“Be careful,” Beaver cautioned. “Let me look around. We do not want to spoil any tracks.”
It was only a moment, however, before he called out.
“She was here,” he stated. “Her footprints … a fire.”
“A fire?”
“Yes. A ceremony. Just a few sticks, maybe tobacco.”
“But why, Uncle?”
“Who knows? This was a prayer fire, though. Let me look for horse tracks.”
He waded across the riffle to study the other bank, a narrow strip along the base of the bluff. “Nothing,” he said, returning. “But I am made to think … Yes, I remember … A path up the cliff. Was it not downstream?”
They hurried in that: direction, and Beaver quickly discovered what he sought. “Yes, she crossed here. That is the trail to the top.”
“Then let us go up.”‘
“We should wait, Antelope. It is nearly dark, and the moon will not rise until later. We know she went this way, but at the top, we do not know, and we cannot track in the dark. We will come back in the morning. Oh, yes … her dog is with her now. There are tracks …”
They found the tracks at the top of the bluff the next morning as soon as it was light. Tracking was more difficult here, because the grass that covered the earth beneath did so more completely. It was short buffalo grass here, in contrast to the assortment of tallgrass species on the slopes and in the gullies. Finally Beaver Track found that which he sought, and rose with a grunt.
“She went this way,” he pointed. “North. See, the horse tries to choose the best footing, so he chances on a trail, here. Other animals have found it the easiest way, too.”
He pointed to a barely visible strip of black earth which meandered across the flat between and among the patches of gray-green buffalo grass.
“See, her horse’s footprint …” He touched the edge of the circular mark, testing its texture. “Sometime early yesterday, maybe,” he concluded.
“Then let us hurry,” Antelope urged. “She has traveled a whole day!”
“That is true,” his uncle agreed. “But let us think on this, Antelope. If we move too fast, we will miss something. Besides, are you ready for a long journey? It may take many days just to catch up to her.”
“I have some meat,” Dark Antelope pointed to his pack. “A few days.”
“And I, too,” Beaver agreed. “So be it. Let us go on a little way. Maybe we can learn more. Do you know why she would do this?”
“No, Uncle. I … we quarreled.”
“Yes, I heard. That was odd, too. And her prayer fire, down below. One does that to start a quest or a journey.”
“You think she plans to travel far? But why?”
“I do not know, Antelope. Maybe she only seeks solitude to fast and pray. A vision quest. But if that is it, we should be able to tell in a day or two, by how she travels.”
They moved on, following the dim game trail. To one unaccustomed to the plains, there would seem to be no trail at all. But the passage of elk, antelope, buffalo, and the predators that follow them has worn shallow grooves in the prairie sod over the centuries. An animal, headed in a given direction, will chance upon and follow these dim paths. It was only necessary for those who sought the missing girl to determine her general direction and then follow the lay of the land and their horses’ inclinations.
They found a spring gushing forth from a hillside, where Mouse had dismounted and walked around for a little while.
“She rests her horse and lets him eat,” said Beaver Track, pointing to cropped grasses nearby. “Many dog tracks in the mud here, so she was here for a while.”
“That means …” began Antelope hesitantly.
“Yes. She plans a long journey. For a vision quest, she would hurry there and stop.”
Antelope agreed, still confused. They drank and watered the horses, then hurried on.
It was late in the day when they came to the place where Mouse had camped for the night.
“You tell me what you see,” Beaver suggested.
Antelope nodded. “Her fire, here. She rolled in her robe and slept, there, south of the fire a little way. The dog beside her, maybe. Her horse grazed there, below the spring.”
“It is good,” his uncle agreed. “You will be a tracker yet.”
It was high praise, from one as skilled as Beaver Track.
It was mid-morning when tragedy struck. They had stopped at a narrow stream to let the horses drink and to stretch their own legs for a few moments. Beaver Track’s horse had wandered a few steps downstream. Suddenly the animal jumped wildly and ran a few steps, shaking his head and pawing at his nose with a forefoot. The men had hardly turned to look when the unmistakable buzz of a real-snake’s rattle reached their ears.
Beaver Track hurried to his horse, deeply concerned, while Antelope went to look at the snake.
“Be careful,” Beaver called. “Its mate may be near.”
Cautiously, Antelope explored the area, but found nothing. Even the snake which had assaulted Beaver’s horse had disappeared into a rocky crevice.
“He is bitten,” called the tracker. “Aiee, what a poor time!”
A single fang had left a puncture on the soft part of the horse’s nose. It was swelling rapidly, and the horse seemed half crazy with the pain. Beaver Track drew his knife.
“Here, you ear him down,” he called to Antelope, “while I make the cut.”
It was quickly done, a crossed gash over the; wound. Blood and serum gushed out.
“What else can we do?” asked Antelope.
“Nothing … Wait and see. Aiee, this is bad! If we had a fresh liver of buffalo or deer … anything.”
“I will go and see what I can find,” Antelope offered.
“No. It would take too long. We can try a mud pack. Yes, it is warm enough.”
Beaver was already scooping up a handful of mud to pack over and into the wound. The horse now stood, head drooping, back humped, listless. It was obviously a very sick animal. They led it to an unobstructed area to lie down and the horse half fell to a recumbent position.
