Time passed, and the Outcast came to a grassy bench. He rode up the slope to the top and drew rein in rare amazement at the sight before him. He scanned the forest and the slopes above, but there was no sign of anyone. For a while he stared at the body. Then he dismounted and squatted.
It was a scarred warrior, bare from the waist up. His arms had been folded across his chest. Someone had cut him from his sternum to his navel and pried the flesh apart.
The Outcast leaned closer. There was something missing, an organ. He realized what it was: the heart. Someone had reached in and cut out the heart.
This was new. This was different. This was bewildering. The Outcast knew of tribes that tortured and mutilated enemies. But he had never heard of any tribe, anywhere, that cut the heart out of one of their own. He tried to fathom why they had done such a thing. Then for them to ride off and leave the body for scavengers.
The Outcast rose and turned to the pinto. He would leave the body as it was. The strange thing they had done must be part of a ritual, and while he did not understand it, he did know it was not his place to judge how others reached out to the Great Mystery.
He was about to mount when he noticed a patch of color in the grass. A lump the size of his fist, most of it a reddish pink but parts slightly blue and purple. Puzzled, he walked over.
It was the missing heart.
His bewilderment grew. Why cut out the heart only to throw it aside? He poked the heart with his club, then rolled it over. The other side was pockmarked with odd scoops taken out of it, half a dozen from top to bottom.
The Outcast went rigid with dawning horror. The marks were bites. Six of them—and there were six scarred warriors left. They had cut out the heart and each of them had taken a bite of it.
Gooseflesh prickled the Outcast. In all his winters, he had never heard of anything like this. He thought of the young woman who reminded him so much of Yellow Fox and of the heart beating in her chest. A chill rippled through him. It was a terrible way to die.
He climbed on the pinto and slapped his legs. A new urgency goaded him. He tried to tell himself that she had been nothing more than bait to lure her man to his death. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care about the new life in her womb. He tried to tell himself all this and more.
The Outcast firmed his grip on the club.
Soon.
Very soon.
Skin Shredder licked his lips. The taste of raw heart always whetted his hunger for more. Ever since his first bite when he had seen but six winters, he liked to eat heart more than he liked to eat anything. It was the same with all his people. The heart to them was more than meat. It was strength. It was power. When they ate the heart of another, they acquired some of that person’s vital essence.
When one of their own died a violent death, they removed the heart and each of them took a bite. In doing so, they took into themselves part of the friend they were eating. It was the highest honor the Tunkua gave their own. Many looked forward to having their hearts eaten. They dreaded dying of sickness because then their hearts would stay untouched and they would go into the next world without the mark of honor.
Skin Shredder would have liked to take Bone Cracker back to the village so that all his people could take part. But it would be several sleeps, and by then the body would bloat and give off an unpleasant odor, and the heart would not taste as sweet.
Skin Shredder glanced back at the bay. The white woman had a look of distress on her face, which pleased him. The breed showed no discomfort. He could bear much, that one, and would, too, before the Tunkua were done with him. His mettle would be tested to its utmost.
The Tunkua had tortured their enemies for as long as there had been Tunkua. They didn’t do it out of a desire to inflict pain. They didn’t do it because they delighted in suffering. To them it was a test of courage, of manhood, of the warrior spirit. The more their enemy endured, the higher they regarded him. They ate his heart with the utmost reverence, for in the eating they took into themselves that which they most admired.
Skin Shredder couldn’t wait to eat the breed’s heart. He would cut it out himself. He had that right; the breed was his prisoner.
His shadow acquired a shadow of its own.
“I think we are being followed,” Star Dancer said.
“You think?”
“I am not certain.”
“What did you see?”
“What might be a man on a horse. But only for a moment. He is most careful not to be seen.”
“One of the Bear People come to save these two?” Skin Shredder had been expecting it. He was surprised there wasn’t more than one.
“I cannot say. He is too far off.”
