People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (20 page)

“And your Chahta haven’t grown soft as well?”

Great Cougar chuckled to himself. “What is your purpose here, Seeker? Really? Oh, I know the reasons you’ve given, but I think there is more. Especially when that odd woman you brought with you is so obsessed with my Albaamaha captives.”

“Do you think we are Sky Hand spies, too?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.” He studied Old White through narrowed eyes. “Trader speaks with a Sky Hand accent. His tattoos remind me of theirs. The pattern is Chief Clan, but unfinished.”

Old White pointed. “I see forked-eye designs on your face. I have seen them on the faces of the Caddo, the Natchez, the Yuchi, and so many others. The falcon eye design spread out from Cahokia long ago, as did the cheek bar he wears. Seriously, don’t you wonder why a man of his age would only have the design, not the finished tattoo, if he were Sky Hand?”

Great Cougar grunted noncommittally. “I think the three of you are full of secrets.”

“On that we agree.” Old White gave him a mild smile. “But on my honor, we are not here to seek an advantage of the Chahta.”

“But you are concerned about us going to war?”

Old White shrugged. “I was just wondering at the reasons for it. War in general, I mean. I was just contemplating how happy everyone is. All around Feathered Snake Town, people are simply living, dealing with their everyday problems. If this thing between you and the Sky Hand goes wrong, it will change those lives.”

Great Cougar glanced up at the failing daylight. “War serves its purpose, which is to keep a people in balance with life. You asked if we had become lazy during our years of relative peace? Perhaps we have. We are part of this world, Seeker. Look around you.”

“Believe me, I have. And in more places and for more summers than you have.”

“And you see the deer, agile of foot, keen of senses,
because he knows the cougar stalks the shadows. So, too, does the passenger pigeon remain fast and darting in flight because the falcon sails high on the currents, awaiting the unwary. People who live in comfort become easy prey when they forget that predators wait on the fringes. Power must balance, Seeker. The white Power of order grows stagnant, soft, and weak. When it does, the red washes in, bringing with it the strong, who pick the bones of those unprepared for its ways.”

“Do you not seek that balance yourself, War Chief?”

“I am dedicated to the red Power, Seeker. I leave the white for others to cultivate.”

“I see.” He reached into his pouch. “What do you think of this?”

He handed across a shining copper gorget. The image had been beautifully rendered, showing a crouched warrior over a kneeling captive. The warrior’s head was up, as if looking to the sky. Forked-eye designs surrounded his large eyes, a beaded forelock hanging over his forehead. In his right hand he held a long knife pressed against the captive’s exposed throat. The string it hung on had been beaded with perfectly cut shell disks.

Great Cougar held it up to the light, a gleam in his eyes. “I have never seen the like. It’s magnificent.”

“It came from Cahokia. I have no idea of its age, or who might have worn it. Perhaps one of the very lords who once ruled there.”

“You would Trade this?”

“For the right Trade.”

Great Cougar reverently fingered the piece. “I have an engraved cup for black drink, a large thing made from a huge conch. The workmanship is wondrous. It was Traded to me by a Pensacola, who in turn Traded it up from the Calusa. It is my most prized possession. A moment.” He turned, trotting off behind the Men’s House.

Old White smiled to himself.
Yes, well chosen indeed.

Of all his Trade, he had thought of this piece, one of the items given to him by Silver Loon. Of their combined possessions, it seemed the most likely—excepting of course Trader’s copper and the medicine box—to pique the surly Great Cougar’s interest.

At that moment, Great Cougar dashed back from his quest, a large white conch shell cradled in his hands. The shell cup was among the largest Old White had ever seen. Nearly as long as his forearm, it had been carefully cut in half lengthwise, leaving the outer wall of the shell, the columella removed. It tapered to a long thin point on one end. The design etched into its outer surface was of geometric lightning patterns surrounding the narrow image of a seated cat.

Old White took the shell, uttering an admiring “Ah!” In the far north, this cup would fetch half a canoe load of copper, several packs of prime lynx hides, or even one of the very rare white bearskins.

