Petawahin and Quitkwa lingered to make sure they were alone. He crept to the grizzly's corpse to determine how much the Paccu had left. Quitkwa followed. The wolves had eaten everything down to the bones, which now lay scattered over a broad area. Quitkwa found the dismantled travois in the midst of the scant remains. But from the few bones they had found, it was impossible to determine if the Paccu had left the entire load, or carried one of the quarters on his shoulders. Nothing could be done in darkness, so they crept back to their first location, where they would sleep until sunrise.

Neither had spoken since they first entered the shallow valley. They lay on the bare ground, fearful of making noise. But there was no need for such precautions. No one been in the valley since the Paccu had last passed through. The Paccu had had the same sensations many times as he traveled through these small arroyos. They were ideal for ambushes. He dragged the grizzly meat to the closest one so that anyone following would soon become anxious and perhaps turn back, or at least lose much valuable time.

Quitkwa and Petawahin slept lightly until a changing wind blew in from the west. The listless haze dissolved. There was no accompanying rain and the haze settled as dew on the surrounding flora; the grass and leaves crisped. The two scouts soon found themselves in a chill, and were thankful when the first hint of light began to soften the morning stars. They would be able to move, and warm themselves.

Petawahin crept to various positions, watching and waiting, before he dared stand. He sent Quitkwa to find the trail, while he searched around the carcass to determine the Paccu's course of action. Quitkwa made increasingly wider circles until he found the hint of a moccasin in the dirt and traced a straight path back to Petawahin.

"The Paccu's trail goes west from here," Quitkwa said. "Should we follow now or find food first?"

"You did not bring food?" Petawahin asked in astonishment.

"Yes, but it is all gone now," Quitkwa replied. "You have any?" he asked sheepishly.

"I have plenty," Petawahin stated. "For me."

"I'm hungry," Quitkwa begged.

"There are some fine grizzly bones over there for those who plan their moves like dogs,"

Quitkwa knew that no matter how much Petawahin seemed possible to dissuade, he was not. He picked up a large bone and tried to break it by jumping on it, but was unsuccessful. He then tried to snap it between two hickory trees. Again, he was not successful.

Petawahin grabbed the bone from him and rapped it several times on a rock, peeling back the splinters to reveal the marrow. Quitkwa stood at his side, waiting patiently. Petawahin wrapped the splintered bone in rawhide, then stuffed it into the side of his breechclout. Quitkwa's jaw tightened. He grabbed another large bone and started rapping it against a rock. He banged a little harder and managed to break off the end. Petawahin grabbed the bone from him and smacked it against the rock in just the right manner to cause it to splinter. He wrapped this along with the other bone and stuffed them back into his breechclout. Quitkwa's face tensed visibly. Petawahin handed the him the bones, laughing.

"If you were my son, you would not have gotten them," Petawahin said. "I would have let his hunger teach him." Quitkwa was thankful for that. He lifted the splintered bone to his mouth, only to have Petawahin stop him before he could even get a taste.

"That is bear meat."

"I know!" Quitkwa became upset.

"You will be sick if you eat bear meat--we will be making no fires today."

They found blueberries to sustain themselves. Petawahin's pemmican was all they had left, and there was no telling when they would have time to hunt down suitable prey.

The Paccu had indeed carried one of the quarters away with him, making it even easier to track him: his moccasin prints were deeper, he disturbed more brush, and he rested frequently. The trail led immediately out of the valley towards the northwest. Once atop the ridge, they could see for a considerable distance over a flat, bushy terrain. Directly north, a herd of elk fed on the thinning summer grasses. Petawahin could see the racks moving back and forth in the shoulder high growth. West of them stood a grove of pine and spruce, an immense island of boreal forest, unscathed by the glacial passing thousands of years earlier. A dense column of smoke drifted upwards from behind a ridge.

"They are a foolish people to make such smoke for everyone to see," Petawahin muttered to Quitkwa.

