Bone Dancer
by Thomas Mooney

EXCERPT

Chapter 1
Captured

The wet cowhide strips lashing Little Hawk’s wrists to the birch were tightening, numbing his hands. Soon the pain would become intolerable. He could hear the White Eyes snoring, and could smell the stink of their unwashed bodies. The few remaining embers of the campfire died out, turning the moonless night black.

He thought back to his capture only a few hours before. He had tried to escape the trappers when he blundered into their campsite, but they ran him down with their swift horses. With only his bow and hunter’s knife as weapons, he considered loosing an arrow into one of them, as the young White Eye leaped from his mount. But the older of the two men had already raised his rifle, and would surely have fired if he tried to resist. It was a wiser course for him to surrender, and try for an escape later.

They laughed, handling him roughly, tying him to the tree. “He’s a strong young-un, a red nigger. They’ll pay plenty fer ‘em.”

Eating from packs taken from their horses, they offered him nothing. He would not beg, though his mouth was dry and his stomach empty. What would they do with him? Take him south and sell him to the Mexicans as a slave? Or force him to break his back digging for the yellow metal? Grandfather said that that drove all White Eyes crazy.

The older man called Cyrus had a bushy beard streaked with tobacco juice. His teeth were broken and yellowed, and he walked with a limp. Little Hawk could scarcely look at him without feeling sick to his stomach. The younger of the White Eyes was called Ben. He was taller, with a short, black beard. He wore a heavy shirt with filth-encrusted sleeves, and he kept wiping his dripping nose on them. Were all the White Eyes so unclean and foul smelling?

How could he have overlooked the camp of the white trappers, or failed to smell the smoke of their campfire? Of course, he knew how it happened. He had been thinking about Tiger Flower again. How sweet her raven hair must smell, how soft to the touch her copper skin. Still, there was no reason for her to show him the least attention. He was not a young man of high and noble background, and had not yet earned honors or fame in war games or in the service of the community. He had not even been invited into the Akicitas, the village policing society.

Only two suns ago, Grandfather had received permission from the Big Bellies for Little Hawk to begin his vision quest. It would set him on the road to honor, and would earn an appointment to one of the service clubs. But his first day on the trail had been a disaster. With his mind only on Tiger Flower, he had failed to observe the signals from Brother Eagle, his spirit guide, who might have warned him of the enemy camp. Now Grandfather would be dismayed at his impropriety, and the Pipe Owners would use it as an excuse to keep him from riding with the warriors or joining with other honor societies. And he had allowed himself to be captured by the stinking White Eyes. They would laugh and scorn him, and the village herald would tell of his dishonor.

The pain in Little Hawk’s wrists jerked him from his reverie. What had Grandfather taught him about ropes and ties? If the enemy ties your hands together, tense the muscles, and try to expand your wrists as they are binding them. Then when you relax the muscles, the bindings will loosen.

He had done that, but the trappers were wise to the trick, and he received a knot on the head for his troubles. The muscles in Little Hawk’s arms and shoulders were cramping, and he could feel the pain spreading throughout his body. He had been taught to withstand such pain, but if it got any worse, he did not know if he could hold out till morning. What would Grandfather do?

Stretching on his tip-toes, he pulled himself closer to the ties. Collecting all the moisture from his parched mouth, he spat on the hide straps, spreading the spittle with his forehead. It would not loosen the bindings, but it might stop the relentless shrinking. Little Hawk tried again to collect more spit, but his mouth was too dry.

A gray owl hooted, shattering the silence of the night, and one of the trappers broke wind. Little Hawk prayed even harder. He slipped in and out of consciousness, as the pain subsided, then rose again.

Suddenly, he became aware of someone or some thing on the opposite side of the birch. He could not make out the presence clearly, but it had the girth and height of a large man. Was it a ghost of his ancestor? He was both afraid and relieved. Hadn’t he just prayed? And the Great Spirit had answered.

“Who are you?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

There was no answer, but he could feel the sawing of a sharp blade, as the straps fell from his wrists. Rubbing the circulation back into his hands, he looked to thank his rescuer, but he had disappeared. Breathing a sigh of relief, Little Hawk was free.

He quietly collected his weapons resting next to the old man. It would be simple to sink a shaft into the hearts of the unclean White Eyes before they could even awaken. Then he could take the scalps back to the village and hang them from his Grandfather’s lodge. All would laud him as a brave warrior. He knocked an arrow and raised the bow. Still, though they deserved killing, there was something unsavory about taking the trappers in their sleep. It would not be the same as besting them in battle or counting coup, and would not bring him as much honor.

He crept quietly to the horses, rubbing their noses gently, letting them get used to his scent. Securing a rope over the two horses and the packhorse, he gently led them away from the sleeping camp. There would be another day for killing the White Eyes.

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