People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear

you need to secure your town. Feed them from the Albaamaha’s stores.” He pointed his mace at Sun Falcon. “Whatever happens, don’t you dare let any of the Albaamaha overrun your town until we get there.”
    “Not while I’m alive,” he answered. “If you will excuse me, High Minko, I think I had better be getting back.”
    “You are excused.” He sat with closed eyes, not even bothering to look as Sun Falcon strode out of the room.
Smoke Shield, tell me you have not done this thing.
    Moments later, a slave entered bearing steaming plates of bear meat and sweetened corn gruel. Flying Hawk, however, no longer had an appetite.

Seven
    The air inside the sweat lodge was close, dark, and hot with steam. Smoke Shield reached into the water bowl and cast droplets onto the hot rocks. After two days of hard play, his team was beginning to look like more than a bunch of overgrown boys with racquets. The passing was better and catches were made with grace instead of looking like a poor attempt at swatting mosquitoes.
    Why couldn’t they have looked this good in the game?
    The problem was that Fast Legs was still missing. Obviously he had hidden Red Awl’s body successfully. The Albaamaha would have combed that entire area as surreptitiously as possible at their first opportunity. Smoke Shield would have heard rumors of the wailing and funeral processions. At least Fast Legs had done that much. So, why . . . ?
    “Smoke Shield?” his uncle’s stern voice called from outside. “Are you there?”
    Smoke Shield made a face. How often in the past had he heard
that
tone in the old man’s voice? Now, what? Another lecture about how the wise always kept a little something in reserve in case Power didn’t favor them that day?
    He sighed, collected himself, and stepped out into the cold day. It only took a glance to see that this was more than a gambling lecture. “What’s wrong?”
    “Red Awl,” Flying Hawk said coldly. “Do you wish to become high minko someday, or just remain a buffoon for the rest of your life?”
    He felt his heart begin to pound. “Do not call me a buffoon, Uncle. Buffoons don’t take towns like White Arrow without losing a warrior.”
    “Fast Legs has been captured by the Albaamaha. They are holding him somewhere outside of Bowl Town. At least that’s Sun Falcon’s guess. It seems our Fast Legs was trying to kill Lotus Root. You remember her? The Albaamo woman who bit you on the lip while you were warming your ridiculous throbbing shaft inside her?”
    Smoke Shield’s heart began to hammer.
Fast Legs, you stupid imbecile!
    “I want this taken care of,” Flying Hawk said, glancing toward the Men’s House to see who was within earshot.
    “I will call the tishu minko, have him cry for the warriors and—”
    “No.” Flying Hawk gestured at the Men’s House. “How many of your stickball players are in there? From the sound of it, nearly all?”
    “Perhaps twenty.”
    “Take them. Now. Cross the river and start up the west bank. As you reach Basswood Creek, spread them out. You need to sweep the entire forest like a game drive. Find Fast Legs, get him back, and kill the people holding him. Do it efficiently, mercilessly, and quickly. As soon as you do, find a way of disposing of the bodies. Bury them, burn them, sink them in the river. I don’t care. But I don’t want any evidence left behind. Then, when you are done, you leave as many warriors as Sun Falcon requires in Bowl Town.”
    “But I can’t—”
    “You could start this mess; now you can finish it.” He leveled the mace. “And if you cannot do this thing,and do it with the same brilliance you showed at White Arrow Town, I will tell the Council everything. How you ignored their will and spurned the direct orders of your high minko. Do not cross me this time, because by the blood of my brother, I will
ruin
you!”
    Flying Hawk turned, stalking back toward the Great Mound.
    Smoke Shield stood stupidly, a slow resentment