People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (18 page)

But what were they doing here?

As her fear built, she glanced around at the trees, and heard another sharp bark of laughter from the direction of the hut.

Her mouth had gone dry, but somehow she managed to creep forward, settling herself behind the bole of a great tree where she could just see the hut.

Chahta warriors, five of them, stood in a knot before the hut. Two of them had bent to the task of dismembering bodies. She could see their stone-headed axes as they rose and fell, chopping legs from torsos. Then the men bent, using knives to separate the resisting sinew and tendons.

One of the others had walked a short distance away, using a stick to dig a hole where the dirt lay loose at the foot of the slope. Only when he had hollowed out a fair-sized hole did he take a brown fabric bag and stuff it in, using his foot to press it down. Then he carefully scooped the dirt back before he reached for leaves to scatter over the ground and hide the disturbance.

In horror she stared.
How could this have happened? Out of the entire forest, how did they pick this place to attack?

She blinked at sudden tears, aware that all of their plans lay shattered. Sick, she crouched there, watching as the last of her people’s Dreams were cut to pieces.

Tonight, there would be more than just mourning for her two fallen comrades. Their best chance to unite the people in revolt was dead before her. No one would believe now.

Then the two warriors straightened. They, with their companions, undid their hair and began retying it. The two warriors who had done the butchery walked over to the small seep and began washing the blood away. Others used cloth to wipe the Chahta paint from their faces.

One—a muscular man—turned in her direction, smiling. A deep scar disfigured his familiar face.

Lotus Root froze.
Smoke Shield!

Unable to believe, she watched as some of the men seated themselves, pulled off their moccasins, and began undoing the stitching that had been laced across their soles. For the entire hand of time it took, she continued to stare. Before her eyes, the Chahta turned themselves back into Chikosi warriors.

The weather was perfect, warm and sunny, with a damp breeze blowing up from the south. Trader sat in the sun before a ramada just below Chief White Bear’s mound. The plaza was dotted with people, many of whom had come in from the surrounding farmsteads. Most simply spread blankets and watched. They were, after all, farmers and hunters. What little they had consisted of everyday pottery, locally produced fabrics, and crudely made clothing and accoutrements. Knowing this, Trader had brought little knickknacks, drawings on birch bark, pressed flowers—things that only had value because they came from the far north. Such items could be had cheaply, and in bulk. Many were given away for a couple pots of shelled corn, or a smoked turkey.

There was method behind it, of course. Trading two jars brimming with shelled corn for a birch-bark drawing, he had amassed a huge stock of corn. This, along with the rest of the local goods, he would Trade for a single copper effigy from one of the clan leaders at a later date. And, after all, a clan leader with a lot of corn might find salvation several moons later if the crops failed. It was cheap insurance against drought, famine, floods, or corn blight.

That morning, first thing, Trader had trotted down to the canoes, Swimmer running happily beside him. There, he had checked to ensure that the guards were on duty. His anxiety about the packs had been for naught. Everything was just as he’d left it. With the briefest touch, he could feel the carved surface of the war medicine box through its protective fabric.

“No one has tried to bother anything,” one of the guards told him.

“We thank you for keeping an eye on things.”

“Our people are not thieves.” The guard had said it proudly.

“No, they are not,” Trader lied, knowing full well that Chaktaw only “borrowed” other people’s possessions.

To ensure continued vigilance, he removed two small gourd cups obtained from the Yuchi. Each had the image of a bullfrog carefully incised and painted on the outside. “These are for the two of you. A token of appreciation for your time and inconvenience.” He smiled. “When we have finished our Trade here, there will be more.”

Both warriors grinned, lifting the beautiful cups to admire them in the light. “Thank you!”

“The Seeker and I could ask for no better service than that which you provide.”

Still, as he had turned to start back, it was all he could do to keep from glancing over his shoulder at the hidden box with its wealth of copper inside. Gods, the thing was like a curse, forever tempting him to keep it close.

He continued to dwell on the copper as he sat behind his Trade goods in the plaza. The only relief from nagging worry was the Contrary’s assurance that it would be safe.
Does Power really guard it?

Trader could only hope. But Power, as he had known since boyhood, was a fickle thing at best. One never
knew when it might be tempted to teach the unwary some sort of cryptic lesson—like not to covet an incredibly valuable piece of copper.

He glanced across at Old White and scratched Swimmer’s ears as his latest Trade partner, a fisherman who had offered a pouch of freshwater pearls for an Oneota mat, walked away. Old White was demonstrating a Cahokian gorget, a beautiful thing made of wood with a chunkey player engraved on its surface. The clan chief he dickered with had shaken his head, unable to come up with an acceptable offer. The man walked away, a perplexed look on his face.

Trader had seen the like before. Time would tell, and the more the man thought about that Cahokian gorget, the sooner he would be canvassing his relatives, seeking a way of obtaining the necessary goods to finally make a bargain. Some relative, or friend, or in-law would have something that would finally meet Old White’s price.

Trader stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. The stories and feasting hadn’t ended until dawn was breaking. Now he yawned, aware that most of the people seated in a large semicircle were taking the opportunity to gossip, enjoy the sun, and socialize with their neighbors.

Trader closed the flap on his pack and rose to walk over to Old White. “Things have slowed. I might go up and catch a nap.”

Old White nodded. “Last time I looked, Two Petals was sleeping soundly on one of the benches.” He, too, climbed unsteadily to his feet, laying the cover back over his pack. Under the ramada, neatly arranged jars, baskets, and folds of hides were proof of his morning’s work. He called out, “Trader and I are taking a break. We will return after a rest.”

