People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear Read Free Book Online Page B

gleamed on his white-streaked hair, now pulled tightly into a braid that hung down over his left shoulder. Countless seasons of sun, wind, and storm had creased his face and darkened it to the color of a burnished brown pot. He wore a serviceable brown hunting shirt, belted at the waist with wraps of rope to support the heavy fabric pouch at his waist.
    The seasoned Trader’s staff he held in one callused hand was as tall as he; made of hickory, its top had been
carved into the shape of an ivory-billed woodpecker. Just below the bird’s head long white feathers flipped and tossed in the breeze: the universally recognized sign of Trade. Intertwined rattlesnakes had been carved along the shaft; shapes, representative of the portals between the worlds, decorated the serpents’ sides. Each of the writhing snakes sprouted wings a third of the way down its length. Once painted, the colors had faded: One was barely discernible as red; the other still sported patches of faint white.
    Old White wore a cape that had seen better days. Cut from a buffalo cow’s hump, the hair had been scuffed off in patches, the leather polished black from grease and charcoal stains. Beneath the cape, and bulging like a misshapen hump, a square wooden pack rode the middle of his back, its weight borne by two wide leather straps that crossed his shoulders. A second pack, this one of fabric, hung looped from his left shoulder. The large pouch at his belt was tied with a drawstring. His feet were clad in travel-worn moccasins, the soles cut from the thick skin on a bull buffalo’s forehead.
    His sharp brown gaze fixed on the sight before him. A wooden palisade surrounded a village that lay just beyond a series of recently harvested cornfields. Here and there gray-black columns of smoke rose just high enough for the wind to bend them into the far fringe of trees. The fight was nearing its final stages. Lines of warriors ran forward, shooting arrows at defenders who ducked back from the gaps in their palisade. A pile of brush had been laid against the defenders’ walls and set afire. It now ate at the wood, weakening the deep-set posts.
    Gods, I am living the Dream. He could see the events about to unfold.
    Old White started forward, not even bothering to wince as another shriek carried on the air. Men made that sound when an arrow sliced deeply into their guts. Partly it was pain, but mostly it was the disbelieving knowledge that a slow and agonizing death was inevitable. He had
often treated the dying as pus and gut juices slowly ate a man’s insides.
    He had crossed all but the last of the cornfields before one of the attacking warriors caught sight of him. The young man turned, calling out and pointing as he nocked another arrow in his bow. Several of his companions whirled, each fitting an arrow as they began to charge in Old White’s direction.
    He stopped, raised his staff, and let them see the gleaming white feathers fluttering below the woodpecker head. The warriors slowed, glanced uneasily at each other, and muttered before one split off, racing for a knot of men standing just beyond arrow range of the besieged village.
    “I am no threat,” Old White called out as he approached the warriors. “I would speak to your war chief.” If the vision had been correct, his use of the A’khota language should mollify them for the moment.
    “Your accent is terrible,” one of the warriors answered in Trade Tongue, an arrow still riding his bow. He was wary, eyes shifting back and forth in search of other enemies.
    “My apologies,” Old White countered, inclining his head. “I learned a little of your tongue, but it has been, let’s see … ten winters? No, perhaps more like twenty.”
    A tall man broke from the knot of warriors, trotting his way. The fellow was young, muscular, a round-headed war club gripped tightly in his fist. His expression communicated a grimness of purpose that didn’t bode well.
    “Greetings,” Old White called in