his knife. He was ready to kill the breed if the man came close. He considered whether to stalk him and kill him anyway.
Then a horse nickered and stamped.
The Outcast had forgotten about the horses. His back was to the corral, and whirling, he saw that a sorrel had its head high and its ears pricked and was looking right at him. He had been careless. He figured the breed would investigate. Staying low, he ran toward the trees, but he went only a short way and dived flat. Hidden in the veil of darkness, he waited. But the breed still did not appear.
Puzzled, the Outcast crawled in a wide loop. Finally he spotted a silhouette at the waterâs edge. The breed was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. The Outcast was surprised to hear him muttering to himself. Men should not mutter. Women, yes, but not warriors. He reminded himself that whites were not warriors and this breed was half white.
The breed was so engrossed, it would be easy to crawl close and slay him. The Outcast was tempted. Then the rectangle of wood opened again and out came the young woman. She crossed to the breed and quietly addressed him.
The Outcast wanted to see their expressions. He could tell more if he could see their faces. He had to gauge their feelings by the way they said their words. The young woman said them sadly. The breed responded angrily. Suddenly the young woman cried out, threw her arms wide, and embraced him, sobbing. He embraced her, and for a long while they stood still and were silent save for the young womanâs sniffling.
Again the Outcast felt that strange constriction in his throat. It troubled him. He watched, and wondered why he did not rise up and rush them. He would be on them before they realized he was there. Two strokes of his blade and the deeds would be done. But he didnât rise. He stayed flat on the ground.
The pair moved slowly toward their lodge. They exchanged a few soft words. The breed dabbed at the young womanâs face with his sleeve, and she laughed.
The Outcast remembered how another woman, in another time, once laughed as merrily, and his insides churned. I am a worm, the Outcast thought, and closed his eyes. He must not think about her. He must not think about her. He must never, ever think about her. The image faded, and the Outcast was relieved. It bothered him, this new weakness. The young white woman was to blame. Something about her was affecting him. But why that should be mystified him.
The rasp of the wood flap closing brought the Outcast out of himself. The pair were back inside.
The Outcast frowned and made for the woods. When he came to the pinto, he climbed on and rode around the west end of the lake, past a dark, quiet lodge.
The south shore was bordered by the grassy valley. There was no cover except the grass, but that was enough for the Outcast. He left the pinto in the trees and crawled toward the other lodge with glowing glass. Once again he reached the lodge without being detected. Once again he put his eye to a corner of the glass. Inside was the old white man with hair the color of snow, and one other. That it was a woman did not surprise him; that she was an Indian, did.
At first the Outcast took her for a Nez Perce, but as he studied her features and her hair and her dress, he changed his mind. She was a Flathead. His tribe had had few dealings with them, and those they had were always at the point of a lance or a knife. He guessed that she had seen at least fifty winters, but he never had been good at judging the age of women. This one was uncommonly attractive and possessed a grace and dignity that impressed him.
The Outcast wondered if the white man had bought her. That happened sometimes among other tribes. The Crows, he had heard, made a habit of it. But then the Crows had their minds in a whirl. It was said that women ruled their tribe, which had made the men of his own tribe laugh. It was also claimed that Crow men used the women in
Then a horse nickered and stamped.
The Outcast had forgotten about the horses. His back was to the corral, and whirling, he saw that a sorrel had its head high and its ears pricked and was looking right at him. He had been careless. He figured the breed would investigate. Staying low, he ran toward the trees, but he went only a short way and dived flat. Hidden in the veil of darkness, he waited. But the breed still did not appear.
Puzzled, the Outcast crawled in a wide loop. Finally he spotted a silhouette at the waterâs edge. The breed was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. The Outcast was surprised to hear him muttering to himself. Men should not mutter. Women, yes, but not warriors. He reminded himself that whites were not warriors and this breed was half white.
The breed was so engrossed, it would be easy to crawl close and slay him. The Outcast was tempted. Then the rectangle of wood opened again and out came the young woman. She crossed to the breed and quietly addressed him.
The Outcast wanted to see their expressions. He could tell more if he could see their faces. He had to gauge their feelings by the way they said their words. The young woman said them sadly. The breed responded angrily. Suddenly the young woman cried out, threw her arms wide, and embraced him, sobbing. He embraced her, and for a long while they stood still and were silent save for the young womanâs sniffling.
Again the Outcast felt that strange constriction in his throat. It troubled him. He watched, and wondered why he did not rise up and rush them. He would be on them before they realized he was there. Two strokes of his blade and the deeds would be done. But he didnât rise. He stayed flat on the ground.
The pair moved slowly toward their lodge. They exchanged a few soft words. The breed dabbed at the young womanâs face with his sleeve, and she laughed.
The Outcast remembered how another woman, in another time, once laughed as merrily, and his insides churned. I am a worm, the Outcast thought, and closed his eyes. He must not think about her. He must not think about her. He must never, ever think about her. The image faded, and the Outcast was relieved. It bothered him, this new weakness. The young white woman was to blame. Something about her was affecting him. But why that should be mystified him.
The rasp of the wood flap closing brought the Outcast out of himself. The pair were back inside.
The Outcast frowned and made for the woods. When he came to the pinto, he climbed on and rode around the west end of the lake, past a dark, quiet lodge.
The south shore was bordered by the grassy valley. There was no cover except the grass, but that was enough for the Outcast. He left the pinto in the trees and crawled toward the other lodge with glowing glass. Once again he reached the lodge without being detected. Once again he put his eye to a corner of the glass. Inside was the old white man with hair the color of snow, and one other. That it was a woman did not surprise him; that she was an Indian, did.
At first the Outcast took her for a Nez Perce, but as he studied her features and her hair and her dress, he changed his mind. She was a Flathead. His tribe had had few dealings with them, and those they had were always at the point of a lance or a knife. He guessed that she had seen at least fifty winters, but he never had been good at judging the age of women. This one was uncommonly attractive and possessed a grace and dignity that impressed him.
The Outcast wondered if the white man had bought her. That happened sometimes among other tribes. The Crows, he had heard, made a habit of it. But then the Crows had their minds in a whirl. It was said that women ruled their tribe, which had made the men of his own tribe laugh. It was also claimed that Crow men used the women in
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