He glanced at Great Cougar, who again held the Cahokian gorget up to the evening light. The man seemed to be entranced.

“Hang it around your neck,” Old White suggested. “I may be wrong, but you can almost feel the Power pulsing within it.”

Great Cougar reverently looped the gorget string over his head.

“I have heard,” Old White added, “that something of a person’s Spirit remains with a cherished possession. When I hold that piece, it is as if I can touch the essence of a Cahokian lord. Imagine the emotions, the pride that once beat in the wearer’s heart.” He paused. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Great Cougar stared down at his chest, fingering the rim of the copper gorget. Finally, almost breathlessly,
he asked, “Do we have a Trade? The gorget for the cup?”

Old White considered, running his fingers over the intricate design. He had, he decided, never seen such a marvelous piece. It tempted him, affecting him the same way the gorget did Great Cougar.

“Let me propose something else, a way for you to keep the gorget . . . and the cup.”

Great Cougar gave him a suspicious look. “And that would be?”

“I would Trade the gorget for the Albaamaha captives.”

“Before or after I hang them on the square?”

Old White arched an eyebrow in censure.

“Why?” Great Cougar asked as he removed the gorget. He hesitated, unwilling to hand it back.

“Because for reasons I cannot understand, the Contrary wants them.”

Great Cougar’s expression was guarded. “You would give up that cup because the Contrary wants the Albaamaha?”

Old White made a face. “It pains me to do so, but yes.”

“In Breath Giver’s name, why?”

Old White chuckled, amused at himself. He did covet the cup. “From the time that I found the Contrary among the Oneota, she has never ceased to amaze me. She sees the future. When she speaks, it is with that knowledge, which is why everything she says is backward. She is watching us from the future. Even with my experience, I can hardly imagine how she thinks.”

“What could she possibly want with an old Albaamo and a skinny woman?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. That she desires them is enough. Of course, you can refuse the bargain. In that case, I have done my best.”

Great Cougar gave him a crafty look. “You could offer more.”

Old White waved it off. “Well done. You are worthy of being a Trader yourself. But no. Were I to offer you everything I owned, you would wonder why. That question would eat at you, feed the suspicions you already have about us. I can hear the thoughts that would churn between your souls: ‘If they would Trade so much, the captives must be worth a great deal to them. But why?’ And the answer you could not help but arrive at would be that despite the evidence we carry in our packs, we did not travel down from the north. Instead, you would convince yourself that we were indeed Sky Hand spies, come to discover your war plans.”

“Perhaps you would Trade the cup for the gorget now, and something else for the captives later?”

“Perhaps I might Trade the captives for the gorget now, and something else for the cup later.”

Great Cougar continued to run his fingers over the relief on the copper gorget.

Old White handed the cup back, saying, “This need not be decided at the moment. Keep the gorget for a while, War Chief. Wear it until you make up your mind.” He handed the cup back reluctantly. “Even if you do not decide to take my Trade I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear such a piece for the time being. You know . . . just to look at it in the sunlight tomorrow and marvel over the workmanship, as I have.”

“You would trust me with this?” He had tucked the cup under one arm and now raised the gorget.

“War Chief, you are a man of honor. Take it home, see how it looks in the firelight. It is my pleasure to share it with a man who will admire it as much as I.”

Old White smiled to himself as Great Cougar turned, headed back in the direction of his house.

“Now,” he mused, “how do I get that cup away from him?”

The Albaamaha had been assembled just outside Bowl Town’s palisade. They stood uncomfortably, watching with sullen eyes as Smoke Shield stood beside Chief Sun Falcon. Behind him, Smoke Shield knew the gathered Sky Hand warriors shifted nervously; his warriors held their weapons high, though Sun Falcon’s did not. The latter looked uncomfortable with the proceedings. The evening sky glowed in the west, sunlight sending bars of light through the distant clouds.

“Where is Lotus Root?” Smoke Shield demanded. “She has made charges against me. I have searched her house, only to find it vacant. Let her come forward and make her allegations known!”

