People of the Earth (31 page)

 
          
 
When he thought he'd gone far enough not to
wake Left Hand or his keen-eared pack dogs, Bad Belly whistled and called,
"Trouble? Hey, Trouble! Come on. This is foolishness. Trouble? You go
messing around with them coyotes and I'll have to carry you all the way to
Singing Stones'. Trouble?"

 
          
 
The tracks didn't look any fresher. Worse, the
trail grew steeper. Bad Belly scratched at his chin where a snowflake had
melted and run in a trickle. "Trouble, maybe I will beat you half to
death. Look at me. I'm going to be wet and cold and miserable for the rest of
the night. You're a dog. Dogs are used to being miserable. You've got that
wonderful fur coat."

 
          
 
The wind swirled and gusted. The trees grew
thicker here. A* game trail wound up around the rocks and through the thick
serviceberry that choked the canyon bottom. Somber limber pine and fir mixed
with the juniper—dark blotches that hid in the veil of swirling snow.

 
          
 
Bad Belly drew up, puffing. How far had he
come? ' 'Trouble?" Trouble had never before gone this far—not even when he
lived at Round Rock and knew the country.

 
          
 
Bad Belly chewed at his lips while he thought.
If I had half a wit, I'd just turn around and go back. Pus and
mag-gots
, Trouble, if you can find your way clear up here,
you can find your way back to camp.

 
          
 
Except that Trouble
i
my best friend. He's never let me down. Bad Belly plodded on. How long until
morning? What would Left Hand say if he lost traveling time?

 
          
 
Bad Belly pushed harder up the steep canyon.
The deep snow—knee high in places where it had drifted—impeded his progress. He
ducked under a fir tree, searching for Trouble's tracks. The hair on his neck
lifted. Among them, he could make out a wolf's tracks.

 
          
 
Oh, Trouble. A coyote, well, you can keep from
getting killed. But a wolf? He dashed along, shouting at the top of his lungs,
"Trouble?"

 
          
 
The wind battered Bad Belly as he stumbled out
of the canyon and into the open. Through the haze of falling snow, he couldn't
make out any landmarks. Trouble's tracks made only faint dimples in the
whiteness. Forcing himself on, Bad Belly ran thrashing forward on Trouble's
trail.

 
          
 
A pile of rocks—rounded and worn by wind and
storm-loomed ahead. The tracks wove in and out through the outcrop and into the
flats beyond. Wind blasted at Bad Belly as he staggered on, knowing that
Trouble couldn't be far ahead.

 
          
 
"Hunger and thirst on you, dog. I can't
help it if you go faster than I do, but I swear, I'm going to beat you to
within a handbreadth of your life! You hear me? Trouble?"

 
          
 
He plodded around drainages and past gnarled
trees twisted and dwarfed by the wind. How high had he climbed, anyway? His
feet ached and throbbed from the cold.

 
          
 
"Left Hand is going to throw a fit. You
hear me, dog? All he's ever done is be nice to us, and we're going to make him
regret he took us along!"

 
          
 
The storm whipped down around him as he pushed
on. A growing chill numbed his hands. The pouch with the stone teeth dangled
from one clenched fist. Muttering to himself, Bad Belly slipped the thong over
his head so he wouldn't lose it.

 
          
 
I should have awakened Left Hand. He y s going
to be worried sick. He sank up to his waist in a deep drift and floundered to
the other side. "Trouble?"

 
          
 
A gleeful bark came from somewhere ahead.

 
          
 
"Get back here! Trouble?"

 
          
 
Bad Belly charged ahead, relief filling him.
At least he'd reached the dog before the wolf had. Trouble came bounding out of
the curtain of snow, tail wagging.

 
          
 
Bad Belly dropped to his knees, hugging the
snow-encrusted dog to his chest. "Trouble? What's the matter with you? I
ought to break every bone in your body."

 
          
 
The dog jerked and squirmed in Bad Belly's
grip as he whined and reached up to lick Bad Belly's face. The furry black tail
swished back and forth in the fluffy snow like a whip.

 
          
 
"Following a wolf? And dragging me all
over in the night? Come on. Let's go back. We have to get to camp before Left
Hand wakes up and finds us gone."

 
          
 
Bad Belly started back the way he'd come,
Trouble following. He broke through the drift and climbed up the slope, tracks
growing ever fainter. At the summit he scouted around—and found nothing but
windblown snow.

 
          
 
"Which way?" He looked back at his
dog. "Home, Trouble. Find the way."

 
          
 
Trouble stared at him, ears up, his head
cocked.

 
          
 
"Home!" Bad Belly ordered, pointing
to the snow. "Track!"

