Free Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva Page B

murderer.”  
    The girl’s face did not change. “Joe is a friend,” she repeated.  
    Clay spat at the ground, disgusted. “Well, then I’m sorry to tell you,” he said with no remorse in his voice, “but Joe is dead. He was killed this morning.”  
    For the first time the girl’s face fell. She looked down, looked back up, and said softly, “I worried that might happen. Without him, it will not be much longer.”  
      Clay’s breathing had gotten under control again. He said, “It’s because of your friend Joe that a boy was killed last night. It’s because of Joe that I was almost killed tonight. And it’s because of Joe”—here Clay’s voice broke—“that my friend George will no doubt be killed tomorrow night.”  
    The girl was indifferent to this news. She simply shook her head and whispered, “Joe is a friend.” She paused. “Joe was a friend.”  
    Clay didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The girl just wasn’t making any sense.  
    He said, truly angry now, “Damn it, girl, who are you?”  
    Again the clouds shifted, revealing more moonlight, revealing the softness of her eyes and the few tears trailing down her cheeks.  
    “I am Witashnah,” she whispered. “I am the last woman of the Tachucua tribe.”  
    “The last woman,” Clay echoed softly. The sight of her tears had drained him of his anger.  
    “Only Akecheta and I remain. The rest ... they have all vanished.”  
    “Where”—Clay spoke softly—“where did they go?”  
    But the girl only shook her head. She motioned him toward her.  
    “Come. We must not wait here any longer. We must hurry.”  
    And again, before he knew it, she took his hand in hers and led him deeper into the dark.

 
     
     
     
    16.

    It did not take long before Clay became disoriented in the night.  
    Behind them, the town faded into the shadows of the desert and the surrounding hills and disappeared altogether. In front of them, the terrain gradually grew steeper as they journeyed through a series of small canyon trails that took them to higher ground.  
    Eventually, as they rounded yet another bend, their surroundings opened and Clay was able to look down on the desert again. Far off in the distance, he could see the dark outline of what he thought was the town. It was little more than a few black, block-shaped patches in the night, but it stood out from the rest of the terrain like an anvil in coal dust.  
    They continued onward, through patches of manzanita and mesquite and scrub oak. Near an outcropping halfway up the mountain, surrounded by thick underbrush, was an opening in the earth.  
    “This way,” Witashnah said, leading him into the opening, which was three or four feet wide and five feet high, causing them to duck. “We will be safe here.”  
    The tunnel gradually expanded as they moved deeper into the mountainside. Two minutes later Clay found himself standing at the mouth of a large chamber, illuminated by a fire in the middle.  
    An old Indian man sat alone on a block of granite at the edge of the fire.  
    He looked up at them, his eyes clouded and unseeing. He cocked his head slightly to one side.  
    Witashnah spoke quickly and softly in what Clay guessed was her native tongue. She crossed the chamber and stood next to the old man, one hand on his shoulder.  
    “This is Akecheta.”  
    Clay approached the fire. “Hello,” he said, then immediately felt simple, because he remembered the old man couldn’t understand him.  
    But Akecheta slowly nodded. In the firelight, the face of the old Indian was marked with the deep lines of time. One end of a wool blanket was wrapped around his waist, the other end hanging over one shoulder.  
    “Akecheta was an elder of our tribe. We are all that are left.”  
    “What happened?”  
    “Those That Walk The Night came and took them all.”  
    “What are those things?”  
    A small breeze blew in from the mouth of the cave and Clay felt a