The crowd remained silent, eyes down, hands clasped before them.

Smoke Shield had literally paraded his warriors back and forth through their village, looking in houses, searching granaries. He had read their hard looks, seen the anger they tried so diligently to hide. But what could they do? As many as they were, they dared not challenge his war-hardened warriors. If anything, his men had tried to provoke a response, having freshly washed Albaamaha blood from their hands.

But the Albaamaha had refused to rise to the bait.

Cowards, all of them.
The thought drifted between Smoke Shield’s souls like smoke.

“Come on,” he chided. “How can this woman speak her poison behind my back, yet refuse to face me?” He spread his arms. “If she has cause, let her tell all of us. I am not afraid to answer her questions.”

They stood uneasily.

Sun Falcon was shooting Smoke Shield sidelong looks, clearly displeased at this turn of events. Let him be. Who cared what the Bowl Town chief might think?

“Will someone tell me where Lotus Root is?”

In the long silence, no one spoke.

“That is an order!”

Finally an old man, one of the Albaamaha mikkos, stepped forward. He cleared his throat. “War Chief, she is not here.”

“Not here,” Smoke Shield replied thoughtfully. “Well, she certainly wasn’t up at the hut. Her body wasn’t among those the Chahta killed.” He raised a knotted fist. “We tracked the raiders for a distance and saw no woman’s tracks among theirs, so they didn’t take her.”

The old Albaamo hung his head. In a voice barely audible, he said, “She may have feared for her life, War Chief.”

“And why is that, Mikko?”

“Because . . . because a Sky Hand warrior was stalking her.”

Smoke Shield nodded. “Ah, Fast Legs.”

Sun Falcon broke the silence. “Some of us would wonder what he was doing up at that hut, War Chief.”

“I sent him,” Smoke Shield said firmly. “At the first hint of rumors that I had killed Red Awl, I asked him to come and find out if Red Awl was indeed dead. My instructions were that he be discreet. That he learn what was being said about me without upsetting people. The last thing I wanted was for him to barge in like a hungry bear and demand explanations. Had he done so, do any of you think he would have heard the truth? No, it was better that he look and listen.”

He saw some of the Albaamaha glance uneasily at each other. Among others, the only response was the tightening of jaw muscles, the hard knotting of fists.

Smoke Shield propped his hands on his hips. “When
we found the bodies, they had been cut apart by the foul Chahta cowards. But I can tell you this! My warrior had a broken leg long before the Chahta killed him. Could anyone tell me how that happened?”

Silence.

“Come on, people, talk. The news of a Sky Hand warrior taken captive would have been up and down the trails within moments.”

“Captive?” the old mikko asked. “Has the war chief not considered that his warrior might have fallen in the forest and our people took him to shelter to help him?”

“Oh, indeed I have.” Smoke Shield lifted a hand, staring absently at his fingers. “The thing is, Fast Legs had obviously been in that hut for days. More than enough time for the kind Albaamaha to send a runner to Chief Sun Falcon for aid. But then, I don’t suppose any of you would have wanted Sun Falcon’s warriors to see Fast Legs. The scars where hot rocks had been dropped on his flesh were scabbed. No fast-moving party of Chahta raiders takes the time to torture a single hurt man. So I can well understand why no word was sent to Sun Falcon. Fast Legs would have told them everything, pointed out the people who had tortured him. And what would you have done then?”

“War Chief,” Sun Falcon said softly. “Do not take us to a place we cannot back away from.”

Smoke Shield gave him a scathing look before turning back to the crowd. “Very well, some want to find a solution to this. I can understand why, with the Chahta roaming our woods, killing our people. So be it, but I will tell you this! I swear on the red Power, I do not know where Red Awl is.”
And I pray that Fast Legs hid his body so no one will ever find it.
“If he is dead, I swear on the souls of my Ancestors, I didn’t see it happen. Didn’t order it done. I have no idea how to find him, even assuming he is dead.” He paused. “Sometimes I wonder if he really is.”