Scalpdancers (39 page)

Lone Walker had been but a child; the affairs of a medicine woman would have meant nothing to him. He could not even remember from that time. She was a Scalpdancer who had left her people only to have them come to her for sanctuary.

“This will be your weapon,” said the woman on the pallet, rising up on her elbows, the oval of her face radiant with wisdom. “And your songs,” she added. “And the
Maiyun
of the plains, if you have the courage to summon them.”

She sighed and leaned against the backrest, exhausted from her speech. The Medicine Cane scraped the ceiling as Lone Walker eased back into the light to study the markings on the staff. But Singing Woman interrupted him.

“Bring the white man to me.”

Morgan Penmerry's bulky frame filled the opening.

“I am no child to be led by the hand,” he replied in her own tongue and irreverently entered the chamber. He glanced at his friend holding the Medicine Cane. “A few of the lads were appearing to take a liking to my scalp. Figured I best hunt up a friendly face.” He peered out from under his black brows at the Blackfoot, as if trying to determine whether or not he'd found a friendly face. He returned his attention to the old woman.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Why not?” Morgan replied with a shrug. “A man has to be somewhere.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of sage mingling with the stench of illness.

Singing Woman managed a dry laugh and motioned him closer. “Give me your hand.”

Morgan glanced in Lone Walker's direction. The young spirit singer nodded. Morgan knelt alongside the white-haired one and extended his hand. With a single fluid motion, surprisingly quick for her age, the woman of the mountain raked the palm of his hand with an eagle's talon she had hidden by her side.

“Dammit, you old witch,” Morgan exclaimed as blood welled from his slashed palm. Before he could completely draw back from her, the woman repeated the gesture, this time summoning Lone Walker forward and using his right hand. Droplets of crimson oozed from his wound. She reached out and joined their hands together and placed the eagle's talon upon their clasped flesh.

“Now you are bound by blood as well as friendship. Your fates are two rivers becoming one.” She removed the talon and settled against the bulrush mat she used for a bed. “Tell me, white man, what do you dream?”

“I dream of what is lost,” Morgan replied. He could not lie to this medicine woman.

“Now you will dream of that which is yet to be found,” Lone Walker said. The words came unbidden to his mind, full of truth and a strength he was only just discovering within himself. It had taken Singing Woman to bring the power out of him.
What will I do when I face White Buffalo alone?

22

Near sunset Morgan Penmerry left the cave and ventured into the meadow to bring in the horse he had ground-tethered to graze on the buffalo grass. Singing Woman Falls glowed golden in the last light of day as shadows swept down the bluffs. He wasn't alone upon the valley floor.

Even as he tended his horse, Morgan spied a couple walk their mounts from beneath the falls and slip away from the pool, angling toward the grove of aspens a couple hundred yards up the valley. They kept to the spreading darkness just below the bluffs, but Morgan recognized Lone Walker—and that meant the girl could only be Sparrow.

His thoughts slipped to the past and a tryst he had shared with the woman of his heart. He felt envy for the Blackfoot brave and pity for the path Lone Walker had chosen. For the path that had been chosen
for
him, Morgan mentally corrected. Even with all the Scalpdancers at his side, Lone Walker would find himself hopelessly outmanned and outgunned.

Maybe a single musket was no match for a well-strung bow, but an armed force was quite another matter. As far as Morgan was concerned, his friend didn't stand a chance.

He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of pines and the faint odor of roasted elk that wafted through the narrow mouth of the cave. Women sung to their children and someone had begun to play a reed flute. Morgan looked back toward the cave and debated whether or not to join the families hidden behind the falls. No. He was a stranger lost in alien country a lifetime away from the pain of the past.

Tonight it seemed a lifetime wasn't enough.

Lone Walker and Sparrow entered the grove together. They found a small patch of clear ground and covered the leaves with a blanket and bearskin robe and shed their clothes. They loved each other first with a passion born of absence and longing, then again, taking time to explore, tease, and arouse.

