The Shirt On His Back - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,108

after noon on the following day January heard the camp-dogs barking, and he emerged from the lodge to see everyone hurrying toward the ford. He and his fellow prisoners followed the Crow to the river's edge, in time to see the five horses come down to the opposite bank, with the sharp sun dappling them through the pine boughs as they crossed. With Dark Antlers and the two Crow rode Veinte-y-Cinco, in her torn and ragged red-and-green finery, and beside her, in matronly calico and a sunbonnet, Moccasin Woman, with a battered leather camp-chest lashed to the back of her saddle.

January whispered a prayer of thanks, and another one requesting that he'd be able to convince Walks Before - and Iron Heart - that what he suspected was true.

Warriors, women, children surrounded the five horses, so closely that none of the prisoners could push their way close, but over the dark heads of the crowd, January saw Veinte-y- Cinco's eyes seek him, then Hannibal, then Shaw. He smiled at her and raised his hand.

Walks Before Sunrise and his son, the warrior Lost, were sitting on a blanket before the old shaman's lodge when the little cavalcade approached. He got to his feet, and the Indians made way for him to approach the horses. In the crowd January picked out Iron Heart, and Bodenschatz, in the center of the Omaha warriors. Bodenschatz saw him, and for a moment their eyes met, a look of such hatred and spite in the other man's that January was taken aback.

I'm only here as Shaw's henchman . . .

To Bodenschatz, he realized, it was all the same. He who is not for me is against me...

He saw the German's face when Bodenschatz saw the luggage tied on Moccasin Woman's saddle and felt his own twinge of spite at Bodenschatz's horror. Spite and triumph.

It's in there . . .

He suddenly felt much better.

Walks Before held out his hands. 'You are Moccasin Woman?'

'I am.' She kicked her feet free of the stirrups, slid to the ground and shook out her faded skirts.

'And have you brought the clothing of the old white man whom you found dead in the woods, two nights after the new moon?'

'I have.' She touched the quillwork bag that hung at her side. Her broad, brown face was sad but peaceful. 'I asked his forgiveness of him, for taking it away, and did what I could to honor him. Yet I am a poor woman, and even the smallest pieces of cloth can be turned to good account, in repairing clothing.'

Walks Before Sunrise turned to January, motioned for him to step forward and speak.

Bridger and Prideaux, and every trapper to whom January had spoken, had said the same thing of the peoples of the plains and the mountains: that they valued speech-making as a form of honor and would follow explanations and tales with avid interest, the length of them and the shape of them a compliment to the listeners. He took a deep breath, and turned to Iron Heart.

'When your warriors surprised Tall Chief and the Beauty, at the place where they were burying the dead in Dry Grass Coulee, did one of them take the black coat that lay in that place?' He knew the answer was yes because he'd already seen the coat on one of the Omaha warriors, a bizarre sartorial effect in combination with the young man's leggings and breech cloth. Iron Heart signed the warrior forward, and January motioned for him to turn around before the Crow shaman, to show the knife hole in the back of the coat.

'And when you attacked us on the island near the camp,' January went on, 'and killed the young trapper who was with us, did you also take his clothing?' This question also was rhetorical. No Indian in creation would pass up a black silk waistcoat, and in fact he'd seen Boaz Frye's yellow calico shirt on one of the warriors, and thought he'd glimpsed the black satin vest on someone else . . . Which indeed proved to be the case.

But the question was asked in the proper form, and there was a murmur of approval from the assembled tribe.

'Listen, now.' He turned again to Walks Before Sunrise and raised his voice to carry, his gestures taking in all the tribe gathered around, as if he were telling a story to Olympe's children. 'And I will tell you all that took place beside Horse Creek, on the night of the