Free People of the Fire by W. Michael Gear

inhabited.
Dazed, he struggled against the pressure on his shoulder, kicking. He screamed,
hearing his human voice loud in his own
                   "Little Dancer, wake up! It's a bad
dream. Wake up!"
                   He blinked, clearing his filmy eyes to stare
at his robes piled before his nose, half-afraid of what he'd find. His mother
stared down at him, concern in her tense :
                  "It's a dream. That's all. A bad
dream," she told him, running a soothing hand down his shoulder.
                   With an effort like walking through deep wet
snow, he cleared his thoughts.
                   "Are you all right?"
                   He shook his head, the misty image of the
antelope fawn clouding his reality. "No. Not a bad dream. We are
one."
                   Sage Root cocked her head. "I know. I've
been having nightmares, too. After last night you're—"
                   "No. " He looked over at where Two
Smokes slept, the parfleche containing the Wolf
Bundle tight against his chest. "We're one. The antelope heard. They're
coming. To the river . . . coming . . ."
                   She stared at him, frown lines deepening in
the smooth skin of her brow.
                   "I mean it. I saw. In the dream." He
sat up, feeling the awe of it all. "I just can't . . . can't ..."
                   "Explain?" She lifted an eyebrow,
thoughtful as she stared out the lodge entrance. Avoiding his eyes?
                   "I got scared. But it wasn't bad. Not
like Heavy Beaver would say. Not evil. Not bad. I swear. It was ..." He
frowned, perplexed, looking for the words. "One. Not different."
                   "Coming to the river? In the dream, which
way was the sun?"
                   He thought about it. "There. West."
                   "And the antelope were moving which
way?"
                   If the sun had been west, to the right, they'd
be going . . . "South."
                   She hunched over, supporting her chin with a
fist. '7f the Dream was real—a Spirit Dream. If the time is now, then ..."
She chewed at her lip for a moment, fingering her long gleaming braids.
"The old antelope trap is only a short walk from here."
                   "Heavy Beaver will get real mad if you
trap antelope."
                   Under her breath, as if to herself, she said,
"It's only a little boy's dream. Not a Spirit Dream. But what's left
besides hope?" She took a deep breath, nodding slowly to herself. When she
turned toward him, resignation hunched her shoulders. "We're all hungry.
He can Curse us on full stomachs."
                  She said it flippantly. But the fear lurked in
her eyes like a coyote in the night.
                   Blood Bear saw the Trader first. He walked
easily up the buffalo trail along the valley bottom. He wore a brightly painted
shirt, back bent to a pack secured by a thick, ornately beaded tumpline. In one
hand he carried a long stick that rose to a hoop decorated in gaily dyed
feathers—the staff of a Trader. A line of dogs followed, tails wagging, heads
down, and panting as they bore saddle packs of their own.
                   Blood Bear approached the man warily. Despite
the heavy pack on his shoulders and the string of pack dogs, he might still be
an enemy.
                   "Ho- yeh !"
the man called in the universal pidgin of travelers who came in peace.
                   "Ho- yeh ,"
Blood Bear repeated. But the shafts of his darts felt smooth on his fingers
where they rested in the atlatl , ready to be cast.
                   The man made the sign for "who?"
                   Blood Bear lifted his hand, palm out, fingers
widespread. Then he pointed to the red hand he'd painted on his worn shirt.
                   "Red Hand," the