“Do we stop and wait in hiding?” Splashes Blood asked.
Skin Shredder pondered and came to a decision. “If we push on, we can be over the pass and in our valley by the rising of the sun.”
Star Dancer said, “If I am right, the rider will follow us, perhaps all the way to our village. He will go to get other Bear People and they will come and try to wipe us out.”
“He will not reach the pass. You will find a spot where he cannot see you and wait for him, and when he comes, kill him with arrows.”
“It will be done.”
Chapter Seventeen
Zach King wished he knew what the Heart Eaters were talking about. One of them had gone back down the mountain, and now the others were having an animated palaver. Zach got the impression that another warrior wanted to go with the one who left, but their leader was apparently against the idea.
Soon they resumed the climb. Zach twisted his head. Lou had turned slightly and was staring at him. She seemed pale and her lips were pinched tight, as they did when she was in pain. “How bad is it?”
“I have a cramp,” Lou said. A bad one, above her hip. Her head hurt, too, no doubt from hanging upside down for so long. Her belly was sore, but not severely. So far she was holding up well, all things considered.
“I am thinking of trying to get away.”
“Tied as you are?” Lou shook her head. “You wouldn’t get twenty feet. It will make them mad.”
“I have to try,” Zach insisted. “I’ve been here before, elk hunting. The next slope isn’t open like this one. It’s covered with firs. I can lose myself, easy.”
“How?” Lou was skeptical. “Burrow into the ground like a gopher? Climb a tree? Be sensible.”
Zach fell silent. Even tied, he could hop, and if he picked the right spot, say a dense thicket or anywhere the brush was dense, he might elude them long enough to free his hands and feet. Then he could save Lou.
“Nothing more to say? You’ve giving up, just like that?” Lou’s eyes narrowed. “I know better. I know you, Stalking Coyote, and you’re still thinking of trying.”
One thing Zach never did—or did as rarely as he could help—was lie to her. “I might not have a better chance.”
“If you feel this strongly about it, we’ll try together,” Lou proposed. If she had to die, she preferred to die at his side.
“No.”
“Why not? Haven’t you heard?” Lou grinned. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh really? So it’s all right for you to risk your life but not all right for me to risk mine?”
“You’re risking two lives now. Or have you forgotten?”
“It’s all I think of,” Lou quietly admitted. Being told that women could have babies—being told that she could have one—didn’t prepare a woman for the actual having. It was a miracle taking place in her own body.
The bay climbed higher, its reins in the hand of a stocky Heart Eater. Zach watched the warrior closely, noting how often he glanced back, which wasn’t often at all. His bid to escape looked promising.
Lou was wrestling with herself. Zach was right. She shouldn’t take chances. If he could get away she had no doubt he would rescue her.
Zach cran
ed his neck, searching for the firs. They shouldn’t be far off. He would drop from the bay and trust in Providence.
Lou saw him tense. “Please, Zach.”
“Don’t you dare beg me.” It was the one thing Zach had no defense against. He couldn’t refuse her anything when she begged.
“I just want you to be careful. For my sake and the sake of our child.”
“Twice the reasons to stay alive,” Zach joked, and regretted it when her features clouded.
Lou indulged in a rare cuss word. “You damn well better. I don’t want to raise our child alone. If he takes after his father, he’ll be a hellion.”
Zach hadn’t thought of that. If his son took after him—good Lord, the trouble he’d given his parents. He put it from his mind for the time being. Shadowed ranks of firs rose above, the trees so high and so close, they were in perpetual gloom.
Fear gnawed at Lou. Her head was telling her that Zach must try, but her heart was fit to burst with worry. She closed her eyes and swallowed, and when she opened them they were almost there.
None of the warriors was looking at Zach. He coiled his legs. Another minute, and they were in the trees, the Heart Eaters in single file, the bay in the middle.
Skin Shredder skirted a log and the rest followed suit.
Zach almost pushed off, but didn’t. The warrior right behind the bay could see him. He waited.
