People of the Earth (30 page)

 
          
 
"Hey, slow down!"

 
          
 
"We have a lot of ground to cover
today."

 
          
 
Bad Belly groaned to himself, hurrying, while
Trouble trotted along behind, happily oblivious. Bad Belly ground his teeth.
The world had turned on him again.

 
          
 
Why do I feel like it's all out of control?
What did I do this time?

 
          
 
He looked back. The clouds had completely
hidden the far mountains. The storm would come—and it looked ominous.

 
          
 
White Ash had entered the broad valley that
ran northeast toward the
Gray
Deer
River
. Now she followed the southern side of the
valley, crossing drainages that ran between long ridges leading down from the
Sideways
Mountains
. Cotton-woods lined the creek banks, and
she could see the tassels high in the branches among the thickening buds.
Higher on the hills to the south, limber pine and juniper dotted the slopes,
mixing with scattered sage and occasional bitter-brush. A chill wind raced down
from the west.

 
          
 
As she walked, she searched the ground and
found a quartzite cobble of just the right size. It fit snugly in the palm of
her hand. A short time later she located a second cobble to use as a hammer
stone.

           
 
She checked the heft and balance of the hammer
stone; then, with sharp blows, drove flakes from one side of the quartzite
cobble. When she'd made a scalloped edge, she turned it over to continue the
process. She inspected the tool with a critical eye. By chipping off both
sides, she'd created a jagged cutting edge.

 
          
 
She ran a finger over the sharp blade and
started for the stand of limber pine on the slope above her. She ignored the
low, scudding clouds that raced down from the west as she began to hack at the
bark on the first tree she came to. The inner bark of the limber pine could be
chewed. It might be bitter fare—and more effort to chew the fibers than the
body gleaned—but she needed survival food, something for her stomach to work on
. . . especially since the first flakes of snow had begun twirling down.

 
          
 
White Ash hacked a long section of bark from
the light-yellow wood. Under other circumstances, she would have stripped the
bark by shaving off the hard, scaly outer surface, then boiled the inner. This
time there would be no boiling. So far, she hadn't found the right kind of wood
for making fire sticks. And she needed a boiling paunch—which meant killing an
animal or finding a winterkill that hadn't been ravaged by scavengers.

 
          
 
A cold gust of wind tore at her with icy
fingers that shot through her worn dress. This would be a cold, wet snow— the
dangerous spring kind.

 
          
 
She worked with desperation to shave the
life-giving inner bark loose. Immediately she began to chew the strings she
peeled free. The bittersweet taste of the bark made her mouth water. The fuzzy
feeling of the sap clinging to her teeth cheered her soul. Sap meant life.

 
          
 
She clutched her stone in two hands and
attacked the tree again. She could carry several slabs of bark, and her next
pressing need would be to find shelter from the coming storm.

 
          
 
Having carved all she could carry from the
tree, she hurried onward. The growing cold ate into her moccasins; the
outermost layer had been worn through to holes. The inners would go next. Once
she found shelter, she might be able to weave strips of juniper bark that would
extend the life of the deteriorating leather.

 
          
 
Snow began to fall in thick flakes. The
rounded ridges had a scoured look that boded poorly for shelter. The scrubby
sagebrush wasn't quite tall enough to weave into a
wickiup
.
Night began to drift over the land as the snow came down in whirling spirals,
obscuring her view of the country.

 
          
 
She pulled up her hood and walked on.
Somewhere, hidden in the storm, she'd have to find a dry place, out of the wind
and blowing snow. There she could chew the thin strips of bark—and maybe stay
alive.

 
          
 
She nearly missed it as she struggled forward.
In the lengthening gloom of evening, the stone overhang merged with the
swirling snow. She stopped and stared, shielding her face against the blowing
crystals.

 
          
 
With a cry of relief she stumbled into the
rocky shelter. It was nothing more than an undercut sandstone slab, but it
would do. She batted the clinging snow from her garments before she crouched
back against the rock and huddled into a ball. For just a moment she would
rest, soothe her ragged nerves, let her exhausted body recover some of its
reserves.

