“Yes, what is it?” His tone was a bit tense, and came out somewhat more irritably than he intended. Well, so be it, he thought.
“My chief, we have been talking of this.”
“Of what?”
“This war party. It is not as we thought.”
Heron felt his temper rise.
“What do you mean?”
“We … it is this way: This looked to be a short and easy war party, Heron. Three men, a woman, and a child. A quick thing, maybe a day or two. Some honor, some fun, home to sing and dance and tell of the victory. But it was not so. Three have died, counting Otter. High Hawk was—”
“Stop!” Heron said through clenched teeth. “You are a coward!”
The young warrior reddened.
“That is not true, Heron. You know that I have counted honors. Elk, here, too. Our bravery has never been questioned. But this is different.”
Heron had risen from his seat and now glared furiously at the other. “The difference is that you have never become a coward before. Are you afraid of these strangers?”
“I … no, my chief. But the powers of this white-hair … can you not see? Ten are dead, Heron! Three since the war party started. Is it not unwise to challenge such power?”
“You call me foolish?” Heron demanded. It seemed for a moment that he would strike the young man.
“No, Heron, I only question. How important is it to catch these people?”
“They have shamed us!” raged Heron. “They must suffer for that!”
“But it is we who suffer! How many more will the power of this holy man kill?”
“It is as I said,” Heron blustered. “You are afraid!”
“Not of battle or of dying, Heron. Of the strange powers of the White Wolf, yes! He is not of this earth. I am made to think he could crush us all at any time he wishes.”
Heron grunted contemptuously.
“Huh! He could not save his own helper, the one who died on the hill.”
“The one who killed Otter,” nodded the young man. “The holy man’s power cannot always stop such things. If they are to happen, they do. But think of this, Heron: They have lost one. How many have we lost?”
Again, it appeared for a moment that White Heron would strike the young warrior. The others stared, fascinated and unbelieving. One of their most time-honored customs forbade such a blow. Heron actually raised his hand to strike, which would be a dishonor not to the other warrior, but to himself. A man does not strike one of his own.
At the last moment, Heron seemed to realize that his leadership was in question. He lowered his hand and tried to regain his composure. Yet when he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and tight.
“If you question my leadership, you are free to go home. Any of you!”
There was a long silence, and finally one of the other men spoke.
“Let us all sleep on it, Heron. We do not question your leadership.”
The confrontation was over, but it was a quiet and uncomfortable evening. White Heron moved among the warriors, making small talk, trying to joke and pretend that there was no problem. Yet it lay there like a sleeping bear in winter, ready to waken with dreadful destruction. Some of the men, Heron knew, would stand by him to the death under any circumstances. He was confident in the support of six. Two, he felt, maybe three could not be trusted. He completely avoided contact with Blackbird, who had challenged him. There was no point in crossing trails with such a man. In fact it would be good if the cowards did leave. Two, three … even so, he would have a strong war party. Seven capable warriors. They would still outnumber the fugitive men by three to one. Even if the woman put up a fight, it was a clear victory.
Heron finally rolled into his robe, his temper cooling. Now that he was alone with his own thoughts, he found that he did have some doubts. There was no question that something about the white-hair was definitely different, and that he did have powers and gifts beyond understanding. Even allowing for the expected exaggeration by the one-eyed assistant, here was a powerful holy man. There had been some impressive tricks demonstrated by these outsiders. Could it be that the holy man could really turn himself into a wolf? Well, so be it. He, Heron, had killed wolves before. Actually, the pelt of a white wolf might be quite attractive on his bed.
There was a gnawing area of doubt, of course. Such a wolf might be supernatural, immortal. If so, it could not be killed. Nonsense, he told himself. Anything can be killed. A wolf … But what if such a wolf is mad? whispered the quiet voice of doubt. That would be another matter. The slightest scratch from the fangs of such a creature meant certain death.
He tried to thrust such worries aside, concentrating on the anger he felt toward the traitorous Blackbird and his cowardly friends. That was reassuring, but the anger kept him awake. It was nearly morning when he finally fell into a fitful slumber, to dream of a wolflike creature that stalked him in the dim light of the false dawn. The creature rushed at him, and he could almost feel its hot breath as he looked into its hairy face and blue eyes … blue!
Heron sat up, relieved to be back in the real world, but still shaken. It had been so real! It was really dawn now, and the others were rising, attending to nature’s call, yawning and stretching. A man trotted over, one who had been on watch.
“Two are gone, Heron.”
“Gone? What?”
“They have gone home, maybe. Blackbird and Smiling Elk.”
Heron leaped to his feet, his temper flaring. Then he managed to control himself, at least partly. He finally answered, trying to speak casually through clenched teeth.
“It is good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. There is no place in this war party for cowards.”
Eight, he was thinking. Only eight are left.
91
Perhaps White Heron was fortunate that he had any followers left at all. There were whispers that he had gone mad, and that this whole war party now had no purpose except revenge.
