Free Child of the Dead by Don Coldsmith Page B

brother …? No matter.
    “
Ah-koh
,” he called, and the youth rose from the rocky outcrop where he had been seated.
    “Yes, Uncle?”
    Wolf walked over to sit beside him.
    “Your brother is No Tail Squirrel, who found the horse?” he asked.
    “Yes. Is it not a wonderful thing for him? You saw the horse, no?”
    “Yes. A fine animal.”
    “Good fortune for my brother!
Aiee
, what a horse! And a good saddle and blanket, too.”
    Instantly, a chill gripped the heart of Singing Wolf. His stomach tightened.
    “There was a saddle?” he asked casually. “I had not heard.”
    “Oh, yes, Uncle. A good saddle, a forked wooden tree. Not a pack saddle. An almost new blanket, too. A bright-striped blanket, from the traders.”
    Wolf’s heart sank. This was the missing part …
    “When did he find this horse?”
    “Ah, I do not remember, Uncle. Several days ago. No, more than that, maybe. I know … two or three sleeps after we saw the Camp of the Dead.”
    “Someone said your brother is sick?”
    “Yes, too bad. He took sick yesterday, but he will soon be better.”
    “Yes, I hope so. Maybe I will go and see him.”
“It is good. Squirrel would like that.”
    The young man lay near the campfire of his parents, his face flushed and sweating. His mother was bathing his face, neck, and chest, and there was concern in her eyes. She rose and the two stepped aside.
    “He is very sick,” she said, her voice trembling. “He rode the
travois
today.”
    It was apparent that the young man must be very sick if he would ride a pole-drag, usually reserved for tiny children, the elderly, or the incapacitated. It would have been beneath his dignity if he had the strength to protest.
    “Yes, I see, Mother,” Wolf said.
    “He has not been the same since the coming of that horse,” she lamented. “It seemed to take over his life. He is almost crazy over it. I wish he had never found it!”
    “I, too, Mother,” he said sadly. How strange, that the woman should have identified the threat, but did not understand it.
    “It was said that the horse had a blanket?” he asked.
    “Yes. He is proud of that, too,” the woman said with disgust. “It is new, but stained and dirty. But he insists on sleeping in it.
Aiee
, look at him there.”
    Wolf looked, and his heart was heavy. He must find Broken Lance and discuss this. This threat was very real, not only to the family of No Tail Squirrel, but to this entire band of the People.
    He wished that he had the wisdom and advice of his father. There were harsh decisions to be made.

11

    T he council was quiet tonight. Participants spoke in hushed tones, due partly to the heavy dread that hung over the People. Singing Wolf, the holy man, had been right. The
poch
had descended on the band. There had been arguments and denial at first. Everyone, even the family of No Tail Squirrel, denied any contact with the Camp of the Dead. Everyone was telling the truth, Singing Wolf agreed, but the curse
had
followed them. How? In the blanket of the horse found by Squirrel, Wolf was convinced.
    Again, denial. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Wolf related it, as he had been told by the French trader. The
poch
could ride on blankets or robes. Still there was disbelief until No Tail Squirrel died in agony, with great round sores on every part of his body. By this time, his mother and his brother were sick, too.
    Panic flew swiftly through the camp. Two or three families quickly packed and departed. That was not a bad plan, Singing Wolf thought. For the People of the Southern band to scatter would lessen the danger of spread of the evil poch-spirits. Yet it was also dangerous. They were not totally without enemies. Suppose, for instance, that Shaved Heads to the east or the Horn People to the north of the People’s range discovered what was happening. Both were nations with whom they had warred in the past. The news of scattered families of thePeople, virtually defenseless on the wide prairie, might