by their
movement at the corner of his vision.

 
          
 
He could hear their calls to each other. No
one among the Sun People spoke such a tongue . . . and he could see that they wore
the heavily fringed clothing of the Wolf People.

 
          
 
Quiet! Don't think. Not a word. He ground his
teeth, seeking to calm his heaving lungs. Would his pursuers be able to see his
frosty breath from that distance? Perhaps.

 
          
 
Don’t breathe. Don’t think. Don’t move. You’re
like the snow—thoughtless, cold, silent.

 
          
 
One of the hunters walked down the bare
sandstone to the foot of the ridge and looked out over the snow toward Wind
Runner's screening sagebrush. The man raised a hand to shield his eyes against
the white glare.

 
          
 
Through the wind-burned branches of the
sagebrush, Wind Runner could feel those piercing eyes. Fighting to hold his
breath, eyes steady on his snow-streaked knees, Wind Runner waited.

 
          
 
He felt, rather than saw, the man turn to
stare back up the slope. The jackrabbit picked that moment to streak away
across the packed snow.

 
          
 
The Trader, Left Hand, whistled as he walked,
contemplating the Dreams that had been leaving him nervous and preoccupied. He
glanced up at the endless
midday
sky and squinted. It's as if the Power is
hurrying me along.

 
          
 
He was following a ridge top, as all sensible
people did at this time of year. The snow had melted under the warm rays of the
sun, leaving the ridge tops clear. The very thought of travel across the valley
bottoms soured in his mind. With the warm days, snow melt left puddles of water
that soaked the best smoke-cured moccasin leather. Soggy moccasins grew heavy
and wrinkled even the callused feet of a Trader. Worse than that, the clinging mud
made each step a labor. Footing in that sticky stuff couldn't be called
anything but uncertain, and a slip meant a tumble in the mud—and undoubtedly
into any cactus that might be around. The slopes under the ridges remained deep
in wet snow. Not only did such traveling drain a person of stamina, but it
saturated leggings and froze clothing stiff after sunset.

 
          
 
Left Hand pulled up for a moment. His string
of dogs immediately stopped behind him, enjoying the rest while they panted,
packs jiggling on their backs.

 
          
 
He gripped his Trader's staff in his callused
left hand, the feathers hanging from the hoop-shaped top dancing in the breeze.

 
          
 
He'd crossed the Coldwater that morning and
now followed the stream eastward. The Round Rock camp of the Earth People lay
ahead somewhere. He lifted a hand against the sun and studied the terrain. In
his memory, the camp should be around the next outcrop of weathered granite,
back in a cove where it caught the southern sun in winter and avoided the brunt
of the west wind.

 
          
 
Left Hand carried a heavy buffalo-hide pack
suspended from a tumpline; he wore a bone-beaded jacket and long leggings from
which most of the fringes had been cut for various repairs to his pack and the
dog harnesses. Endless days of sun had burned his face the color of
sweat-stained chokecherry wood. A hawkish nose jutted from his broad cheeks.
His skin showed the lines of laughter and the grimaces forced by bad weather. A
thick pelt of bear hide hung around his shoulders for warmth on cold days. He
kept his long hair pulled back in a single braid and wore a wrapped beaver-hide
cap.

 
          
 
Behind him, the dogs waited in single file,
happy eyes on him as their pink tongues twitched with each hurried breath.
People talked about Left Hand's pack dogs with admiration. He'd Traded for the
best—strong, big animals, capable of bearing heavy loads. They looked motley,
splotched with white, brown, and black. The bulging packs strapped to their
backs bore the profits of his Trading trip in the Basin lands to the southwest.
There the winters were considerably milder.

 
          
 
The Salt Trader People, who lived to the
southwest, Traded all kinds of things in demand among his Wolf People. For one
thing, they had salt—big blocks of it they levered from the basin floor by the
huge, salty lake. They had saltbush patties,
ephedra
for tea, effigies woven from yucca leaves, dried fish and water fowl that
couldn't be had during summer months in the uplands. Best of all, the Antelope
People, farther south, had various breads made from the sweet, fleshy pinion
pine nuts they collected in fall. They also made a
chimisa
bread that had a light, fluffy texture. Those Traded very well to his Wolf
People in the high country to the north.