When they had spent their passion, Lone Walker pulled his bearskin robe aside. The night had grown unusually warm and he lay with his love in his arms, his flesh glistening with sweat, and he watched the stars through the overhanging branches. He stroked her hair. She turned onto her side and nuzzled his neck.

“You know what I must do.” He had not yet spoken to her of White Buffalo, but word had spread among the Scalpdancers, and she must have heard as she ministered the red medicine.

“A little bird has spoken to me,” she said.

“And the bird had snow-white plumage,” Lone Walker guessed. “And was very old.”

“Perhaps.”

“The others say if I go to face White Buffalo I will not return.”

“They are not Lone Walker's woman,” Sparrow said, a note of contempt in her voice. As she sat upright, her hair spilled across her breasts. “You will return to me.”

Lone Walker reached out and stroked her naked back. His loins stirred, and Sparrow whispered a secret name to him and lay on her side, her back to him, as he entered her. He pressed his face into Sparrow's dark hair. She smelled of wildflowers and passion. Lone Walker thought his heart would burst from loving her.

Darkness draped its purple cloak about them, and afterwards, they slept.

Lone Walker opened his eyes and waited until his vision adjusted to the night before moving. Then he worked his way out of Sparrow's embrace and stood naked in the moonlight. He listened, his breathing shallow. He waited, and heard once more the screech of a great horned owl, a harbinger of death.
Had it called him by name?
He heard the rush of wings and looked up. The predator, its wings outstretched, glided just above the treetops. Once, twice, three times, then four, it traced circles against the moonlit sky. Then the great horned owl dropped from the sky as if to attack the man below.

The Blackfoot ducked, attempting to protect his face. The owl rose on its strong wide wings, then dropped again. Lone Walker flinched as the bird swooped past his eyes and climbed the warm breeze back into the safety of the sky. It dived yet again from the branches of the aspens only to swerve aside from its attack. For the fourth time the bird repeated its actions, fanning the air as it skimmed past Lone Walker's head. The young brave's blood ran cold. Four times circling, four times an aborted attack—he understood now. Magic was at work against him. As the great horned owl began its final ascent, Lone Walker could have sworn he glimpsed two baleful green eyes staring at him from the predator's shrouded features.

“White Buffalo,” Lone Walker whispered.

The owl soared above the aspen grove and vanished from sight without a single cry to mark its passing. In the creature's wake there was an eerie, oppressive stillness. Lone Walker swallowed only with effort, and breathing itself became an act of concentration. He wanted to run from the clearing, to flee his unseen attacker, but he knew there was no escape—a curse was upon him.

The pressure in his chest was worse now, unendurable. He grew dizzy and struggled to fill his lungs but to no avail. The great horned owl had called him by name, diving out of the sky like … the hawk that had saved … Lone Walker's life the … day before. He collapsed to his knees; the world began to spin as he gasped for air. The owl … the hawk … White Buffalo's magic was killing him. The shaman had placed his curse and who could resist such power? None. Except, perhaps, a man who could summon a hawk, a man who had stood upon the edge of the world and been taught the sacred songs—a man who had returned from where the sun sleeps.

“I place my foot upon the path of night.

All-Father, lead me.

I place my foot upon the path of morning.

All-Father, strengthen me.

I follow the circle and find death.

I follow the circle and find life.”

His voice was barely audible in the clearing. But it was loud enough to break the hold of White Buffalo's evil handiwork. With a force that almost knocked Lone Walker on his back, air rushed into his lungs. He got to his feet and stood with his face tilted upward, eyes closed. He breathed, just breathed the sweet clean air. When he could move without stumbling, he returned to Sparrow's side. She stirred, opened her eyes, and reached out to him.

“What is it?” she mumbled softly.

His only reply was to enfold her in his arms and in the silent passage of the hours, embrace life.

“White Buffalo must die,” Lone Walker told the warriors arranged around the morning council fire.

