Forty-Six

Evening poured through tattered clouds, streaking the sky with pale lavender light. Long shadows crept across the rolling desert. Out in the sagebrush a fox yipped. Ironwood sat on the ground beside Cornsilk, his muscles aching, and listened. As the Fire Dog warriors went about setting up camp, lighting fires, throwing out bedrolls, they laughed and talked. He knew how they felt, heady with the giddy rush of triumph. The scent of roasting jackrabbit spiced the air. Ironwood’s empty belly groaned. Would Jay Bird feed his captives tonight? They always received breakfast, to give them the strength to run all day, but Jay Bird had not yet deigned to offer them a supper.

Just at the edge of camp he could see young Red Spark’s body where it lay trussed to a pole like a deer carcass. The girl had broken and run in a futile attempt at escape. One of the Fire Dogs had nocked an arrow and nonchalantly shot her down. Ironwood could still see that deadly sliver as it arced and drove the vicious point through the girl’s back.

But why didn’t Jay Bird leave her where she fell? Why carry a worthless corpse for a whole day?

Anger and humiliation vied inside Ironwood. He hated himself for allowing this to happen. How could he, the great warrior and legendary War Chief, have walked straight into the arms of his enemies? He should have scented the danger and been able to shout a warning to the guards on the walls. Instead, he’d been wallowing in his own guilt and pain, and completely ignored the scratching of carefully placed sandals, the faint pungency of fear sweat on the night wind … until too late.

Fool! So many mistakes.

He glanced around at the six men with nocked bows who surrounded the prisoners. Including himself, fifteen people—counting hapless Red Spark—had been captured. They slumped in various positions, most already asleep after the brutal run. Only he and Sternlight remained awake. Sternlight sat cross-legged at Poor Singer’s feet, watching the camp. Poor Singer curled on his side next to Cornsilk. Before he’d fallen asleep, he’d gently rested his hand on a lock of Cornsilk’s long black hair. Night Sun lay to Ironwood’s left, breathing deeply, her beautiful face slack. Dune lay flat on his back on his blanket-covered litter ten paces away. He’d been too exhausted from the jostling ride to move. As Ironwood’s gaze moved over the captives, he silently named each one: Four Fingers, little Cottonwood Boy, Greenshoot Woman … His gaze shifted to Thistle. She roamed the camp freely. But why shouldn’t she? Her treachery had allowed the disaster to take place. She would be a hero to Jay Bird and his people.

Ironwood looked down at Cornsilk. Despite what Thistle had done, he could not find it in his heart to hate her. She had raised his daughter as her own. At Ironwood’s request, she had arranged it so that Cornsilk’s litter was left near him for a short time each night, so that Ironwood could look at her and make certain she still breathed.

He reached out and stroked Cornsilk’s limp hand.

To his surprise, her eyes fluttered open. She had wakened often in the past three days, but had gone right back to sleep. Her face was still swollen and hideously bruised. For a long moment, she stared curiously at the sky, as though not certain where she was, then turned and looked at Ironwood.

“What—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “The guards have forbidden me to speak to anyone. If they hear us, I’ll be punished. Talk in a very low voice and don’t look at me when you do. Focus on someone or something else.”

Cornsilk swallowed hard and let her gaze drift to where Thistle stood, speaking with Jay Bird. The elderly Mogollon Chief looked as ragged and tired as Ironwood felt. His filthy shirt hung in tatters; his gray hair and thin face bore a coating of red dirt. He stood four hands taller than Thistle. She had to tip her head back to look Jay Bird in the eyes.

Cornsilk let out a sigh, as if the sight of her “mother” eased her soul. She whispered, “What happened?”

Ironwood watched Swallowtail roaming the periphery of the camp. For over a hand of time, the tall boy had been circling Cornsilk, getting as close as he dared, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Ironwood did not know why. Perhaps Swallowtail just wanted to make certain she was all right—Cornsilk had, after all, been kind to him. Ironwood murmured, “It’s a long story, my daughter. You were shot in the face. We removed the arrow, and then Talon Town was attacked. Thistle led Jay Bird and his warriors into the plaza. Many were killed. It all happened very fast. We were taken prisoner. Jay Bird spared you because he believes you are his granddaughter.”

