People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (17 page)

As the raid progressed, Smoke Shield was firmly convinced that Power rode his shoulders. They were closing on their quarry. The broken hills west of Bowl Town were the perfect place to hide. Thick timber, deep drainages, and broken ridges filled the land. While hidden nooks and crannies lay in every direction, the main trails were few and far between. Anyone wishing to hurry could only follow a few specific routes; otherwise they would become bogged down in rugged country, hampered by brush, deadfall, and steep slopes.

The first clue came from a forest trail. Here the leaf mat had been disturbed. Too many feet had been up and down the trail in recent days. Smoke Shield crouched, fingering the damp leaves. Around him, silent as cougars, his warriors settled into watchful wariness, their dark eyes searching.

Which way?
Smoke Shield looked back down the trail toward Bowl Town. No, that would lead back to town. Whatever the people traveling the trail were after, it was farther west. He rose, pointed, and began easing down the trail, sniffing the breeze for telltale hints of smoke.

As he went, he noticed that here and there individuals had stepped away, the signs of travel lessening. He stopped, cocking his head as he searched the surrounding trees. The ridge here had flattened, but to the north and south, it fell off in steep ravines. His practiced eye immediately noted that the ground under the hickory, walnut, and pecan trees had been thoroughly collected. None of the fall nut crop remained atop the leaf mat but for occasional moldy or squirrel-chewed specimens. Nor did piles of deer scat indicate the animals had browsed heavily here. That meant the nuts had been collected long ago, probably just after they fell in the fall.

So if people weren’t splitting off to collect nuts, what were they doing?

Hiding their trail, of course.

He smiled grimly, motioning his warriors forward in an arc. He had almost grown used to their appearance, could almost make himself believe he was Chahta himself. So far all had gone as he had planned. Only that morning had they allowed an old Albaamo man to “escape” after hearing the warriors call Smoke Shield “Great Cougar” in a mangled Chahta accent. By the time the morning sun rose, he and his warriors would appear at Bowl Town, dressed once again as Sky Hand. No one would be the wiser as he joined forces with Sun Falcon to search the forest for Chahta raiders.

As the ridgetop continued to widen, the trail virtually disappeared.

Close!
He signaled a halt, cocking his head, listening. To the north, a squirrel chattered a warning call. Disturbed by a man? Who knew? He turned in that direction, using hand signs to line out his warriors.

His heart began that familiar excited beat in his chest. A euphoric feeling, almost elation, danced about his bones and muscles. Every sense seemed sharper. Step by step, they made their way forward to the lip of
the ravine. One by one his warriors lined out, dropping low, peering over the steep edge. Below him lay a tangle of fallen trees, most covered with moss. Grape and greenbriar wound up from the brown forest floor in a maze-work of thick vines. A mockingbird called in the distance, and sparrows tweeted.

He could see nothing. Perhaps the squirrel’s call had been a ruse?

At the point of rising and turning back, a signal was passed down the line from Bear Paw’s position. Makes Calls—a warrior of the Raccoon Clan—caught Smoke Shield’s attention. He pointed to his nose, and made the wiggling fingers sign for smoke.

With the grace of a panther, Smoke Shield rose, crept low across the ridge, passing his warriors, to Bear Paw, who gave him a smile and shrug, repeating the “smelled smoke” sign and pointing down into the steep ravine.

Smoke Shield turned, signaling his warriors to start down. They eased over the edge, each taking his time, placing a foot, checking the purchase, and lowering himself. A cottontail broke cover, bouncing and darting down the slope.

The warriors stopped, each studying the ground below them, bows at the ready, arrows nocked.

The faint wiff of smoke came, only to be lost as the breeze eddied through the trees.

Smoke Shield slowly resumed the descent. At the bottom, they found a trail winding among the roots, leaves, and dead saplings. Here a great many feet had trod. Smoke Shield aligned his warriors and started forward.

He caught the first glimpse of the hut, a shabby thing made of branches bent over and covered with bark. A fine blue haze rose through cracks in the roof. He caught a faint snatch of voices; then the forest resumed its normal winter silence.

Smoke Shield signaled for his warriors to spread out, then crouched, waiting for them to move slowly and surely into position. Periodically he cast glances behind him, ensuring that no traveler came walking up the trail behind him to sound the alarm.

He could feel the first cooling of perspiration as he waited, heart thumping in his chest.

Yes, this is it.
He could almost smell Fast Legs’ sweat and fear from inside the little hut.

At that moment, a man walked out, calmly stepped to the side, and opened his breechcloth to relieve himself. He stared out at the forest, unconcerned. The man was an Albaamo, wearing a brown hunting shirt, his hair in a poorly tied bun.

Smoke Shield crouched lower, hoping that none of his warriors were visible.

Finished, the man fixed his clothing and turned back to the door, scratching just behind his ear as he ducked into the low hut.