“Let us build a fire,” said Beaver. “To warm the mud pack will be good.”
When they had gathered sticks for a fire, heated mud, and repacked the wound, there was little else to do.
“I could take your horse and go on,” Beaver offered. “Or you can go on.”
“I am made to think,” Antelope said slowly, “that this means I must go on. I am meant to look for Mouse. I can do this, Uncle.”
Beaver nodded as if only partly convinced. “Yes, maybe. We might leave this horse and try to find another. There may be a Grower village downstream.”
“But their horses, Uncle … not as good as you need. Besides, it would take time.”
“That is true. You go ahead. I will see how this horse does. Maybe I will look for another and follow you.”
Antelope swung to his saddle. “Thank you, Uncle, for your help. May it go well with you.”
“And with you, Antelope.”
“We will come back this way, to see how it has gone with the horse,” Antelope said as he turned his mount away.
“It is good,” Beaver Track called after him.
Both men knew that it was not. Beaver Track, alone and on foot in an unfamiliar country, was not in a good situation at all. Even if his horse lived, it would be many days before the animal could travel. There might be a day when his decision would be to abandon the dying or useless horse and rejoin the Southern band on foot.
Likewise, Antelope was heading into unknown country. The Northern band knew the area, but they were still at the Sun Dance and would be for several days. And how far north would the quest of Gray Mouse take her? That was an open question in itself.
The same thought lay unspoken in the minds of both of these men as they parted.
Will I ever see him again, or is this the last time?
35
There were times when Gray Mouse regretted her
decision. How much easier it would have been now if she had not decided that she must know about her people.
She crouched beneath her robe, which she had spread over a growth of dogwood bush near the stream. Not too close to the stream … A flash flood was a common occurrence at this time of year. And not too near one of the giant old cottonwood trees. Their spirit was close to that of Rain Maker, and often attracted his spears of real-fire during the noisy storms of the coming Moon of Thunder.
The sound of the rain pattered on the non-haired side of her buffalo robe. It was much like the sound of rain on a lodge skin. She wondered whether it was raining at Medicine Rock, on the lodge cover of Running Deer. Or on that of Dark Antelope and his parents … She counted days … The Sun Dance should be ending now. The big lodges would come down and the bands would scatter for the season. She thought of her friend White Rose, and the coming marriage.
No! she told herself fiercely. Such things are not for me. I have a more important quest.
Yellow Dog snuggled close to her and whined sympathetically. Or maybe, only because he, too, was uncomfortable in the partial shelter of the robe over their heads. The rain continued to fall.
There were some sunny days, of course, days good for travel. On those days Mouse was filled with the excitement of her quest. There was the challenge of the unknown and the thrill of wondering how it would be to find her own people.
Each time she encountered a village of Growers, or a trader on the trail, she showed her beaded pendant. Some recognized it, at least in a vague way, and pointed to the north. So, she thought with satisfaction. I am headed in the right direction.
There had been one disconcerting conversation at a Grower town. It was mostly in hand signs. The Grower woman of whom she inquired seemed concerned.
“You travel alone?”
“Yes,” Mouse signed casually. “My dog and I.”
The woman had clucked her tongue in disapproval. “It is not good.”
Gray Mouse tossed her head. “It is the way of the People,” she answered confidently. Then it struck her: But of my people, I do not know!
She did not say that, in either voice or sign, but inquired further.
“What is the danger?”
“Maybe none,” the woman answered. “But you know of the Horn People?”
“I have heard.”
“Then you know they steal girls sometimes.”
“So I have heard. For what purpose?”
The woman shrugged. “Who knows? Wives, maybe. Or to sell … And there is their god, Morning Star, who needs a woman sometimes.”
Gray Mouse felt a chill of doubt, but tried not to let it show. There was such a story … Someone of the People … Yes, the Southern band, even. Someone had married a woman of the Horn People a generation ago, had he not? So they could not be too dangerous, could they?
“So I have heard,” she signed boldly. “But I can take care of myself. I am not afraid of Horn People.”
She hefted her ax and glanced at Yellow Dog.
The Grower woman looked at her sadly, which irritated the girl. She turned to mount her horse.
“I must be on the trail,” she signed. “I have far to travel.”
“May you travel well,” the woman answered as Mouse turned the bay northward again.
“Who was that?” asked a man who happened to come out of the earth-covered lodge just then.
His wife shook her head sadly.
“A traveler. A girl … Pretty, though.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Sad, is it not?”
“And she goes toward the Horn People?” he asked.
“So she said. I tried to warn her. She would not listen.”
“Too bad! Does she not know that this is the year for Morning Star to demand a woman?”
His wife shrugged. “You do not know that for certain, my husband.”
“That is true. But the trader who was here was made to think so.”