They waited for a short while, but the area seemed deserted. They crouched down low as they made their way towards the distant conifers. The dense brush became more of a challenge with each passing step. Thorns and brambles appeared before them, growing in long strips, too lengthy to evade. Pheasant, grouse and quail flushed, signaling their every move. Three times, they crossed well-traveled paths where it was impossible to see in either direction, unless they stood in plain view. The footpaths, however, were abandoned. When they were nearly across the thick meadow, Petawahin could smell the smoke emanating from the pine forest; an acrid odor.

Quitkwa's face grimaced. "What are they burning in there?"

"Smells like hair or feathers, or maybe hides," Petawahin suggested. "Let's keep moving so we can find out where they are and return."

As they crept through the shoulder-high brush, a heavy herbal fragrance permeated their senses, and though the air had dried out dramatically, the dense cover of flowers, brush and herbs seemed to emit a strong humidity of its own, hampering the very breath of the two Minnecou scouts. When they reached the first conifers, they could see easily into the forest. The trees had grown tall, and there was only scant vegetation from the ground to at least twice the height of a man. A pair of jays screamed incessantly as the two scouts tried to maneuver quietly into the forest, making it nearly impossible to detect any noises that the Paccus might make.

As they slipped under the cool canopy, they were attacked by swarms of voracious gnats and mosquitoes. The terrain had changed abruptly from a flat tableland meadow, to a series of ridges that increased in size as they headed west. Each of these ridges was separated by marshes that unleashed onslaughts of mosquitoes, gnats and deer flies.

"I wish your father could be with us now," Petawahin whispered sarcastically.

"Ketanka does not enjoy this type of feast," Quitkwa laughed. "He likes to be the one who is eating."

They climbed over several ridges and looked for streams to avoid the swampy areas. Still, they had seen no one. The next ridge was much higher than the others. Smoke billowed out over the crest. The acrid odor sharpened. Wailing and shouting pierced through the din of an incessant slashing sound; the smell of blood and sweat mingled with the acrid smoke. At the top of the final ridge, they found themselves near the edge of a sprawling encampment that reached down to the bottom of the next valley, to a large and swiftly moving river. The Paccu lodges were tipis of animal hide. Most had been set ablaze. Butchered bodies lay scattered throughout the village. In the distance, a line of Paccus was being forcibly marched along the bank of the river.

They ran quickly down the hill and hid where they could get a better view. The invading warriors were the most vile looking that either of them would ever have imagined. Their hair was caked in mud--their bodies painted in sharp, jagged lines of yellow and black. The eerie grimaces in their brightly colored faces made the stomach wilt. They carried large clubs and spears, bows and arrows, knives, and some had long snakes whips that had been dried and tanned with the heads intact. They slashed their captives with these. The fangs had been filed down to half their original size, scraping the Paccus' flesh.

Petawahin wasn't sure if these were men or demons. Every tribe had always looked different, but he had never known men as evil as these. He could see that the Paccu village was much larger than that of a Minnecou clan. Even the surviving captives would outnumber his own clan by more than three to one. They marched slowly in the distance, wailing in rebellion, fear and sorrow, shackled with thick, grass-braided ropes. The two Minnecou warriors looked on in horror as the invaders drove their traumatized victims southward along the riverbank.

The painted warriors were in complete control. Each knew his function and carried it out in its proper time, much like the clan would do on a buffalo hunt. They moved almost subconsciously, as if they had performed these same tasks hundreds of times. In the midst of the murderous swarm stood their sadistic leader, whose face was the only one left unpainted. While the others' bodies were emblazoned with jagged marks of yellow and black, this warrior had one stripe beginning at the back of his neck and running down between his shoulder blades in a black and yellow checkered pattern. In one hand, he held a long wooden staff with the triangular head of a viper carved into its handle. The other arm was covered with ringlets of carefully arranged hawks' feathers that fluttered in the wake of his movements. He walked slowly down the length of the procession as his principal warriors buzzed around him, awaiting his orders. Four effeminate looking attendants followed behind at a respectful distance, ready to fulfill his slightest whims, while trying to stay out of the way of his war chiefs.