A thicket was ahead. Skin Shredder motioned and headed around it, and was out of Zach’s sight. Then the second and third warrior. The man behind the bay was looking at the ground, the last one at the sky.
It was now or never. Using his knees, Zach pushed and fell. A cushion of pine needles muffled the thud. As he hit, he rolled and then wriggled behind a fir.
The warrior behind the bay was still looking at the ground.
Zach grinned. When the last Heart Eater went by, he slid backward until it was safe to stand. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he began hopping. But it wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it would be. There were too many downed limbs and waisthigh brush that tangled around his legs.
Zach thought of Louisa and the baby, and redoubled his effort. He must succeed for their sake. He would cut the ropes off and return to give the Heart Easters a taste of vengeance.
In midhop, Zach’s left thigh exploded in pain. It felt as if an invisible hand pushed it out from under him, and he crashed onto his back. Fighting waves of agony, he looked at his thigh and discovered why.
The blood-smeared tip of an arrow jutted from his leg.
The Outcast stopped to rest the pinto twice. The slopes were steep, the day hot, and he had not come across water since morning.
The second time, he dismounted to stretch. Far below, the lake was a deep blue oval in a broad belt of green. Above, the lighter blue of the sky was sprinkled by high white clouds.
Wildlife was everywhere. He had spooked blacktailed does and bucks. Once, several elk trotted off at his approach. High on the crags, mountain sheep were occasionally visible. Twice he spied coyotes. Up here they were bigger than their lowland cousins; the ones he saw were almost as big as wolves.
Jays squawked at him. Red finches darted from tree to tree. Chickadees played in thickets. Juncos pecked the ground. He spied an eagle soaring with the clouds, the white of its head like snow.
The Outcast breathed deeply of the mountain air and reflected that of all the places he had been in his travels, he liked this valley best. It was a good place to live. The people in the wooden lodges had chosen well.
The Outcast ended his reverie and climbed back onto the pinto. He resumed his climb, the bay’s tracks as plain as ever. Repeatedly, he glanced above him, and when next he did, he abruptly drew rein.
Something wasn’t right.
All he saw were trees and brush and boulders. Nothing out of the ordinary about any of it—except he had the feeling that it wasn’t. He scanned the pines and the shadows and saw no cause for alarm.
The Outcast had learned to trust his instincts. Often his life depended on them. He heeded his instinct now and stayed where he was. He searched and sorted what he was seeing in his mind for the slightest sign of danger. It all appeared as it should be.
After a while the Outcast tapped his heels. He rode at a walk, the club across his legs. Every patch of shadow merited scrutiny.
A cluster of blue spruce appeared. The trees’ bark was dark, the limbs spaced close together. On an impulse he reined wide. He glanced away for an instant, distracted by a red-throated woodpecker that went flying past, and he heard a twang. Instantly, he threw himself from the pinto. The buzz of the shaft showed how near it came. He landed on his shoulder, rolled into a crouch, and was behind a boulder before another arrow could seek his life.
The pinto went a little way and stopped.
Placing an eye at the boulder’s edge, the Outcast scoured the spruce. The archer was in there, somewhere, cleverly concealed. That there was just one surprised him. They were arrogant, these warriors with their scar tattoos.
The Outcast noted the lay of the terrain. He could not get close to the spruce without showing himself. They might be arrogant, but they weren’t stupid.
Squatting, the Outcast mulled his options. He was at a disadvantage in that his weapons were for close combat. How to get close without taking an arrow? Rushing the spruce entailed too much risk. He could stay where he was and let the warrior come to him, but would the warrior be that foolhardy? Probably not. His other option was to wait for dark. Then he could slip into the spruce unseen. But by then the rest of the warriors might stop for the night and would be hungry. He remembered the heart and the bite marks and thought of the young woman, and her belly, and he resolved not to wait.