 
          
 
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. Had any
of the White Clay lived? Were her people nothing more than a memory?

 
          
 
Wind Runner you may be the lucky one. Tell the
Black Point that the White Clay have vanished from the earth. You no one to
offend now. Only the ghosts of the angry dead.

 
          
 
She dropped her face into her hands; the well
of her tears had run dry. / have only myself now. I am alone. No one . . .
nothing else. Nothing but cold and misery.

 
          
 
She sat there while the night darkened and the
snow continued to fall. At first she didn't recognize the sound: a light
crunch—snow compressing under a human foot.

 
          
 
She burst to her feet and charged straight
into the man's arms. He held her easily and overpowered her struggles.
Laughing, he threw her roughly to the ground and pinned her.

 
          
 
"Let me go!" she cried, beating at
him with her fists.

           
 
The odors of smoke, winter sweat, and leather
filled her nostrils. His breath came warm against her cheek. "It's been a
long chase," he told her, "but Three Bulls has caught you."

 
          
 
She shuddered, recognizing the tongue of the
Wolf People.

 
          
 
"Let me go," she whispered in the
tongue of the Earth People. "I am Three Forks. My people are at peace with
yours."

 
          
 
"Three Forks does not live with the Sun
People. No, I've hunted you all day long. You're mine. If Three Forks wants
you, they can Trade for you later."

 
          
 
"What . . . what are you going to do with
me?"

 
          
 
He laughed then, nuzzling his face into her
neck. "What does any man want with a woman? You will carry firewood to my
lodge and cook my meals. You will work for me, tanning and sewing. And, of
course, you will warm my robes at night and bring me pleasure."

 
          
 
"You'll bring the anger of Three Forks
down on you. Green Fire will—"

 
          
 
"Do nothing!" He chuckled to
himself. "Tonight this storm will be cold and wet. Together you and I will
be warm. Three Bulls has gone a long time without being warm. Perhaps he is too
full of seed? Perhaps his seed would be warm, too?"

 
          
 
"No!"

 
          
 
Her flesh crawled as his cold hand reached
down and lifted the hem of her dress.

 
          
 
Bad Belly woke from troubled Dreams he didn't
understand. Entire forests had been cut down and burned to make way for the
golden-haired crop. He'd heard the soul of the land cry out as rains washed the
soil away in muddy torrents, while the feet of men packed hard trails over the
country. The howl of a grieving wolf lingered in his memory, wailing— like the
death of a Dream— chilling his spirit.

 
          
 
Had it been real? Or just part of the Dream?

           
 
He blinked in the night, aware that Trouble's
body heat no longer kept him warm. He poked his head out from under the
covering of the robe and looked around. Snow—a hand's depth of it—had fallen on
their small camp, and heavy, wet flakes continued to whirl out of the night
sky. The rounded depression left by Trouble could be seen, as could the dog
tracks leading off up the steep-walled canyon they'd picked to camp in.

 
          
 
Bad Belly groaned softly, closing his eyes.
Probably a coyote bitch in heat somewhere. The last time Trouble had followed
the lure, he'd come limping home with great gashes in his hide from battling
for the bitch—and losing, no doubt.

 
          
 
Bad Belly stood up and shook the blanket of
snow off his robe before wrapping it around him. Something thumped on his foot
and he reached down to fish the pouch of stone teeth out of the fluffy snow.
He'd been fingering them just before he went to sleep, planning the necklace
he'd make of them.

 
          
 
Wake Left Hand? No, he'd already caused enough
problems for Left Hand. Let him sleep. After all, all Bad Belly had to do was follow
Trouble's tracks a little way up the canyon and whistle. In a heartbeat they'd
be back asleep under the snow, with no one the wiser.

 
          
 
Bad Belly growled to himself, imagining what
he'd do to Trouble. But no matter what he threatened, he could never hurt his
friend. Dogs were just dogs. That was their nature.

 
          
 
He bent low and squinted in the faint light;
Trouble's tracks were filling even as he watched. The afterimages of the Dream
added to his apprehension as he hurried along the dog's trail.