Heron would probably have conceded that point. Now he was determined to catch and punish the fugitives. He knew that there were some in his party who whispered about it, but he did not care, not really. There were loyal men in the party who would back him in anything he wanted to do. They would keep the others in line. Any who were questionable in their loyalty were gone now. Blackbird and the other one. Sniveling cowards, the party was better off without them anyway. He was glad they were gone. The seven who remained, eight counting himself, were the reliable ones anyway. They could be counted upon.
Why should there be a problem, anyway? His party outnumbered the fugitive warriors four to one. Even if the woman was a fighter, which seemed a good possibility, those three could not prevail against eight skilled warriors. He almost hoped that the woman would prove to have spirit. It would make the process of subduing her more interesting. And she was quite beautiful, of course. Heron had agreed with the unfortunate Otter on that point. Even muddy and exhausted, with her hands tied, her dignity of bearing had been apparent. There was a look of eagles in her eyes. This was too good a woman for the likes of Otter and his brothers anyway. Maybe that was why Heron had felt so strongly that she should have been released when her man came searching for her.
Now it was different. Her fate was secondary to the primary goal, the capture and death of the men who had shamed his warriors. Even so, he hoped that they could take the woman alive. Maybe he could claim her. Yes, that would be good.
“Come,” he called to the sleepily moving warriors. “Let us get started. Maybe we catch them today. If not today, maybe tomorrow.”
The little party of fugitives was already on the trail, knowing well the importance of distance. They were becoming discouraged. Food was scarce, and they had not been able to stop and hunt for several days. All of them suspected now that there must come a day when the pursuit would end in a battle to the death. Their goal would be to maintain as much control as they could over the circumstances of that final meeting.
&
nbsp; Odin, in the lead, stopped and seemed to be studying the trail.
“What is it?” called Nils from the rear. He moved forward, and the four gathered at a point where the trail branched. It was not a plain division of the path. The smaller of the trails was vague and difficult to see, winding off through the bushes that grew in profusion here. It was exactly the sort of place that Odin often chose to plant a false trail.
“Break a few twigs?” asked Nils.
“No,” said Odin thoughtfully. “We have done that, and it slowed them only a little. I am made to think, though … What if we lay a false trail, and then follow it?”
“Where does it go?” asked Dove.
“I do not know, my sister. Here, it goes that way, away from the river. They know we are following the river, and to leave it might mislead them. We can head west for a while, then turn back north after we lose them.”
If we lose them, thought Nils. But there seemed no harm in trying. It would be hard to worsen their situation.
Odin now took several steps down the main trail, leaving a plain track or two. He then stepped to his left, a long stride to an outcrop of rock.
“Wolf, you follow me a step or two, then step back into your own tracks, and all three start down the little path. Break twigs, make it plain. I will cut across to meet you on that trail.”
It was done in a short time and they moved on, away from the river, heading into rough country, hoping it would take their pursuers some time to figure out the ruse. With luck, maybe they could escape altogether. None of them really thought so, but it was a good feeling, a change from the day-after-day sameness.
Even better, Odin was able to shoot a deer that afternoon. It had appeared on the trail ahead, a fat yearling, its spike horns sticking up like pointing fingers. It turned to flee, but stopped for another look, its last. Odin’s arrow struck just behind the left ribs and tore forward through heart and lungs. The animal dropped, almost in its tracks.
Hastily, they butchered out all of the choicest cuts that they could carry, pausing only to perform the ritual apology. Packs of meat wrapped in pieces of deerskin were prepared for all to carry. Even Bright Sky would bear his own small pack of meat. They moved on, feeling better about the world and everything in it now.
Behind them, a buzzard turned an extra circle and dropped a little lower to see what lay so still in the clearing on a dim game trail. It folded its wings partway and dropped to land in a dead pine not far from the carcass. Another bird, a tiny speck in the distance, saw the descent, and veered in that direction, followed by another, and yet another. From a distance that would be a day’s travel for humans on foot, the great black creatures began to gather.
“What is it, Ferret?” asked White Heron. “Another trick?”
The tracker was standing, staring at a dim game trail that branched away from the main route.
“I am not sure. I am made to think that this trick is the real trail.”
“What? That makes no sense!”
“No, stay back, everyone. This trick, the little path, it is too easy, maybe. Let me go down the main trail a little way.”
Ferret walked down the trail, stepping carefully, trying not to obliterate the trail he sought. He was completely out of sight among the bushes, a bowshot away now. Heron was growing impatient. Ferret suddenly reappeared, trotting carelessly and pointing to the west.
“They did take the other trail,” he said.
“Away from the river?” Heron demanded. “Why would they do that?”
“Maybe because we did not think so. This man is very clever, Heron. He overdid the false false trail only a little. I might have missed it.”
They hurried on, Ferret in the lead.
The day was half gone when they stopped at the top of a rise. The tracker stood staring at the sky ahead.
“What is it this time, Ferret?”
“Buzzards. A big kill. See?”
At least six or eight of the giant birds circled on fixed wings, riding the rising currents of air.
