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 warrior pinwheeled his arms and kicked like a stricken frog, and went limp.
The Outcast wrenched the spike out. Gore and blood dripped from the metal. He shook it, then faced up the mountain.
There was more yet to do.
The Beginning
Night was about to fall.
Skin Shredder did not want to stop. His intent was to make it over the pass. But at a spring just above the tree line he called for a halt. Splashes Blood got a fire going while Eye Gouger and Red Moon went into the woods to gather enough firewood to last them the night. It was chill this high up once the sun went down, even in the summer. Head Splitter watched the horse and the captives.
His hands clasped behind his back, Skin Shredder paced. He didn’t look up when someone began pacing beside him.
“You are worried about Star Dancer?” Splashes Blood asked.
“He should have rejoined us.”
“I will take Red Moon and go look for him. If he has been slain we will avenge him.”
“It would please me better if you stayed.” Skin Shredder refused to risk losing more warriors. Two was bad enough; two was a calamity. His people would say he was bad medicine and shun him.
“He is our friend.”
“One of the best we have,” Skin Shredder conceded. “If he has been killed, I will want vengeance, too. But we have the two captives and the horse to think of. It is important we get them to our village.”
Zach King saw their leader glare at him and wondered why. He had been dumped to the ground near the bay. His wrists and ankles were bound and his moccasins had been pulled off so if he ran, he would lacerate his feet to ribbons on the sharp rocks.
Lou stared at the dry blood on his thigh. “How are you holding up?”
“I keep telling you, I’m fine. They took the arrow out, didn’t they?” Zach wasn’t being completely honest. His leg hurt abominably, and he was burning with fever. The wound didn’t appear to be infected, but he needed to clean and bandage it.
“They yanked the arrow out,” Lou amended. It churned her stomach and made her queasy just thinking about it.
“Something is bothering them. The one who went down the mountain hasn’t come back.”
“Maybe it’s Shakespeare,” Lou said hopefully.
Skin Shredder walked over and kicked her. ‘Be silent,’ he signed. No matter how many times he told them, they kept on talking when his back was turned.
Zach surged up off the ground in anger, but he made it only as far his knees when Skin Shredder knocked him back down.
“I’m all right,” Lou said. “Don’t get them mad.”
Skin Shredder turned to Head Splitter. “The next time either speaks, hit them with a rock.”
“Hit to kill or to hurt?”
“We do not cut hearts from dead captives.” Skin Shredder went to the fire. He was restless and irritable, and disliked being either. A warrior should have more self-control.
Splashes Blood held up a bundle of pemmican. “We found this in the breed’s parfleche.”
Skin Shredder took a piece. The others were already eating. “Give some to Head Splitter.”
Grunting, Splashes Blood started to stand, and stopped. “Why is he standing that way?”
Head Splitter was leaning against the horse. His head lolled and his legs were wobbling. Suddenly the bay nickered and took a step, and Head Splitter oozed to the grass and lay on his side. The firelight played over the arrow that had transfixed him from back to front.
The Tunkua sprang to their feet and moved toward him.