Cornsilk’s gaze shot back to him, questioning, then returned to Thistle. “But I’m not. Am I?”

“No. But Thistle never knew for certain who your parents were. I wished it that way—to protect you, Cornsilk. She must have guessed that I was your father and assumed your mother was the slave Young Fawn. She was Jay Bird’s daughter.”

Cornsilk seemed to be taking this in. “What will he do when he discovers I’m not his granddaughter?”

“You will be safe. Thistle will make certain of that. She loves you very much, and Jay Bird will grant Thistle whatever she wishes. Thistle helped him pull off the greatest raid of his life. He knows how much he owes her.”

Cornsilk shifted to look at Poor Singer. The tall, skinny young man snored softly. Dirty black hair fell over his shoulder. Dread tensed Cornsilk’s features. “And what will happen to Poor Singer and the rest of you? If my mother asks, will all of you be allowed to go free, too?”

“I don’t know. He will certainly want me dead.”

“Dead?” Cornsilk asked feebly. “Why?”

One of the guards cocked his head and peered at Ironwood suspiciously. Ironwood shifted, bracing his hands behind him and leaning back to stare up at the stars twinkling through the charcoal puffs of clouds. The guard studied him a time longer, then turned to sniff in the direction of a roasting rabbit.

Very softly, Ironwood answered, “Jay Bird has good reasons.”

When she didn’t answer, Ironwood glanced at her. Tears trickled from her eyes, streaking the dust that covered her bruised face. His heart went out to her. “Do not grieve for me, Cornsilk. Unlike most men, I have lived to see my greatest dream come true, to see my precious daughter grow to womanhood. My life has been full and mostly happy.”

“But there must be something—”

“I think our time is up,” Ironwood said when he saw Thistle push through the camp with two warriors at her sides. “I’ll try to speak with you more tomorrow.”

Thistle called, “Cornsilk? Are you awake?” and anxiously trotted forward.

Both guards nocked their bows and aimed them straight at Ironwood’s chest. He sat placidly while Thistle knelt beside Cornsilk and smoothed dirty hair from her wounded face.

“Oh, my daughter,” Thistle said, and bent to kiss Cornsilk’s dirty forehead. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you feeling?”

Cornsilk reached out. Thistle took her hand and clutched it tightly. “I’m hungry, Mother.”

“I’m sure you are.” Thistle gestured to the warriors. “Please, carry her to Jay Bird’s fire.” She stood and backed away, glancing only perfunctorily at Ironwood.

As the guards lifted Cornsilk’s litter, she lowered a hand toward Ironwood, the palm open in a gesture of need, and gazed down through wet eyes.

He dared not reach back, but he watched as they carried her away.

*   *   *

Webworm had long ago lost any sense of his body and staggered more than trotted after White Stone, the best tracker of the Bear Clan. White Stone’s body wavered on the trail ahead, like one of the heat Spirits that haunted the distances.

The way led inexorably south, across the rolling hills, over the flats with their grassy sand dunes, and into the rolling juniper forests that slanted up to the Gila Monster Cliffs—the forbidding stronghold of the Mogollon.

If we don’t catch them before they reach the mountains, it’ll all be over. We’ll never have another chance like this. Webworm tried to swallow, his mouth burned dry. How long since he’d drunk? Last night? That morning?

Almost two days since he’d slept. Run! You can do this. Run, Webworm. Find them. Avenge yourself and your people. You can sleep later … forever, if necessary.

He tripped over a scraggly saltbush, teetered, and stumbled to a halt, hands braced on his shaking knees as he bent double and panted for breath. Every muscle burned and quivered; his stomach cramped. He straightened, leery of resting too long, and looked back. His warriors were strung out across the flats for as far as he could see, their red war shirts tattered and dust mottled.

He turned after White Stone and stumbled forward again, pushing himself just a little farther. The world had come undone, and it was partly his fault. A War Chief accepted responsibility for his mistakes.

If it kills me, I’ll find Jay Bird. That, at least, he could do with the same dedication Ironwood would have shown. But then, Ironwood would never have allowed Snake Head to strip Talon Town of adequate defenses.

But I’m not Ironwood. I never have been. I only fooled myself into thinking I could do his job. One disaster had piled on another, until Webworm worried his senses had gone as rubbery as his legs.

