Free Follow the Wind by Don Coldsmith

would have been ready for a quick romp in the blankets, a release of tension, and a good night’s sleep. After all, he would never see her again.
    Now the situation was different. He had never taken a woman against her will. How could he now, knowing that this was a prisoner? Especially a prisoner who seemed every beautiful inch a princess?
    Damn, he told himself. I’ve spoiled it. Why did I try to make talk? Above all, he was now suddenly feeling concern for the welfare of this girl. As if he did not have enough worries already! Mentally, he kicked himself again and turned to the girl with resignation. Maybe he could get some information through the sign talk.
    â€œHow are you called?”
    â€œI am South Wind.” She looked puzzled and still defiant. “Why?”
    Her signed question made no specific query and Cabeza took it for one about himself. He pointed to his chest.
    â€œRamon.”
    There was no way to put his name into sign talk.
    The girl was still puzzled. Cabeza had not touched her yet, though they sat side by side. She gestured again.
    â€œI do not understand. Do you not want me?”
    He smiled and shook his head.
    â€œNot this way. It is not good unless you want, also.”

    The girl threw back her head and laughed out loud, lovely lilting laughter like water over white pebbles.
    â€œI thought you would be cruel!”
    Cabeza glared ferociously at her and both laughed.
    â€œTell me of your people,” he signed.
    â€œWe call ourselves ‘the People.’ Some call us Elk-dog People since we got the elk-dogs. These,” she motioned in contempt, “are our enemies. They steal our children, sometimes our women. Ours are prettier than theirs.”
    Cabeza could well believe this latter statement. It was not a boast, merely a fact, and before him was the proof.
    â€œHow did you come here?”
    â€œI was stupid. I went too far from the camp, picking berries. A Head Splitter caught me. I will escape someday.”
    From what he already knew of this remarkable young woman, he was certain that the Head Splitters could count on it.
    â€œTell me, South Wind. Do the Head Splitters tell my people truth about the hair-face?”
    She snorted in contempt.
    â€œHead Splitters tell no one truth!”
    â€œBut, what do they want?”
    â€œWho knows what Head Splitters want? They do not even trust themselves!”
    She became confidential.
    â€œI will try to find out if I can!”
    â€œBut is there a hair-face?”
    â€œOf course! He is my chief!”
    This astonishing bit of information left Cabeza gaping, openmouthed. The girl smiled, then continued.
    â€œHe looks like you!” She pointed to his fringe of beard. “He came to us, five, maybe six summers gone, when I was small. He brought us the elk-dog!”
    â€œHow is he called?”
    â€œHeads Off.”
    Now came the first major communications problem. Cabeza could not understand the signs and the name in the girl’s tongue meant nothing to him. Finally, he gave up. There was no way he could think of to determine whether this hair-faced chief was the son of Don Pedro.

    The breeze was becoming chilly and the girl shivered a little. He drew the blanket around her shoulders and she leaned against him. The warmth of her body was good, but he was distracted by the information she had given him.
    Why, if the Head Splitters knew all about the hair-faced chief, were they not telling the visitors? There was only one answer. For some devious purpose of their own, they preferred to keep the Garcia party uninformed. They must be alert for treachery.
    â€œYou will tell me what you can learn? They will do nothing tonight?” She nodded reassuringly and wriggled further into the blankets.
    â€œRah-mone?” She spoke his name aloud, startling him and attracting his attention. Now they had become conspirators, fellow prisoners, almost.
    â€œRah-mone,” she repeated, continuing