The return of the pinto was an omen. All he needed was a bow and some arrows and he would be complete. The hideous warriors who took his captive had bows and arrows.
The Outcast thought of her eyes, the color of the lake. He thought of the times she had smiled. Most of all, he thought of her belly and what was in it, and he remembered Yellow Fox and what had come out of her.
He found himself thinking of Yellow Fox a lot. An irony, given that he had shut her from his mind for so long. What was it about the young white woman that caused this in him? He would be wise to slit her throat and be rid of her so she would not stir his memories.
The trail was easy to follow. The scarred warriors made no attempt to hide it. Evidently they felt they were safe. But they were wrong, as they would soon find out.
The Outcast untied the club with the metal spike. He tried a few practice swings. It had a nice balance, and the spike was sharp. He would rather have his bow, but the club would do. With it he could take out an eye, rip open a stomach, or pierce to the brain.
Overhead, the sun beamed. In the woods, birds sang. A butterfly fluttered by, making for the valley floor.
The Outcast climbed rapidly. The pinto was tired, but it had more than common stamina. He would let it rest later.
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.”