Free Child of the Dead by Don Coldsmith

to her:
Because I chose
it!
That angered her even more.
This was not part of the bargain!
her mind protested.
The child was dying, I only wanted to comfort her in her last days. Then I would be ready to cross over, too
.
    This was not right. She had only made things worse. The child had survived, but for what? Only to die alone, later, when her protector was gone. Running Deer tried to console herself with thoughts of their few days of happiness together, but it was no use. Without her help … The child’s senses were already dulled. Death would have come, gently and without notice, in a day or two. And she, Running Deer, had tried to intervene in what was meant to be. It had seemed successful, at first, but now she knew. It had been only a trade, her life for that of the girl.
    The bitter part, the cruel result of the entire affair, was that it was not even a fair trade. Without her help, the child would now die alone on the prairie. It would take a little more time, that was all. Deer had thought herself so clever in this attempt to challenge the way of things, but not clever enough.
    You cheated me
, she thought defiantly, directing her anger toward the dreaded spirit of the
poch. This was not the bargain!
    “You are hot, Grandmother!” Gray Mouse was saying. “Here, I will cool your face!”
    The little one was bathing her cheeks with fresh cool water, and it felt good … But now, there were more important things … She had only a few days to live, she did not know how many. In that short time, she must teach the child everything she could about survival. Even so, it would be a hopeless task. How could a girl of five summers survive? There would be food for a little while, and then … Deer could not guess which might come first. Starvation, or Cold Maker’s chill hand. Tears came freely.
    “Do not cry, Grandmother,” signed Gray Mouse. “I will take care of you.”
    That was perhaps worst of all.

10

    “I t is a miracle that was granted to me,” No Tail Squirrel was explaining. “It is good, no?”
    The People were several sleeps away from the Camp of the Dead, still traveling toward the selected summer camp site. There was always a certain confusion during the days of travel. Travel left no time for socializing or the leisurely casual smokes and conversation. Only for a short time as daylight changed to twilight was there any time for such things. Even then, most of the People were too tired.
    This evening, though, they had halted early. A good day’s travel … They had reached the intended camp site somewhat earlier than expected. The young men were taking advantage of the extra daylight for some gambling, boasting, horse trading, and casual visiting.
    “No, I do not want to trade him,” No Tail Squirrel said indignantly just as Singing Wolf walked past. “I want to use him.”
    Wolf paused. A group of young men about to aspire to one of the warrior societies were gathered around a magnificent horse. He did not think he had ever seen the animal before, and he paused to admire it. A strong, broad-chested stallion, heavily muscled through the hip and stifle … A buffalo runner, maybe. The foreparts were dark, black to bluish roan, and the hips were white as snow with scattered black spots. Some of these weregrouped like hand prints, the powerful ritual markings placed on a horse’s shoulder or rump to insure a successful hunt or battle.
    “You have painted him?” asked Singing Wolf. It was customary to do so only as the party prepared to leave.
    The young men laughed. “We asked him that too, Uncle,” one said respectfully. “Squirrel says no.”
    Wolf stepped to the horse’s side, touching the black spots. It was true. This was not paint. He could feel the texture of the hair … A trifle thicker and softer, maybe, in the dark spots.
    “When did you get him, Squirrel?” asked the holy man.
    “It is as I was telling them, Uncle. It is a miracle. He came to me as I was riding behind the