Scattered about were many small stones. Picking one, the Outcast threw it at the spruce trees. He did the same with a second and a third, throwing at random, hearing them strike and fall. Eight, nine, ten stones, and he picked up another and was about to throw it when an arrow streaked out of the air and missed the top of the boulder by a finger’s width.
The Outcast ducked. He had seen where the arrow came from, high in the third spruce on the left. The warrior was well hid, but he was up a tree, which had a disadvantage of its own in that he could not move that quickly.
Flattening, the Outcast crawled toward a pocket of undergrowth. He was only in the open for a few moments, but it was enough. An arrow imbedded itself next to his arm. Then he was in cover and paused.
The Outcast put himself in the other warrior’s moccasins. The man would begin to doubt the wisdom of staying in the spruce; he might decide to climb down.
Cautiously, the Outcast raised his head. A limb high up moved. Then the one under it. He had guessed right. He hurtled out of the brush, his legs pumping, weaving in case the warrior stopped descending to notch another shaft. He came to a spruce and dived behind it.
Nothing happened.
He figured the warrior was still descending and hadn’t noticed him. Pushing up, he started around the trunk and nearly ran into a shaft that thudded into the bark.
In the time it took the warrior to nock another one, the Outcast reached the next spruce. He put his back to the bole.
Now it was bobcat and grouse, and he was the bobcat.
His eyes darting everywhere, the Outcast worked around the trunk. He could see the tree the warrior was in, but he couldn’t see the warrior. The man must be on the other side.
His moccasins soundless on the thick layer of pine needles, the Outcast circled, moving from tree to tree until he had an unobstructed view. The warrior wasn’t there. He realized the man must have descended much faster than he thought.
They were both on the ground, and suddenly he was the grouse again.
The Outcast went prone. He had underestimated his enemy. An arrow could seek him at any moment from any direction.
The spruce were as still as death. The breeze had died. The birds had stopped singing. It was as if the forest were holding its breath, waiting
for the outcome.
Quickly but quietly the Outcast moved to another tree. It had a wide trunk, and he felt safe in standing. Reaching up, he pulled himself onto a low limb. From there, he climbed to another. He peered around the right side of the tree and then the left. His enemy was nowhere to be seen.
It occurred to the Outcast that he was the one who had been arrogant. They were good, these scarred warriors. Their woodcraft was second to none, including his own. He went to climb down and froze.
A stone’s throw away, beyond the stand of spruce, a vague shape crept through the undergrowth. It was the warrior, circling.
The Outcast slid behind the trunk. He was too easy a target. Dropping lightly to the ground, he dashed to another spruce. No sooner did he reach it than an arrow clipped his shoulder. The tip cut his buckskin shirt but not his own skin.
Crouching, the Outcast kept running. He raced out of the spruce and crouched in some brush, unscathed and wondering why. He had expected more arrows to fly. That none did suggested the warrior had used all the shafts in his quiver or had only a few left and wouldn’t use another unless he was sure he wouldn’t miss.
Staying low, the Outcast stalked toward the spot where he had last seen his enemy. Movement alerted him that the warrior was doing the same. He sank onto his stomach, the club at his side.
A cluster of dogwood moved.
But there was still no wind.
The Outcast gripped the hardwood handle with both hands. He coiled his legs, and when a dark form materialized low to the earth, he sprang. He vaulted high into the air with the club overhead. His adversary sensed him and looked up.
The club fell in an arc.
The warrior brought up his bow. Wood clacked on wood. The Outcast dodged a kick aimed at his knee. He avoided a thrust of the bow aimed at his eyes.
Snarling, the warrior heaved to his knees and grabbed for a long knife at his hip. The blade flashed, down low.
The Outcast sidestepped. He feinted to the left and stepped to the right and swung with all his might. Glinting in the sunlight, the metal spike buried itself in the warrior’s eye. The spike was long enough and thick enough that it shattered the socket and penetrated to the brain.
The Outcast Page 13