those “books.” Two Knives always thought that learning and wisdom were best kept inside a person.
Even to this day Two Knives occasionally remembered Wolverine and wondered what became of him. Wolverine had been good and decent, qualities Two Knives admired more than any others.
That had been many winters ago, when the oldest of their children was a baby. By now Fox Tail had lived nearly twenty winters and would soon take a wife of his own and move away. Two Knives was not looking forward to that. He would miss his oldest son dearly. He loved his other two children just as much, but it was always hard on the heart when a dear one left.
Otherwise, all was well with their world. Their lodge, made of pine boughs and brush, was spacious enough that they weren’t cramped. Each evening the five of them sat around the small fire and talked. On this particular evening their eyelids were heavy with the need for sleep. Soon they would turn in.
Elk Running, the middle child, was telling them about how he had nearly caught a fish in a pool with his hands. The fish had proved too quick, and he had slipped and fallen in, and they were smiling and laughing when they all heard the shriek. It pierced the valley like a knife thrust, silencing the coyotes and the owls, and silencing all of them, as well. They sat frozen in surprise as the shriek wavered on the wind and gradually faded.
“One of the big cats,” Dove Sings said.
“It is looking for a mate,” Two Knives guessed. “By morning it will be gone.”
“I hope so,” little Bright Rainbow said. “That scared me.”
Dove Sings took their youngest onto her lap and smoothed her hair, comforting her. “The big cats do not bother us if we do not bother them. We will be fine.”
Two Knives said, “It is the brown bears you must watch out for. When you see one, climb a tree as high as you can climb.”
“I am not afraid of them,” Elk Running declared.
“You should be.” Two Knives had lost a cousin to a brown bear. His cousin lingered for days with half his face bitten off and half his chest torn to ribbons. Two Knives’s secret fear was that one day a brown bear would catch him as it had his luckless cousin.
“I will look for sign tomorrow,” Fox Tail announced.
“The cat will be gone,” Two Knives stressed.
“I will look anyway. It is not often we find cat sign.”
Two Knives was proud of his oldest’s tracking skill. His son would sometimes spend half a day tracking an animal for the fun of tracking. “Be careful.”
“I am always careful,” Fox Tail said.
The next morning started like any other. They were up at the first blush of dawn. Dove Sings made a breakfast of grouse eggs and strips of sheep meat. Fox Tail took his bow and quiver and went off to search for sign of the big cat.
Two Knives spent the morning helping Dove Sings cure a deer hide. Unlike some of the other tribes, the Tukaduka did not think it beneath a man’s dignity to do what other tribes called “women’s work.” He and Dove Sings did nearly everything together. Sometimes he even cooked their meals.
The sun was at its highest when Dove Sings looked up and remarked, “He should have been back by now.”
Two Knives did not need to ask who she was talking about. Elk Running was over by the stream with Bright Rainbow. “The cat was high up. Fox Tail could spend most of the day looking and not find anything.” The big cats did not leave a lot of sign as other animals did; they were too stealthy, too secretive.
“I wish he had not gone.”
“You are worried?”
“Yes. Here.” Dove Sings touched her bosom over her heart.
“I will go look for him.”
“No,” Dove Sings said. “You are probably right. The cat is gone and he is safe and I worry over nothing. I would rather you stay here with us.”
“As you want.” But now Two Knives was worried. His wife often had feelings she could not account for that turned out to be right. He spent the rest of the afternoon constantly glancing at the forested slopes that rimmed their valley and were in turn capped by ramparts of stone or in the case of the highest peaks, by cones and spires of glistening snow.
The sun was low on the horizon when Elk Running came to him and asked, “Shouldn’t Fox Tail have been back by now?”
“It could be your brother found sign and followed it,” Two Knives suggested. He did not mention that Fox Tail knew better than to be abroad after dark. The Tukaduka were
“Fox Tail is strong and brave. Maybe he will slay the cat and bring us the hide.”
“Maybe,” Two Knives said.
Dusk settled over their valley. They ate supper and sat around the fire, all of them quiet, and listened. Coyotes yipped and a wolf howled and near their lodge an owl hooted.
“Fox Tail would never be gone this long.” Dove Sings voiced what was on all their minds.
“I will look for him in the morning,” Two Knives said.
He did not sleep well. Nor did his wife. Usually they slept cuddled together, but on this night they turned and tossed and for long stretches he lay on his back and stared at the empty air, worried. He was up much earlier than was his wont, and dressed and went out. The brisk chill made him shiver. He gazed at the stars and out over the valley, and frowned.
A doeskin dress whispered, and Dove Sings was beside him. “Something has happened to him.”
“I think so, yes,” Two Knives admitted.
“You should not go alone. Take Elk Running.”
“Bright Rainbow and you should not be alone.”
“I can use a bow, and I have my knife.”
“I want him to stay with you,” Two Knives insisted. He seldom forced his will on her, but in this he was firm.
Dove Sings took his hand in hers. “We have lived many winters together. I would not like to live a winter alone.”
Two Knives smiled. “I am not a Shoshone. I do not test my manhood with my courage.”
“I will not sleep until you return.”
His stomach was in no shape for breakfast. He left shortly after sunup armed with his small bow and short arrows and a pair of flint knives. Dove Sings filled a pouch with dried deer meat, and he slanted the strap across his chest. She and Elk Running and Bright Rainbow stood and watched him jog off. He looked back at them right before he entered the trees, and Dove Sings waved. He waved to them.
The forest was eerily quiet. Normally birds warbled and squirrels chattered, but today not a single chirp or chitter broke the stillness. Even the wind had died and the trees were motionless and foreboding.
Two Knives did not like to think what it might mean. The shriek the night before had come from the north, and it was to the north end of the valley that he bent his steps. His moccasins made little noise on the carpet of pine needles, but each sound they did make was like a thunderclap to his ears. He walked with an arrow notched to the sinew string.
The higher Two Knives climbed, the steeper the slopes. He suspected that the cat had entered their valley through a pass in the north ring of peaks. If so, that was the smart place to start looking for sign. It was where his son would have looked.
By midmorning Two Knives could see the pass, still a ways off. The next slope was mostly barren of vegetation. Years ago an avalanche had torn most of the growth away, and it was just starting to reclaim the soil. He started up and there, in the dirt, was a footprint he knew as well as he did the wrinkles in his palm. “Fox Tail,” he said out loud. The footprints pointed up. He eagerly followed them and was almost to a broad belt of firs when the footprints changed direction. The reason was another set of tracks that came down from above and turned toward the valley floor. His son had followed them
