Ashes of the Dead - Bucket of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

count and her tender hands showed many signs of aging, but the Washoe people cherished all who worked hard under the burning sun. As she reached for a sharp bone tool, something caught her eye, a Washoe warrior riding slowly into the village. He was hunched over and clutched his stomach, and blood oozed between his clenched fingers. Two other men saw him and came running out of the village. The old woman watched the rider lose consciousness and fall from his horse as the two men rushed passed her. The three of them ran to the warrior’s aid and carried him into a nearby hut. The old woman sent a small boy to fetch the shaman, a healer whose skill had earned him great admiration among the Washoe people.
    Word soon reached Essa-queta about the injured warrior and he rushed into the healer’s tent to speak with him. The warrior had left with Essa-queta’s son, who hadn’t yet returned to the village. The pale warrior lay on his back, and breathed hard from the loss of blood. The old woman dripped cool water on his forehead as she attempted to break his fever.
    Essa-queta kneeled down next to the warrior. “What happened?” he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. The warrior looked at Essa-queta with fear in his eyes. He was afraid to tell the Chieftain what had happened, but knew that these might very well be his last moments alive.
    “ We confronted the white men.” He said, and then coughed up blood and wrenched painfully. The woman leaned forward and wiped his mouth. The pain from his wound was getting worse and it was becoming harder to speak. “They attacked us…” he took a few deep breaths, “…and we had no time to react.”
    Essa-queta lifted the bandage from his wound and inspected the damage. It was a clean bullet hole that passed all the way through his abdomen. It was a slow bleed, but one that would never stop. He could already smell death on him. The old woman shook her head as he looked to her. Even with all his skill, this was something the shaman wouldn’t be able to heal. The warrior tried to sit upright, but the pain was too much for him to bear and he fell back onto the floor mat.
    “ Where is Itza-chu?” the chieftain asked.
    The warrior winced and coughed up more blood. He was trying his best to speak but the pain was overwhelming.
    “ Where is my son?” he asked again, and became fearful from what the warrior might tell him.
    “ He was shot…by the white men. He tried to fight them back and they shot him again.”
    Essa-queta grabbed the warrior’s hand and braced himself against the bad news that he hoped he would never hear about his oldest child. “He's dead,” the warrior murmured.
    The warrior’s head fell back as he passed out from pain and blood loss. Essa-queta stared blankly at the floor. A few moments passed before he was able to rise to his feet. He stepped back in shock and left the warrior behind inside the hut.
    He passed by several people in complete silence as he walked to the edge of the village. The day had grown hot as the sun moved across the sky, but Essa-queta could feel his skin tighten and a cold chill moved across his shoulders and down his spine. His jaw tightened in a spasm as he fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the cruel agony that this news had brought him. His hands began to shake uncontrollably as he held back tears, so he clenched his fists and pounded them into the dirt, trying to beat the pain from his soul. Again and again he threw his fists against the ground and yelled from despair.
    His loss turned to misery. And his misery turned to anger, a deep anger that boiled over and exploded out of him. “ Fools! ” he yelled as he threw his head back and screamed at the gods. “ Fools… ”
     
    •  •  •
     
    The sun drifted smoothly behind white cloud banks that had steadily grown across the sky all afternoon. Rebecca Forred drove a small horse-drawn cart down a winding dirt road outside of town. The cart rattled as the wheels jumped