Bone Cracker arched his back. His mouth gaped wide and his tongue protruded, and with a final convulsion he gave up his spirit. A long exhale, and he was still.
Skin Shredder stepped over to the breed and kicked in the ribs him as hard as he could.
“Leave him be!” Lou cried. She had been dreading what the Heart Eaters would do.
Zach bore the punishment stoically. It would be a sign of weakness if he didn’t, and he would be damned if he would give them the satisfaction.
“Here come Eye Gouger and Red Moon,” Splashes Blood said.
The pair had gone after the two horses. They returned with only the black one. “We did not see the black- and-white horse,” Eye Gouger reported, and wagged the bay’s reins. “These were caught in a small tree or we would not have brought back this one.”
Skin Shredder gnashed his teeth, a habit when he was angry. One warrior and one horse; he must not lose any more. He gestured at the captives. “Throw these two over it.” Maliciously, he made it a point to add, “Belly down.”
Lou didn’t resist when warriors took hold of her arms and legs. She guessed what they were about to do and tried to tuck at the waist to cushion the jolt, but they held her too tight. She was jarred to her spine, her stomach a riot of pain. Inadvertently she cried out.
Zach saw red. As the same two warriors bent to pick him up, he slammed his feet against the knee of one while simultaneously rearing up and butting the other in the groin. Both staggered back in pain. Rolling, he kicked the first warrior’s other knee, eliciting a yelp, then swiveled to kick the other.
Skin Shredder couldn’t credit his eyes. The breed was bound hand and foot yet he was about to bring down two formidable Tunkua warriors. Uttering a screech of rage, he pounced. He drove his knees into the breed’s chest, pinning him. Gouging his fingers into the breed’s throat, he drew his knife.
“No!” Lou shouted.
Skin Shredder sneered at her. He pressed the tip to the breed’s neck and a drop of blood bubbled.
“Please, no!” Lou knew he didn’t understand the words, but her expression and the tremble in her voice were enough. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Zach. She just couldn’t.
Zach held still. Lou needed him. He must not provoke them any further—for now.
“Cut his nose off and force him to eat it,” Star Dancer suggested.
Skin Shredder was about to, but he stayed his hand. Maybe it was the thought that his people would enjoy the ceremony more if they got to carve on the prisoner first. Lowering the knife, he barked, “Get him on the horse and we will be on our way.”
Zach’s ribs and chest were on fire. He submitted to being seized and was flung like a sack of flour up and over the bay, behind Lou. It didn’t help his ribs any. His back was to Lou. He tried twisting so he could see her but a warrior poked him with an arrow.
Zach took the hint. They didn’t want him talking to his wife. He waited until they were under way, then bent his head to whisper, “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” Lou said, but she was scared, terribly scared. Not for her or for him but for the seed she hoped to nurture. She wasn’t very far along, so the rough treatment shouldn’t faze her, but it couldn’t be good for her, either.
“I tried. I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault we were caught again. I slowed you down. I’m the one who should be sorry.” Lou had to stop. Emotion choked her at the thought that were they to die, she must shoulder the blame.
Zach would like to take her in his arms and comfort her. He settled for saying, “You’re the best wife any man ever had.”
“What made you say that?”
“It’s true.”
“You pick the darnedest times to be romantic.”
Despite everything, Zach chuckled. He would be the first to admit he wasn’t as tenderhearted as some men. His pa, for instance, was constantly bringing his ma flowers and giving her gifts.
Skin Shredder heard the half-breed chuckle and turned. It puzzled him greatly, this lightheartedness when they must know they were going to die. These Bear People, even those half and half, were truly strange. He didn’t say anything. Let them whisper if they wanted. Before very long they would never whisper again.
The Outcast thought he was seeing things. The blow to the head had put his head in a whirl. But no, he blinked and the pinto was still there, nostrils wide and lathered with sweat. It had come trotting down the mountain and stopped when it saw him.
The Outcast went up to it. The pinto nuzzled his outstretched hand and rubbed against him. He stroked its neck, scratched behind its ears. “Where have you been? I thought I lost you in the rockslide.”
His parfleche was still tied on. So was the club with the metal spike. Gripping the mane, the Outcast swung on and reined up the mountain.
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
Gooseflesh prickled the Outcast. In all his winters, he had never heard of anything like this. He thought of the
