Free People of the Fire by W. Michael Gear Page A

man called, and
smiled. "I am Three Rattles. From the White Crane People north of the Big River . Once, in my great-grandfather's day, Red
Hand and White Crane Peoples were the same. Languages not so different."
                   "No. Language not so different." A
relief, he wouldn't have to use sign language, with all its problems. Traders
came and went, using a signing technique, when needed, to barter their goods.
Traders had special Power. Everyone knew that and accepted them. No good came
from killing or robbing a Trader. Doing so biased the Power the Traders claimed
as their own, turning it against the murderer or thief.
                   Without the Traders, blue stones couldn't come
from the far south. Olivella , dentalium ,
and oyster shells from the western ocean wouldn't be traded for special beads.
Beautiful tool stones of chert and obsidian, elk
ivories, dried delicacies like buffalo tongue or finely crafted robes could not
leave his own area for that of the River Peoples in the east.
                   But the Traders did more than bring goods a
people couldn't find where they lived. They carried news of the land and
animals. The Traders brought information about wars and different bands of
people. Although Blood Bear had never been there, he knew of the oceans to the
west and south from the Traders' tales. He'd never met a member of the Thunder
People in the far south, but he knew they shaved the sides of their heads,
scalp locks hanging far down their backs in a single braid. The Father Fish
People, he'd been told, lived many tens of days of journey to the southeast and
ate mostly fish because they didn't have buffalo. He'd learned of many people through
the stories of the Traders.
                   Three Rattles hunched his back, slipping out
of the tump -line, letting the heavy pack slide to the
ground while the dogs came up to nose Blood Bear's own animal. At the first
growl, he cuffed his beast, ordering it away.
                   "Been a long journey," Three Rattles
told him, pointing far to the south. ''Not good down there. Been a lot of
raiding. Buffalo aren't doing good. Most of the people are
camped along the rivers—mostly running mud now. Then there's places south of Moon River where the dirt blows so bad you can't see.
I crossed places where sand drifts across the earth like snow in the winter.
Nothing growing there. Nothing to eat. Got to carry rations. Each time I go,
the dunes get bigger." He paused. "What's news here?"
                   Blood Bear shrugged. "The same. The
People want rain."
                   Three Rattles looked Blood Bear up and down.
"You been out by yourself." The unspoken question remained.
                   Blood Bear bridled and forced himself to sigh.
"I won't go back until I find something."
                   "You're Blood Bear."
                   "I'm Blood Bear. I didn't know my fame
had spread."
                   Three Rattles laughed, squatting down on his
haunches. "Got some special stuff here. Dried fish from the south ocean.
Not much left, only a taste or two. Share?" He reached up with some
brownish-looking flaky stuff.
                   Blood Bear took the small piece offered and
bit into it. He couldn't quite decide if he liked the curiously oily taste. The
fish had been too long in the pack; a slightly rancid aftertaste remained in
his mouth.
                   "Not buffalo," said the Trader,
" but still food."
                  Blood Bear squatted. "You wouldn't have
heard of a woman traveling south, would you? Among the Red Hand she was known
as Clear Water. She left my people eight summers ago with a berdache ."
                   Three Rattles nodded. "I heard. You've
been looking that long?"
                   Blood Bear stared out over the baked flats.
Only the greasewood looked green. Casually, he