People of the Fire by W. Michael Gear Page B

Looking up along the ridge, he squinted against the
brilliance of the sun.
                   He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand;
the body of his morning victim bounced limply in the process.
                   A hunched figure stood silhouetted by the
morning rays. Hunched? Indeed, the way Trickster Coyote could do when the urge
came on him to take human form. In an attempt to fool men, he sometimes came
looking like an old hunchbacked woman, or so Heavy Bull had heard. The only way
to tell was to pull up his skirts and look for a penis and testicles. Trickster
Coyote couldn't change that—wouldn't. He was too proud of his man parts.
                   Already unsettled, Bull stepped off the trail,
wary, climbing careftilly , eyes searching the
surroundings. Just as he'd trapped the little thief, so could he, too, be
trapped in the endless game of life and death. Where they waited in hunting
camp, Three Toes and Black Crow would never know the difference—if they hadn't
already been caught.
                   "Here I am, already assuming it's an Anit'ah war party," Bull told himself. 'The voice
called in the tongue of the People." He bit his lip, seeing the figure
above more clearly now. Silhouetted against the light, it waited, ominous,
balanced on skinny legs, body bulky. Chill fingers of premonition tickled along
Bull's backbone.
                   This isn't good. What did Heavy Beaver say? A
Curse is loose on the land? Heavy Beaver says we ' ve offended Buffalo Above and He's taken His children away, caused the rains to
cease falling, made everything harder for Father Sun's people.
                   And this? Is this Trickster Coyote? Or some
worse spirit? A wandering ghost? Something to take me and kill me?
                   By Buffalo Above's bouncing balls! It did look like Trickster! A cold shiver closed on Bull's
heart. At the same time, some hidden memory tripped in his mind.
                   "I don't like Spirit Power. I don't have
any use for that stuff. Just trouble . . . that's all." His heart had
begun to thud and he stopped, swallowing hard as he stared at the sun-silhouetted
apparition.
                   Wary now, ready to run, he stared around,
looking for ghost sign, for a hint of evil—as if he knew what that might look
like. That inner sense of trouble kept pricking at him like the cactus spines
still in his hand.
                  Nerving himself, he called, "Trickster?
That you? Coyote?"
                   A cackling laugh rolled down from above,
almost irritating in the obvious enjoyment communicated.
                   "Coyote? Me?" The silhouetted figure
slapped a thin arm against its side with an audible pop. "Hah! That's what
they're teaching you kids these days? Horn Core gotten a little crazy in his
old age, or what?"
                   Horn Core *s dead! Smoke and fire! Is this
some spirit joke? He swallowed hard, beginning to back away, ticklings of fear running through him like tiny ant legs.
                   "Oh, come on," the silhouette
called, gesturing. "I'm not wandering all the way down there. I've walked
too far for that. I need your help. Eh? What's this? Going to run?" The
voice cackled hysterically. "I'm going to walk into a village of the
People and tell them how one of their brave young men turned and bolted from me
like brother jackrabbit from a wolf? Ha-ha, I can hardly wait!"
                   Slightly shamed, Hungry Bull continued to pick
his way up the slope, searching his memories of the elders to place the voice.
Against the light of the morning sun, he couldn't identify who it was.
Chokecherry? Not fat enough to be her. Sleeping Fir? Too tall. Walkalot Woman? Maybe, but the figure on the hill didn't
look right. Still, something about her . . .
                   "Or Coyote trying to trick me." But
Coyote