“That is a long distance away,” noted one of the warriors.
“Yes,” agreed Ferret. “But it could have to do with those we seek. Maybe they have made a kill, maybe they are the kill.” He turned to Heron. “I am made to think we can hurry now. This trail seems to lead there, and we can gain distance by moving fast.”
“It is good,” grunted Heron.
They moved on at a distance-eating trot.
• • •
On another rise, well beyond the circling column of scavengers, Odin paused to stare along the back trail.
“We have made a great mistake, Wolf,” he said sadly.
“What?”
Odin pointed to the circling birds. “They will tell the Shaved-heads.”
“What?”
“The buzzards, over our kill. The Shaved-heads will see them too, Wolf,” Nils said.
“That is true. They see what we see. But they will know by now which way we went, and that the buzzards may have something to do with us. This lets them hurry. We already took much time to butcher the kill. This lets them get closer yet.”
Nils was nodding agreement, seeing the situation before Odin finished his explanation. “So what is to be done?”
Odin gave his usual noncommittal gesture, then began to speak slowly. “I am made to think that it is meant for us to face them.”
“Face them? Odin, that is madness. They would not talk. They hunt us like animals, to kill us.” He glanced sideways at his wife and son, thinking but not speaking of other fates reserved for them.
“Yes, I know. We must fight for our lives.” He paused and chuckled. “Wolf, we have faced worse!”
“But we did not have a woman and child with us. We had Svenson.”
“That is true. But, as before, we can choose the time and place. For a while, we can still stay ahead of them. Then, a plan will come. Maybe attack them, as they sleep.”
“No, that is too dangerous. Too many—”
“Maybe not, Wolf. There are no more than nine or ten. Kill one or two at night. An arrow from the darkness … Soon there are only seven, maybe.”
“But we would have to separate, or all four try such a thing. No, it is too dangerous,” Nils protested.
“I could go back, find their night camp,” Odin insisted.
“And if something happened to you?”
Odin smiled, amused. “That is true. You are helpless, no?”
Nils smiled. “No, but—”
“I understand, Wolf. But let me go back to see where they are. Then we keep going. A plan will happen.”
It was well past dark in their cold dark camp when Odin rejoined the other three.
“How is it, my brother?” asked Calling Dove eagerly.
“One less,” Odin said. “Their sentry. This will make them cautious, slow them some.”
“How many now?” asked Nils.
“That, too, is something to speak of,” Odin said, sounding a bit puzzled. “I counted only eight men. Seven, now. Some must have gone home.”
“But why?” Nils asked.
“Who knows what a Shaved-head thinks? But maybe their leader is losing his power. I am made to think that this is good, Wolf.”
“There are still seven,” Dove reminded dryly.
“Yes, my sister. But remember, we will choose the time and place to fight. You can still use your war club?”
She started to retort, but realized that her brother was teasing her.
“Maybe,” she said. “But only if you need help.”
Still the situation was more serious than that, and they were all well aware of it. They quickened their pace the next morning, starting before it was fully light. They were well aware that their pursuers, too, would be sure to start as early as possible. The Shaved-heads would also have an additional motive for vengeance. Odin had furnished them that, with the arrow that had struck down the sentry.
But that could not be helped. One advantage the fug
itives had this morning. It was no longer necessary to try to lay false trails, for the pursuers were too close.
This, of course, provided an advantage that was available to the Shaved-heads as well. This was no longer a contest of skill and wits, but one of speed.
No one mentioned, but all of the fugitives were well aware, that the war party was unencumbered by a woman and child.
92
The land was a little different now. The broad flat flood plain along the river had given way to rougher country. Rocky hills and ravines rose in seemingly endless array. The traveling was rougher, but to balance that disadvantage, there were more and better places to hide, or to elude pursuers.
The trail they followed had turned and twisted, branched, and joined others. It was practically impossible to decide which was the main trail, or if such a thing actually existed. All were probably game trails, used since the beginning of time and appropriated for use by whatever humans happened along. This would explain their wandering nature, the seeking for the easiest path in a general direction. Nils thought of an expression from home, “as crooked as a cow path.” For the first time he fully understood it. True, the animals involved were deer and elk rather than the cattle and sheep of his homeland, but the principle was the same. The meandering, the search for the easiest way … not a bad way, really.
The network of these dim trails allowed the fugitives to maintain their general direction. Odin insisted that they maintain their northwesterly course, which would eventually bring them closer to the People. It was not a matter of great discussion. Direction was not particularly important anyway, compared to escape. The northwest direction did, however, take them out of the territory of the Shaved-heads. At least, they thought so. There was no way to know for sure.
Twice they had resorted to the sun-stone to reestablish that direction. When the sky had been overcast and fog lay heavy in the hollows, it was hard to maintain a sense of direction. It was at such times that Nils felt enclosed, entrapped by the trees and rocks around him. He longed for open skies and far horizons, the high seas, with a fast ship under his feet, responding to the wind in her sails.
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