 
          
 
Trouble barked and lowered his nose to the
snow, taking off at a trot.

           
 
"That's a good boy." Bad Belly fell
into step behind him.

 
          
 
Hours later, when the sun grayed the eastern
horizon, Bad Belly came to the conclusion that wherever he was, he'd never been
there before. He should have come to the rock outcrop he'd wound through in the
night, then found the trees and the steep canyon. Worse, the way they were
going now didn't slope steeply at all—and it sloped the wrong way.

 
          
 
Bad Belly stared around; any landmarks
remained hidden in the ground blizzard.

 
          
 
He shook his head slowly, sadly.
"Trouble, what did you lead me into? Now we're lost."

 
          
 
A violent blast of air almost blew him off his
feet. Fine snow sifted through the gaps in his tightly clutched robe. Trouble
flopped down in the white powder to chew the caked snow from between the pads
on his feet. He snorted before looking up with curious brown eyes.

 
          
 
"One thing's certain. The tracks are gone
. . . and we have to find shelter."

 
          
 
Bad Belly took the only option left to him. He
started downhill.

 
          
 
Three Bulls stood and stepped out into the
snow. He turned, staring down at White Ash with a leering grin on his angular
face. She glared hatred back as she sought to overpower his smug satisfaction
with her own disgust and anger. He laughed, lifting the bottom of his war shirt
to relieve himself.

 
          
 
She trembled, looking away, unable to stand
the sight of his male flesh—that same organ that had violated her. Pain coupled
with fear and loathing. Even the refuge of her body, the final sanctuary, had
been desecrated.

 
          
 
At the sound of his water pattering into the
snow, she cowered. Fragments of thoughts drifted loosely about her head.
Escape! Run!

 
          
 
She gathered her legs under her, furtive eyes
boring into his back. He exhaled a frosty wreath that whirled around his head.
She took a careful step and placed one foot on the worn rock. She made another
step, the last before the snow would crunch and give her away.

 
          
 
"Big storm," Three Bulls muttered to
himself. "Look at the sky. Black, dark. This storm will continue for a
long time. Good thing I caught you, huh?"

 
          
 
The snow would make escape that much harder.
He could track her without effort; but she had to try! Desperation charged her
rubbery muscles as she leaped into the darkness.

 
          
 
She ran, calling upon all the exhausted
reserves in her body. Arms pumping, she threw herself down the slope, praying
that the footing wouldn't betray her. If she could gain a small lead, perhaps
she could trick him, make a false-She smashed face first into the fluffy snow,
driven down by his crushing weight. Hard hands tangled in her hair, jerking her
back.

 
          
 
His voice cooed into her ears, "You're a
captive of Three Bulls. I've had too much trouble with women as it is. I'll
teach you not to run away."

 
          
 
The fist caught her on the side of the head,
blasting lights like lightning flashes behind her eyes. He sat on her, pushing
her down into the snow. With one hand twisted in her hair, he used the other to
beat her.

 
          
 
“No!" she screamed, writhing beneath him.

 
          
 
Then her vision blurred. Pain splintered into
spangles of light that matched the sick sounds of his fist against her stunned
flesh.

 
          
 
Brave Man walked down from the ridge and into
the ruins of the camp. Most of the lodge covers had been piled onto a bonfire
kindled by the lodge poles. Packs had been ripped open, and the contents—what
the raiders couldn't use—scattered here and there.

 
          
 
Coyotes skulked through the sagebrush, tawny
shapes waiting for his departure to resume their ravaging of the dead. Ravens
called and rose on flapping wings to wheel in the sky or to perch on the ridge
tops, awaiting his passing.

 
          
 
Brave Man walked among the corpses, noting
familiar faces, eyeless now, since the keen ravens went for those first. The
coyotes always went for the gut. Whistling Hare lay sprawled on his face.
Badger had taken a dart in the back before someone had driven another through
his heart. Bobcat had been riddled with darts before someone slashed his
throat. Little Drummer had taken a dart through the kidneys and, from the blood
trail, had crawled for a way before a second dart had been driven between his
shoulder blades. Flying Squirrel lay facedown, her skull cracked open, the
brains exposed. One by one, he identified them.

 
          
 
"But we find no White Ash."

 
          
 
The voices in his head whispered, She lives!

 
          
 
He stooped over the body of Old Falcon,
staring down into the remains of the old man's face. His own blow had landed
between Old Falcon's eyes.

 
          
 
"I am sorry, Soul Flier. You would have
challenged my Power. It was better this way. Better that you died at my hand
than that of the Wolf People. You got to know in the end. You felt true Power
of a kind you'd only guessed at."