Flickering images appeared in his fevered mind: Beargrass’ innocent eyes … the fear in young Fledgling’s expression … Cloud Playing’s dead body sagging in his arms, her half-open eyes staring into his … Night Sun’s face when Crow Beard accused her of bearing a child in secret and hiding it away … the blood dripping from Cornsilk’s nose and mouth … Snake Head’s shock at being shot … Cone’s weary relief as eternal night drifted down …

Blessed thlatsinas, it all haunted him, goaded him ever onward toward the rising blue mountains beyond the southern horizon.

You should regroup your warriors. They’re too strung out. Yes, yes, he should. But out here on the flats, he’d have plenty of warning before the Mogollon could counterattack. He blinked, trying to clear his fuzzy vision. To close up ranks, he’d have to slow down. Slowing meant the Fire Dogs would be that much further ahead. And, if I lose them … if I don’t get the prisoners back, or punish the raiders … I’ll live the rest of my life in disgrace.

Better to run himself into the ground in pursuit than see the loathing gaze of his family and clan.

White Stone had slowed as the trail led between two low sandstone buttes. Webworm reeled forward, legs shaking almost too badly to hold him up. He steadied himself by grabbing White Stone’s arm.

“You’re ready to drop flat on your face, War Chief,” White Stone said. He glanced uneasily behind them. “And the others need time to catch up. We should rest.”

“What … what have you found?” Webworm asked.

White Stone pointed to the headlands. “I was afraid they’d come this way. This valley narrows to the south. The way this caprock overhangs the valley, we can’t scale it. Anyone headed south must pass through this defile—and I don’t like the looks of it.”

“Can we go around?”

“It’ll take at least a day, maybe two.” White Stone shook his head. “If the Fire Dogs set up an ambush here…”

Webworm squinted southward. The valley was like a large funnel, and the weathered sandstone caprock dominated the heights. For a long time, he just stared.

“Here, War Chief, drink some water. You need it.”

White Stone lifted the skin bag to his lips. The first rush of water was like a blessing from the thlatsinas. It burned down his raw throat and lanced a cold stream into his hot gut. Webworm sucked down another greedy swallow, and then another, until White Stone pulled the nearly empty water bag away.

Webworm wiped his lips, finally able to take a deep breath. Several of his warriors had caught up and stood bent over, panting. “Thank you, White Stone.”

“You are pushing too hard, War Chief,” White Stone murmured, and turned to study the caprock again.

“Tell me, old friend,” Webworm asked, “were you running in my sandals, what would you be doing?”

“Pushing just as hard.” White Stone’s lips twitched. “I thank my ancestors that I’m only a scout.”

The water, with the power of lightning, had given his rubbery muscles another charge. Webworm scowled at the string of staggering warriors coming across the plain. Had he truly run so hard they couldn’t keep up?

“All right, let’s move. Stay close. White Stone, you go ahead. At the first sign of a trap, call out.”

They moved forward, slowly entering the valley. Anxious eyes searched the caprock for a bobbing head, a startled bird, anything out of the ordinary.

Webworm glanced back across the flats at his straggling warriors. How could the Fire Dogs, with their captives, have covered such a distance so quickly?

Because they were rested, well fed, and hadn’t run for a day south with the funeral procession, and a day due west to catch their enemy’s trail, and finally headed south for another two days.

Webworm prayed the Fire Dogs hadn’t anticipated their rapid pursuit, and that they’d pushed ahead for the sanctuary of the distant mountains rather than lingering here at the gap.

From the tracks, it looked as if the Fire Dogs had fifty or sixty warriors, and perhaps thirty more people taken from Talon Town. The distinctive prints of Straight Path–made moccasins and sandals made it easy to separate out the tracks. He could only guess that about twenty of the Straight Path prints belonged to freed slaves. The rest had to be captives.

Webworm halted, staring at the way ahead. It became a rock-lined slit. The perfect place for an ambush.

I can’t make a mistake.…

“White Stone? Wait.” Webworm trotted up to where his scout gazed anxiously at the rocks and brush. Around him were no more than fifteen of his best warriors. The others would take half a hand of time to catch up. “I need a volunteer. Someone must go through alone, see if the way is clear, and shout it out.”