Throughout the night the remnants of the Scalpdancers had argued what their next course of action should be. They talked of the change that had come over Lone Walker as well. He who had once been Lost Eyes and the object of derision had traveled beyond the Backbone of the World. His visions had led him to where the sun sleeps. He had laid claim to their respect. Those who had once harbored ill will toward him were ashamed, all the more so because he had forgiven them and called each man by name as would a brother.

To try to kill White Buffalo, this indeed was a mad quest. Yet, they were willing to ride at his side and die before the Shoshoni rifles. His fate would be theirs and he loved them for it. But Lone Walker refused the help each of them offered. His dreams had told him to go alone and that was the way of it. He would accept only two things—a promise from Wolf Lance to care for Sparrow if Lone Walker failed to return, and a magnificent roan stallion, a powerful mountain-bred animal that had been Black Fox's pride and joy.

And when the last of the braves acceded to his will, Lone Walker left them by the banks of the pond and once more entered the cave. He came to Singing Woman's chamber in time to see her double over in a coughing fit. Her body shook, her gaunt frame seemed about to fall apart, then the spasm subsided, and to his surprise the old woman looked up, saw him, and chuckled.

“Keep your worries, my young friend. Look to yourself. You have cause to be concerned. White Buffalo will try to kill you any way he can.”

“He already has,” Lone Walker replied. “Last night. But I am still here.”

“White Buffalo's power is great, yet I think he begins to fear you. Doubt is like a spark in dry grass, soon it is out of control.”

Lone Walker would control his own misgivings. He was anxious to be on his way. The more he lingered, the less he wanted to leave at all. She sensed this as well and was determined to be rid of him, though she had come to love him for his courage and to respect him for his vision.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I am Lone Walker.”

“And what do you see?”

“What is beyond seeing.”

“And what is in you?”

“Songs.”

“And why do you sing?”

“So the world will not die.”

Singing Woman sat upright. Her eyes held him bound.

“I dreamed you. I saw you in the flames of my sacred fire. The wolf called you by name; the spirit of
Iniskim
spoke of your coming. Follow the herd; they will bring you to Elkhorn Creek.” She waved a hand. “Go and find your fate.” She sank against the backrest and would look at him no more.

Lone Walker did as the old woman commanded and hurried from the cave. Morgan Penmerry was waiting outside the falls, his rifle cradled in his arm. He fell into step alongside his companion. Lone Walker wore an unadorned buckskin shirt and deerskin breeches. His hair hung long and was unbraided. He carried no provisions, intending to fast on the way to Elkhorn Creek. The only weapon he carried, if it could be called that, was the Medicine Cane, with its raven feathers that fluttered with each step.

“I must go alone,” he said to Morgan. The white man never broke stride.

“Now see here—” Morgan began.

Lone Walker raised a hand to silence his friend. The Blackfoot pointed to the other men of his tribe gathered along the bank of the pond. All eyes were on Lone Walker.

“I have told the Scalpdancers to shoot your horse if you try to follow. And then to shoot you if the first fails.”

“You have a strange notion of friendship.” Morgan glared at him.

“Maybe I am saving your life, Mor-gan.” Lone Walker placed his fist over his heart, then brought his hand palm-open toward the white man. “I must walk this path alone. Farewell, my friend,” he added in English.

Lone Walker gathered the reins of the stallion Black Fox had tethered near the creek. It pleased the young spirit singer to see how the Scalpdancers had left the cave and come out of hiding. Children were busily gathering stones to ring the cook fires. Preparations had begun for the trek into Ever Shadow, the country to the north. Lone Walker's presence had infused them with new life. He did not fully understand how or why—yet he too felt the difference. The journey had changed him and the journey had yet to end.

He looked for and found Sparrow. She was busy at her own campsite, heating stones to bring to boil the red-medicine tea. Her ministrations had already begun to bring relief to the ill. Fevers had broken. Yellow Stalk's infant was resting, allowing the mother to do the same. She appeared to treat his departure as a matter-of-fact event, as if he were merely leaving for the hunt.

Only once did she pause to meet his eyes. She masked her fears and smiled. Her courage became his courage. It enabled him to ride away.