 
          
 
Brave Man hadn't planned on killing Old
Falcon, but the Soul Flier had walked him to the edge of camp and threatened
him with exile from the clan.

 
          
 
The pain had welled in Brave Man's head,
causing him to blink. The rush of anger had traced fire through his veins as he
turned to the Soul Flier and whispered, "Good-bye, Old Falcon."

 
          
 
Before the old man could react, Brave Man had
swung his club. The sharp edge caught the Soul Flier full on the forehead.
Splitting bone had snapped in the night.

 
          
 
Now, in the light of day, what remained of Old
Falcon looked pitifully broken and shabby.

 
          
 
"I only came back to steal White Ash
away. Had I known the Wolf People were so close, I'd have taken her that night,
old man. Now I have to find her."

 
          
 
He turned his back on the corpse and walked
into the middle of the camp where the smoldering hides and the broken dart
shafts lay scattered about. The Wolf People had even taken the dogs, at least
those they hadn't killed in the attack.

 
          
 
"But White Ash is not here. She is
missing with Soft Snow, Dancing Rose, Grass Woman, and Red Cow."

 
          
 
Captives of the Wolf People, the voices
whispered.

 
          
 
"Only the young women and some of the
children were taken." He glared down the trail, fingering his darts. Two
days' head start? The Wolf People would be traveling slowly since they didn't
need to worry about retaliation.

 
          
 
The voices murmured a warning.

 
          
 
"I know!" he shouted angrily.
"But I need to search for just a little while longer. Wind Runner's body
is nowhere to be seen. And I don't see Sage Ghost, either."

 
          
 
He worked out the pattern of tracks that
revealed where warriors and captives had marched off to the east. Too many feet
had trod here for him to follow an individual trail.

 
          
 
"Is White Ash with Wind Runner?"

 
          
 
No. The voices laughed ominously. Wolf People!
They have her.

 
          
 
He glanced up as the first flakes of snow
twirled down. He turned and sniffed, gathering the scent of the coming storm.
The voices chattered to themselves.

 
          
 
"Wet storm. Big."

 
          
 
The voices urged him, whispering, Broken
Stones. Broken Stones.

 
          
 
He nodded. "If the Wolf People have her,
she'll be up in the mountains. It will take a war party of Broken Stones'
warriors to get her back." He grinned to himself. "Yes, if I have to
destroy every man, woman, and child among the Wolf People, I'll have her.
Together, White Ash and I will Dream the Power. We will weave the new way.''

 
          
 
For the second time in his life, Brave Man
walked away from a Camp of the Dead. And, in doing so, the Power grew within
him.

 
          
 
White Ash lay with her eyes closed, locked in
wretched misery. They'd been trapped here for three days.

 
          
 
Her captor lay curled around her, breathing
deeply as he slept. His body heat and the robe that covered them protected her
from the creeping cold as snow filtered down from above, dusting the interior
of the overhang.

 
          
 
White Ash sucked at her lip—ragged now from
where she'd chewed it each time the warrior had taken her. Her soul shriveled
and curled, charred like a wood shaving on glowing embers.

 
          
 
She ground her teeth in silence, hating the
memories— constantly reminded by the ache in her vagina. He'd hurt her when
he'd forced himself inside. When she'd resisted, he'd cuffed her on the side of
the head, gripping her around the throat to choke the fight out of her. Her
breasts ached where his callused fingers had squeezed until he'd bruised them.

 
          
 
A tear broke loose from her tightly clamped
eyelids. Hatred and anger fought to rise over the disgust and
uncleanliness
she felt inside.

 
          
 
Wind gusted and sawed at the air beyond the
shelter. She could feel the cold in the rock below. The horror of Three Bulls'
possession grew worse with the knowledge that had he not found her, she would
have frozen in this storm. She lived because this man of the Wolf People had
violated her. She lived because he had come out of the night to rape her, to
cover her with his warmth and his buffalo robe. The food in his pack had
nourished her. His fire had warmed them.

 
          
 
He muttered something in his sleep, shifting
his weight on top of her.

 
          
 
White Ash tensed, her involuntary reaction
bringing him awake.

 
          
 
"Bad storm," he said evenly.
"Good thing I tracked you. You would have died."

 
          
 
She said nothing, desperately praying that
he'd go back to sleep. She calculated the distance to his darts. Too far. He
always kept them beyond her reach.

 
          
 
He yawned, repeating the story he'd told her
so many times now. "I thought I saw you run when we destroyed the camp.
The light was bad, but I saw your hair flying loose as you ran. After we killed
the last of the Sun People, I stayed behind, looking around. I found the place
where you climbed up through the snow. I followed. No man tracks better than
Three Bulls."