“I will.” Twinstar came forward. He, too, looked to be on his last legs, but he grinned. Short and skinny, his two front teeth were gone, and the others, yellow and worn, likely to be so in the near future. “No Fire Dog has made an arrow yet that can find my flesh.”

“May the thlatsinas go with you, my friend.” Webworm patted him on the back. As Twinstar darted into the gap, the rest of his warriors dropped into weary squats, just out of bowshot of the high canyon walls.

Webworm lowered himself to a half-buried rock and rested. One by one, stragglers caught up and flopped down to rest.

A finger of time later, young Twinstar came trotting out of the narrow defile. With a groan, Webworm rose to his feet and plodded forward.

“They’re gone,” Twinstar told him. “I went through the narrows, climbed the sandstone steps beyond, and saw a body out in the basin. They killed a captive. Red Spark, a youngster from the Ant Clan.”

“How long has she been dead?”

Twinstar shrugged. “A day at least. Her eyes are dried out, and she’s started to swell.”

Webworm sighed, relieved no ambush awaited them, but ever more frustrated at learning the Mogollon were even further ahead than he’d feared. How could they make such rapid progress? Were they being carried by eagles? “But if they made it this far, this fast,” he thought aloud, “they might slow down, believe themselves safe, and camp at the Cottonwood Springs just this side of the mountains.”

“They’re carrying at least two people on litters,” White Stone pointed out. “And the captives can’t travel that fast. Red Spark must have been slowing them down too much. She’s the first they killed, and the only one, so far. The others will be on their last legs.”

“Yes, they will. Come on. Let’s go. I’ll feel better when we’re on the other side of this gap.”

He followed White Stone and Twinstar into the cool confines of the defile, glancing up nervously. Sheer rock walls topped with brush closed in around them. Anyone caught down here would be unable to fight back. What a place for a massacre. Webworm’s eyes darted about like a man walking through a ghost-filled room, expecting invisible hands to attack him.

Past the narrows, he scrambled up the humpbacked layers of sandstone, all worn smooth by the endless torrents of water during the rainy season, and crouched down over Red Spark’s body. She’d been shot in the back with an arrow—no doubt as she broke and ran in an attempt to escape. Webworm prodded her body and sniffed. Definitely dead for over a day.

Something nagged at him, and not just the revulsion of seeing the flies crawling on the girl’s dried skin. Shot in the back … through the lung. Just like Cloud Playing.

The flashback of her limp body in his arms, the sodden weight of her cold flesh, the blood draining out of her and onto …

Red Spark was shot through the lung … so, where’s the blood? The sand beneath her was dry, unstained.

Perplexed, he rose to his feet …

And the first deadly arrow cut the air, slicing through Twinstar’s body. He screamed and fell, and a second arrow ripped through Webworm’s sleeve, then one pierced White Stone’s shoulder, the force throwing him to the ground.

Webworm screamed, “Run!”

Shouts and whoops rose on the still air as the Fire Dogs leapt up from behind the low sagebrush.

His warriors dashed by as Webworm clawed for his bow with one hand and tried to drag White Stone to his feet with the other. The scout was losing blood fast. Too fast! It drenched the front of his shirt and flowed down his legs. Hideous shrieks split the air as men went down around Webworm, wounded or dying, some shot through with as many as three arrows.

Horror ran like fire through his veins.

“Come on, White Stone! You have to run. I can’t carry you! Go!”

His face a mask of pain, White Stone stumbled forward.

Mogollon warriors seemed to be rising right out of the ground. Some raced around the sides, heading for the high points controlling the defile. Webworm’s only escape was back that way—and if any of them were going to survive, they had to run for it now.

“Hurry! Back! Run for your lives!” Webworm shouted, shoving White Stone before him as he charged for the gap. Already he could see Fire Dogs taking position.

With a curious detachment, he considered his certain death.

Thank the thlatsinas the other warriors didn’t catch up.…

He leaped down the sandstone ripples and half dragged the stumbling White Stone into the defile. The feathered shafts of the Mogollon arrows clattered on the rocks around him and thudded into the soft sand of the wash.

“Go back!” he shouted at the warriors coming up the defile. “It’s a trap! Go back! Run!”