Moments later, a robin chirped from up the ravine, Bear Paw’s signal that he had reached his position. Smoke Shield raised himself, catching a glance of War Heart where he waited in his position. The man nodded, and Smoke Shield gave him the signal to advance.

He watched as one by one his warriors filtered down to surround the hut.

Flat on his back, Fast Legs panted for breath. He stared up at the daylight filtering through cracks in the bark roof. In the agonizing time since the Albaamaha brought him here, he had memorized every feature of the ceiling. He knew each bent branch, and the knots of twine that bound them together. When the Albaamaha dropped hot rocks on his belly and twisted his broken leg, he
grunted as he studied them, forcing his screaming brain to imagine the intricacies of the knots.

Weary, he blinked, wishing desperately for a drink of water, knowing the futility of asking. His leg had been turned into a repulsive thing, fragments of bone lancing out through bloody and bruised flesh. It had swollen hideously, and pus leaked from the punctures. The smell of it had caused him to throw up.

Now, he tried to remember it as it had been, whole and muscled, the smooth skin intact. No matter what, he would never walk again, never run like the wind.

I am a dead man.
The knowledge did little to soothe him. Even if he survived this terrible hut, the evil infection that had slipped into his leg would finally kill him. He would die, fevered, crying out as his souls slipped in and out of his body.

“Just kill me,” he whispered again.

“When the time is right,” the big Albaamo told him. “Red Awl was my brother. You foul weasel, he tried to work with you. For that, I will make you suffer until the end.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if you promise to tell your story to the mikkos, we will be happy to tend to your wounds. We have potions, things you can drink to deaden the pain.”

Fast Legs drew another breath. Gods, he couldn’t take this much longer.

“All right.” His voice sounded like something far away, the hoarse rasping from another throat than his. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“Smoke Shield planned this?”

“Yes. The whole thing.”

“Why?”

“To find the Albaamo who killed his captives. He knows you sent Crabapple to betray us to the White Arrow Chahta.”

“And if he fights us, the Chikosi will unite behind him?”

The second Albaamo, a small wiry man, had crouched beside him. The man grinned as the big one spoke.

Fast Legs jerked a quick nod.

“And where is Red Awl’s body?” the first asked.

“In a backwater.”

“You will show us where?”

“Yes.”

The man straightened, saying, “You will tell the mikkos everything?”

“Yes.” What did it matter? He was dead anyway. No matter what he said, the Albaamaha would suffer in the end. Sky Hand warriors would put them down, hunt every last one of them to earth and kill them.

The man chuckled to himself before saying to his companion, “You see? They’re not so tough. A man hanging in the square has the crowd to play to, but out here, alone, deep in the forest, there is no one to impress.”

He turned, made a half step, and grunted, bending slightly.

Fast Legs stared in amazement at the bloody arrow that protruded from the man’s gut. He watched the Albaamo reach down and wrap his fingers around the feathered shaft. The man stared in disbelief. Then a second arrow drove deeply into his chest. He turned, dazed, and toppled. Fast Legs screamed as the man’s body landed on his broken leg.

Unable to see, Fast Legs heard the thin Albaamo shriek as he ran for the door. The fellow’s shadow darkened the entrance; then a meaty snap—the impact of a war club—could be heard.

The dying Albaamo lying on Fast Legs kicked, whimpered, and writhed. Fast Legs blinked in the half-light, still trying to understand. He froze, staring at the silhouette that loomed over him. He knew that hairstyle: Chahta.

Then the impossible happened: The enemy warrior
spoke in Smoke Shield’s voice. “So, old friend, you would tell them everything?”

Fast Legs swallowed down his dry throat. He could feel the dying Albaamo’s warm blood leaking onto his body, trickling down his naked sides.

“I’m sorry,” Fast Legs gasped.

“So am I,” Smoke Shield said, straightening.

Fast Legs tried to gather enough breath to scream as the war chief’s club rose, hanging for a moment against the patterns of light cast by the ceiling. Then it arced down, blasting lightning through Fast Legs’ brain.

The sound of laughter brought Lotus Root to a sudden stop. She glanced around at the narrow ravine, looking this way and that up the steep, tree-choked slopes. The forest lay dormant around her, the only patches of green being the holly that eked out an existence on the forest floor.

She had been in the Albaamaha Council House until just before dawn, listening as the men planned their attack on Bowl Town. It would come the following morning, leaving her just enough time to make the journey up to the hut, and then back before the attack. Once they had the town, Fast Legs could be dragged back, presented to the entire village as proof of Chikosi treachery.

Laughter? Her people knew better. They had been schooled in the need for silence.

She stepped off the trail, wary now, mindful of the fact she had already been stalked by at least one Chikosi warrior. She picked a path off to the side, stepping over roots, bending low so the food sack that hung from her shoulder slipped down.

She used a secondary trail, one the deer had made, keeping the thickest of trees between her and the main route. When she reached a fallen log, she stopped, seeing the soil where a squirrel had dug it up. There, imprinted,
was the plain track of a moccasin. She knew that stitching, had seen it before: Chahta!