The people nodded and smiled. Some climbed to their feet; others remained sitting in the sun, happy for
the chance to avoid their household chores. Most everyone had seen the goods, and most of the easily obtained pieces had been snatched up. When the Trade continued, it would be for the most valuable items, the ones that would necessitate a family or clan pooling their resources. It was an old game. Trade wasn’t the sort of thing that happened rapidly.

They walked slowly toward the stairway, Swimmer padding along beside Trader’s heel. At the steps they paused, seeing a warrior checking the posts that made up the two squares. He was inspecting the knots.

“Is someone going to be hung?” Trader asked.

“Two Albaamaha slaves that we found skulking in the forest.” The warrior frowned at the knots. “Mice like to chew the bindings. They crave the salt from sweat and blood. Once, when the lashing hadn’t been checked first, we hung a captured Yuchi, only to have the whole thing fall apart.” He gave them a wistful shrug. “I don’t think Power was impressed with us that day.”

“And the Yuchi?”

“Our
Alikchi Hopaii
set him free. We beat the Yuchi for good measure, then chased him naked from our lands with the promise that if he ever came back, we would double-check the knots before we tied him in the square.”

“Lucky Yuchi,” Old White said as they made the climb to the palisade gate, nodded to the guardian panthers, and stepped inside.

The shadowed great room was warm, its desultory fire burned down to coals. As they stepped in, it was to find two bound captives—an old man and a slim young woman—seated before Chief White Bear’s stool. To one side stood Great Cougar, his war club in his hand, a scowl on his face. At White Bear’s right sat his sister, Clay Bell. The Red Arrow clan matron was a gray-haired woman, her face lined with age. The faded tattoos
around her mouth and chin were nothing more than smudged dots.

She nodded to the Traders, then turned her wary eyes back to the Albaamaha prisoners.

To Trader’s surprise, Two Petals was sitting bolt upright on her bed, feet firmly planted on the floor. She had fixed her knowing eyes on the captives. From time to time, the young Albaamo woman turned, meeting Two Petals’ gaze. In that instant, time seemed to slow. Trader shook it off and walked over to seat himself beside the Contrary.

“What’s happening?”

She shook her head. “They speak so fluently in Trade Tongue, I can understand everything.”

Trader studied the captives, then looked at Great Cougar. The man was caressing his war club, and from the red bruises on the old Albaamo man’s naked shoulders, he’d used it a time or two.

Old White made a face. “It might get too noisy in here to sleep.”

“I swear!” the Albaamo man cried. “I had to leave. They were looking for the people who had sent Crabapple to warn White Arrow Town.”

Clay Bell thrust her jaw forward. “And you expect us to believe that you would do this thing? Warn the Chahta?”

The old Albaamo straightened, glaring back at her. “We don’t like the Chikosi any more than you do. We just want them to leave.”

“You do understand that we cannot believe any of this,” White Bear said softly. “An Albaamaha plot to betray a Chikosi war party? You work for them. In return they protect you from other enemies. It is an old arrangement.”

“One many of us would change,” the Albaamo protested.

Trader stepped over to Great Cougar. “What is the story behind this?”

The war chief gave him a sidelong glance. “One of our minkos down south, Biloxi Mankiller, and his war chief, a man named Screaming Falcon, decided to raid a Chikosi town last fall. They were successful, but before anyone could anticipate retaliation, the Chikosi attacked. It was masterfully done. They sneaked in at the end of a wedding, somehow remained undetected, and penetrated the palisade. They killed many, burned the town, and took the leaders captive.”

“And you, of course, will raid them as soon as you can collect your forces?”

Great Cougar turned inquisitive eyes on him. “Why would you wish to know this?”

“Trade is difficult when it is done in the middle of a war. To be forewarned is to be prepared.” Trader raised his hands. “The Chikosi will be prepared. Surely they have scouts out.”

“A great many.” The war chief tapped his club against his palm. “Our scouts watch their scouts watching our scouts, although we hear there is some sort of commotion over there. Warriors are boiling through the woods. I just received a report this morning while you were Trading. We have sent an alert to the towns farther inland. At first sign of a group of Chikosi headed in our direction, we shall lay our trap for them.”

Trader frowned. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

Trader indicated the captives. “They have scouts throughout the forest, you said.”

Great Cougar grinned wide enough to show broken molars in the back. “You can’t throw a rock along the ridgeline without hitting a Chikosi scout.”

“Then why would they send out an old man and a young woman to spy on you? Unless things have changed in the years since I traveled among the Chikosi,
they wouldn’t entrust as important a task as scouting to any of the Albaamaha. It’s just not in their nature.”

White Bear had been listening, his fingers rubbing the line of his jaw. “I had wondered that myself.”

Trader added, “The Chikosi used to have good relations with the Chahta.”

“How long has it been since you were among them?” Clay Bell asked, her sharp brown eyes on Trader.

“Ten summers or more.” He made a vague gesture.

“Flying Hawk can’t be trusted,” Great Cougar muttered. “He has settled down some over the years, but he is still a volatile and shifty man. This latest trouble started last summer when their war chief, Smoke Shield, paid us a visit. He walked among us like one of the lords of Cahokia come to life. I did hear that there was trouble when he was in White Arrow Town. That might have been the excuse Biloxi used to raid Alligator Town.”

“Biloxi was too young to be high minko down there.” White Bear gave the captives an irritated glare. “The fool never consulted any of the upriver towns. He just made his raid, and now look what has happened!”

“This Smoke Shield is war chief?” Trader mused.

“For the moment. Unfortunately he will be high minko soon,” Clay Bell said with disgust. “And you think we have trouble now? It will be nothing compared to what’s coming when he is confirmed. Their Council must have maggots in their heads to even consider it.”