Read Online People of the Earth by W. Michael Gear - Free Book Online

to scratch the animal's ears,
thankful for the warm brown eyes that stared worship-fully into his. Larkspur
had always hated Trouble ever since the time when, as a puppy, he'd pulled an
antelope quarter down from the meat rack and gleefully dragged it through the
dirt before chewing it up. Only Bad Belly's plea had saved the dog from
Larkspur's vengeful stone hammer that day.
                   Bad Belly studied the mound of earth and wood
that cradled Warm Fire in its bosom. This would be another long day of waiting.
Bad Belly would spend part of the morning in the sweat lodge, purifying himself
in the cleansing steam while he prayed for Warm Fire's life with all his heart,
begging the Earth Spirits to save his friend, or to send a great Healer. If
only Singing Stones . . .
                   "If he's even still alive.' r Bad Belly
shook his head. After Singing Stones disappeared, Black Hand had become the
best Healer. If anyone could cure Warm Fire, it would be him.
                   Black Hand had come a long way—clear from the
Dart-wood River—to Sing for Warm Fire. His presence demonstrated the esteem
people felt for Warm Fire, as well as the status Larkspur's family had
accumulated through the years. Bad Belly's heart should have swelled at the
prestige Round Rock gained from Black Hand's presence—but it didn't.
                   If only Singing Stones hadn't left.
                   Bad Belly tried to shake off his gloom and
turned toward the trail that led up the ridge behind the camp. Trouble
followed, sniffing here and there. At the crest Bad Belly stopped and looked across
the valley as dawn illuminated the soft contours of the land. To the south,
Green Mountain rose in somber, timber-covered lumps, snow lying thick in the
densely packed firs. Open patches gleamed where winter storms had covered
meadows with a white mantle that would be replaced by lush and green grasses in
the summer sun. At the foot of the mountain, terraces paralleled the range;
snow drifted deep on the leeward slopes. Above the terraces, a herd of elk
drifted up into the lower trees, their big bodies no more than specks in the
distance. Below, sage flats sloped down toward the Coldwater River where it flowed ever eastward toward the Elk River . Once there, it cut through rocky defiles
in the sharply uplifted Black Mountains.
                   He turned as the Round Rock Mountains caught
the light, burning a reddish-pink in the ruddy dawn, contrasting with the deep
blue of the crystal morning sky. Only the faintest trace of breeze rippled down
the valley, an indication of the wind to come later during the day. At the foot
of the ridge, the camp lay in a protected cove of rock, shielded from the
winds. A spring at the rear trickled year-round in enough quantity to feed a
patch of willow, cut-grass, and aspen. Bulrush and sedges grew there to augment
the people's summer diet. Below the camp, where the ridge tapered into the
flood-plain, sand dunes had stabilized under sagebrush and grease-wood.
                   He'd always loved the valley. It had hurt to
leave it when he'd married Golden Flax.
                   "Uncle?"
                   Tuber climbed up the trail. The boy already
stood as high as Bad Belly's chest; not bad for thirteen winters. Judging from
the breadth of his shoulders, Tuber would be an exceptionally strong man. Warm
Fire had already begun to teach his son the way of the hunt. Tuber could move through
the brush with the silence of Hawk's shadow. You could tell whose boy he was
just by looking at him. For once a man had been able to break the look-alike
tradition of Larkspur's family. Of course it would have been Warm Fire who did
it.
                   "Good morning, nephew." The boy's
face looked drawn, haggard—but didn't everyone's?
                   Tuber stopped next to Bad Belly and slapped at
his elk-hide coat