She nodded. “Yes. But traders like to talk, no? Anyway, I did my best to warn her. I am made to think that this one will not listen to anybody. Too bad …”
Among the Horn People, the tension was mounting. The Morning Star Priest had made his announcement, and everyone had waited for the vision that would come to some honored warrior. That man would become Wolf Man for the season. Morning Star would guide him to select a virgin bride for the ceremony. The designated girl would be honored and pampered, given the finest of food and garments, and groomed for the morning on which the ceremony would take place. That day was known only to the Morning Star Priest, who followed the wanderings of the stars across the sky. Morning Star would rise blood-red just before dawn on that carefully calculated clay, to greet his virgin bride …
When the vision came, after many days of waiting, the Horn People had rejoiced. It required only a day for the newly appointed Wolf Man to be anointed by the priest, and to choose the warriors who would accompany him on the quest. His vision had been clear. A virgin would be provided, somewhere to the south.
Gray Mouse was uneasy that evening. She had camped at a spot on the trail that seemed to be a frequently used camp site for travelers. There were ashes of several night fires, some older than others.
There was also a shortage of fuel. In this area trees were scarce. Especially trees of any size, except for an occasional cottonwood. There were willows, of course, but the willows seemed to grow more like a scrubby brush fringe along the stream bed in this country. Willow made a poor fire, anyway. Mouse had gathered dry buffalo chips to supplement her fuel.
It was nearly dark when she kindled her fire and added the ceremonial pinch of tobacco to honor the spirits of the place. Even as she did so, a strange thought crossed her mind. She had been ill at ease all the time she gathered fuel. Could this be a warning of some danger, an unseen and unheard help from the spirits she now honored? It was an eerie feeling.
There had been evenings before when she had been depressed, lonely, even frightened. But nothing like this. There was a feeling of impending danger, of doom almost.
Yellow Dog seemed to feel it, too. He had been close to her all the time she gathered fuel, nosing around the sandy slopes, poking into brushy thickets. Once, when a distant coyote called, Dog raised his muzzle to answer in a mournful howl.
“Come on,” she had snapped at him. “They are not your people.”
She could not recall when Yellow Dog had ever behaved this way. She had been glad for his company on the journey. At first she had been irritated that the dog had followed her. He was showing his age, and moved slowly on chilly mornings. She had been afraid that the animal would slow her travel, but it had not been so. In a few days she had decided that it was good to have his company.
It was good tonight. More than ever, she now questioned the wisdom of her mission. It was lonely here, and her thoughts turned to the warmth and security of the lodges of the People. Of the love of Running Deer … The warm, brotherly companionship of Dark Antelope … Aiee, she wished for him to be here just now.
An owl sailed across the starlit sky, and she wondered where there might be a tree big enough for an owl to nest. There was the other thing about owls, too. The People honored this hunter of the night, the messenger. Yet there was, in the back of her mind, the memory that her own people feared the silent hunter as a dark thing, a bringer of misfortune. It was a dim memory, poorly defined, but the feeling was strong. A threat of evil …
She added a few sticks to make the fire shed a bit more light. Buffalo chips made a smoldering bed of coals. Adequate for cooking, but smoky and giving little illumination. Just now, she would feel better with light. The sticks broke into flame and the circle expanded, pushing back the shadows that kept intruding into her camp and into her mind.
Yellow Dog raised his head, peered out into the darkness, and gave a short, startled woof of inquiry. Mouse reached over to pat him.
“It is nothing, Dog,” she reassured him. “Some night creature …”<
br />
But now she realized that the hair was standing on the animal’s back. From just behind Dog’s ears, all along his spine to the base of his tail, every hair stood erect. A deep growl rumbled in his throat as he took a step or two forward.
“No … Stay here …” Mouse said softly as she reached for her ax.
Yellow Dog appeared not to hear. In the space of a heartbeat he had leapt forward, barking a challenge into the darkness. The girl watched him disappear into an opening in the willows. She sprang to her feet, calling to the dog.
There was a momentary sound of a scuffle, mixed with the guttural roar of the dog’s battle cry. Then a startled yelp of pain, and silence. Mouse stood staring at the black hole through which Yellow Dog had plunged into the darkness. She must go to his aid, but could see nothing beyond the nearest willows. What sort of creature had the dog encountered? A bear? A cougar?
Through the opening in the willows there stepped a tall warrior. He carried a heavy war club, but raised his other hand in the sign for peace. His head was shaven except for a twisted lock of hair on the top, twisted and drawn upward into the shape of a horn. It was painted red, like his shaved scalp.
“Greetings,” he signed. “You are honored, Princess of Morning Star.”
Mouse gripped her ax and took a fighting stance.
“You will not be harmed,” the warrior went on. “Put down the ax.”
“Do not come closer,” she warned. “My friends will …”
The Horn Man chuckled. “I see no friends,” he signed. “But do not fear, Princess.”
She wondered if she could throw the ax and make it count. She had practiced, but only at a dead tree trunk. Well, this would be little different … Her arm rose, the ax lifted, and she aligned it. She did not have a chance to start the throw, because she was grabbed from behind by two, maybe three men. Others came running.
Mouse fought; biting, kicking, scratching, trying to free the hand that held the ax, trying to reach her knife with her other hand. She drew blood on two men, kneed another in the groin, and was finally pinned down by sheer weight of numbers. Someone pulled her hands behind her and tied her wrists.
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