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been the leader of the hunt, and as he had proclaimed before the council, Knows His Gun had only ridden out into the clearing to bring Panther Burn back from his foolhardy attack. Yellow Eagle shook his head and continued up the hill. If only Panther Burn had offered some defense for his actions. Dogs barked in the darkness. Unseen in the night, a woman wailed and mourned and beat her breast. The mother of Little Coyote and High Walker loomed before him. Yellow Eagle paused.
    â€œMy sons … where are my sons?” the woman shouted, holding up her arms. She had lacerated the flesh of her forearms, blood covered her rawhide dress. She stumbled, other women stepped forward to bear her off toward the orange glow of a campfire. A man of sure quick steps, a man casting a long shadow, Yellow Eagle betrayed no emotion but walked with the bearing of authority. The Dog Soldiers’ own reputation for courage in battle carved a path for him through the curious onlookers eager to know the decision of the elders and chiefs. Dishonor had sullied the lodge of Yellow Eagle, casting its shadow on all who would dwell within. And yet, in his heart, a father is loath to cast away his son. Easier to scar himself, endure any physical suffering than to stare at the flesh of your flesh and say, “I have no son.”
    Yellow Eagle paused before his tipi, dreading to the deepest recesses of his being what must be done.
    â€œPanther Burn!”
    Nothing.
    â€œPanther Burn!”
    Nothing still.
    The chief of the Dog Soldiers leaned forward and stepped into the lodge. A solitary figure huddled by the dying fire. Crescent Moon lifted her coppery face.
    â€œHe is gone,” she said.
    Before her, like an offering of hopeless expiation, resting in the nest of crimson coals, lay a bloody knife, bloodier still the blackened morsel of severed flesh, near the blade … the finger Panther Burn had cut from his left hand in grief.
    â€œYour son is gone,” said Crescent Moon.
    Her deep brown eyes were dry. The tears were in her voice.

Book One

1
    A thousand miles wasn’t enough. Fifty-two days on horseback, riding south, always south, leaving Montana and Wyoming territory behind, crossing into Colorado, avoiding the occasional ranch house or scrub farm, avoiding all men, red or white, for fifty-two days. March into April, always on the move. Now with May— vehpotseese , the Leaf-Moon—but three days off, still that from which he fled rode with him, the guilt, the weary hurt. Wasn’t it enough that he had left Spirit Mountain and his people (his no longer) behind? What did the ghosts of Little Coyote and High Walker require … death for death? Running did not undo what had been done. Panther Burn could not bring back the dead, nor would he end his own life. And yet in a way he had, cutting himself off from his parents, his village, to journey south. Leaving had salvaged what remained of his honor. There were things worse than exile.
    Gray rain fell in slanted sheets from the sky the color of gunpowder. Soaked to the skin, Panther Burn lowered his head to the elements, allowing the pinto its head. Water matted the brave’s black hair, streamed down his face and neck. He tugged his blanket over his head; though the material was too drenched to provide warmth it at least buffered his features from the stinging downpour. Today, tomorrow, or the next day, he was bound to reach the Warbonnet and then it would be a simple matter to follow the creek upstream or down until he cut sign and reached the village of the Southern Cheyenne and the hearth of Beartusk. Panther Burn had not seen his uncle for almost three years and yet he knew he would be welcome at his campfire.
    Thunder rumbled overhead, shook the muddy ground, caused all the world to tremble. The pinto shied. The Northern Cheyenne’s fingers instinctively tightened on the reins as he spoke harshly to the animal. The pinto under control again, Panther