notice. He wobbled to the small form of his attacker, muttering curses as he felt for the knife that should have been at his belt, if he wore a belt, or any part of his uniform but his socks and cap. The man on the roof would never have a better chance. Two of his enemies lay helpless with wine and mirth. The wounded one had his back to the roof and was naked and unarmed. The last had dropped his pants to his knees and was focusing his attention elsewhere. The man on the roof clutched his weapon and watched, unmoving.
The injured soldier picked up the child and threw him head first against the nearest wall. Once would have been sufficient. The first time obviously broke the boy’s neck. After that he was dead, but the man repeated the process several times, then contented himself with kicking the little body around the courtyard.
Sasaki shook his head. Only the child….
He stepped silently from the shadow of the spirit wall and used his sword. He took the wounded one from behind. The man’s head seemed to gape at Sasaki in surprise as it rolled across the stones to lie beside the child. His body sprayed the courtyard with crimson and took two steps before it fell. Sasaki was equally quick and efficient with the man’s companions.
When it was over, the woman still lay sobbing, staring vacantly at the sky. The man on the roof continued to cling to the tiles. Sasaki stood and looked up at him long enough for it to be clear that they saw each other. The man’s eyes watched from the darkness. Only the small stream of urine that flowed down the blue tiles to splash onto the courtyard and mingle with the blood and wine gave Sasaki any indication, other than his eyes, that the man knew he was there.
Sasaki watched until he knew that if he stayed any longer he must go up and kill that one too. It was not something honor required. He turned, instead, deliberately exposing his back, and walked slowly out to the street.
On his way back to headquarters he passed the ribbon seller’s stand. Someone had strangled him with his ribbons.
A Renegade Village
After supper Jujul walked through their new village, a place called Black Caves. His people were already settled in. The transition was relatively easy for a folk so nearly nomadic.
It was Fair Cold month, the White Man’s November. There were no crops to till, no weeding or planting or harvesting. Only a little gathering and hunting and a few skinny cattle to herd. Their evening meal complete, his people relaxed. Some of the young men were playing kickball behind one of the corrals. Not far away, another group ran relay races, hiding their shadowy forms in a cloud of dust turned golden by the setting of Father Sun. A group of women sat near the coals of a fire and played the game of the four black and white sticks. One laughed happily as she scored while her companions complained about their lack of luck and the gossip they shared was momentarily lost to the demands of the game.
He walked past them and climbed slowly up to the mouth of the largest cave. He limped. Winter is hard on an old man’s old wounds. The cave was black with the soot of the fires of countless generations of
O’odham
. All the caves here were the same. It was how the place came by its name. He knelt at the mouth and lit the fire that had been laid there.
They had built only a few houses so far. For the time being, the shallow caves sufficed. This, the largest, took the place of their meeting house. The men would see the fire and know there was to be a council meeting. They would come, but it was tradition that the chief summon them. Jujul raised his voice and roared his invitation to the evening. Then he sat and smoked while he waited.
They had gone east because it would be expected for them to go south. His band normally spent part of its year below the border with Mexico. Larson and the others who wanted to arrest him and take his young men would probably find that out. They would only have to ask
The injured soldier picked up the child and threw him head first against the nearest wall. Once would have been sufficient. The first time obviously broke the boy’s neck. After that he was dead, but the man repeated the process several times, then contented himself with kicking the little body around the courtyard.
Sasaki shook his head. Only the child….
He stepped silently from the shadow of the spirit wall and used his sword. He took the wounded one from behind. The man’s head seemed to gape at Sasaki in surprise as it rolled across the stones to lie beside the child. His body sprayed the courtyard with crimson and took two steps before it fell. Sasaki was equally quick and efficient with the man’s companions.
When it was over, the woman still lay sobbing, staring vacantly at the sky. The man on the roof continued to cling to the tiles. Sasaki stood and looked up at him long enough for it to be clear that they saw each other. The man’s eyes watched from the darkness. Only the small stream of urine that flowed down the blue tiles to splash onto the courtyard and mingle with the blood and wine gave Sasaki any indication, other than his eyes, that the man knew he was there.
Sasaki watched until he knew that if he stayed any longer he must go up and kill that one too. It was not something honor required. He turned, instead, deliberately exposing his back, and walked slowly out to the street.
On his way back to headquarters he passed the ribbon seller’s stand. Someone had strangled him with his ribbons.
A Renegade Village
After supper Jujul walked through their new village, a place called Black Caves. His people were already settled in. The transition was relatively easy for a folk so nearly nomadic.
It was Fair Cold month, the White Man’s November. There were no crops to till, no weeding or planting or harvesting. Only a little gathering and hunting and a few skinny cattle to herd. Their evening meal complete, his people relaxed. Some of the young men were playing kickball behind one of the corrals. Not far away, another group ran relay races, hiding their shadowy forms in a cloud of dust turned golden by the setting of Father Sun. A group of women sat near the coals of a fire and played the game of the four black and white sticks. One laughed happily as she scored while her companions complained about their lack of luck and the gossip they shared was momentarily lost to the demands of the game.
He walked past them and climbed slowly up to the mouth of the largest cave. He limped. Winter is hard on an old man’s old wounds. The cave was black with the soot of the fires of countless generations of
O’odham
. All the caves here were the same. It was how the place came by its name. He knelt at the mouth and lit the fire that had been laid there.
They had built only a few houses so far. For the time being, the shallow caves sufficed. This, the largest, took the place of their meeting house. The men would see the fire and know there was to be a council meeting. They would come, but it was tradition that the chief summon them. Jujul raised his voice and roared his invitation to the evening. Then he sat and smoked while he waited.
They had gone east because it would be expected for them to go south. His band normally spent part of its year below the border with Mexico. Larson and the others who wanted to arrest him and take his young men would probably find that out. They would only have to ask
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