Quiktkoata had not even looked over his latest acquisition of captives, but arrogantly retained the faint trace of a satisfied smile as he surveyed the scattering of butchered bodies, and the fanatical devotion of his warriors as they raced around, desperately trying to please him. When the last of the captives had been dragged out of sight, Quiktkoata's four attendants came quickly with the litter they would use to carry their chief. Petawahin seethed.

"Go into the village and see if anyone survived," he ordered Quitkwa. "I will follow them till sundown and then I will return." His face clearly enraged, Petawahin glared sternly. Quitkwa nodded in compliance.

As Quitkwa made his way back up the slope, he found an arm that had been hacked off a rebellious captive. He cautiously edged into the stench of the burning village, surrounded by corpses, butchered bloody and strewn haphazardly. He saw dead women left in prone positions, who had been raped, and then stabbed in the back repeatedly until the life force had been shocked out of them. But most of the Paccus had been shot through with arrows. Some took as many as eight. None were alive. Those unconscious had been bludgeoned.

Quitkwa nearly vomited as he strayed through the village. He didn't want to wait for Petawahin to return, but he wasn't anxious to follow him either. The carnage increased towards the center. Eyes had been plucked out and thrown onto the bodies. Some had been decapitated. Many dead dogs lay at the feet of the Paccus. This was indeed a traveling band, though much different than the Minnecou.

Intermingled were the dead corpses of the painted warriors, none of which had been butchered. Along with these, Quitkwa found the remains of a surprising amount of snakes; all of which had been decapitated. Legends of Snake people whirled in his head. He bent down and touched the paint on one of the invaders' bodies and found that it came off easily, revealing these demons as ordinary men. He was forced to look at other things to cushion the shock. He took an interest in the Paccu lodges, clothing and surroundings. The fires from the tipis had diminished to ashes. The smoke had cleared.

He had thought most of the encampment was on the slope of a hill, but now realized that the largest part lay on a level area, and only the tipis at the fringe were on an incline. This was an encampment as large as the whole Minnecou encampment was in the winter, when all of the clans gathered in the south, near the salty water. He wondered if this was just such a gathering, or if it was only a single clan like his father's. They had chosen a peaceful setting. He could hear the river rushing over a small set of falls below. Crows squawked from across the river; small birds chirped gleefully as if nothing had changed at all. The sun pierced rays through the clouds, as small patches of light drifted eastward over the valley floor. He could picture the campfires, with women preparing and stirring, while babies crawled about on the grass and children played by the river.

Now, he saw these same children trampled and their mothers butchered or tied up and marched away. Some of the campfires were still burning, and he noticed the smell of cooked meat. He found some large pots made of clay, broken among the embers, their contents spilled upon the earth. One still remained standing in the hot coals of a large cooking fire. It was a very deep, round pot with intricate designs sculpted into the sides of it. It tapered to a point on the bottom so that it could be pressed into the embers, and yet still allow the pot to remain upright. Inside, wild leeks, watercress, and seeds from shepherds purse slowly flavored a stew of chunked grizzly meat. The Paccu warrior they were following had made it back with food to strengthen his relatives, but had witnessed their destruction instead.

Quitkwa's eyes teared as thoughts of his own family surfaced, and he empathized with the Paccus. His own clan had feasted in the same manner just the day before, and he thought, now, how strange it was that the Minnecou were worried about Paccus.

The sound of distant voices alerted him. He scrambled for cover. Squatting low, his bow notched and aimed, feelings of sympathy and disgust vanished. He heard laughter and yelling, but they remained a respectable distance from him. Crawling down the hill to get a better look, he thought he heard children's voices. He was nearly at the river's edge before he caught sight of them. He couldn't tell how many there were because some were in the water, splashing and constantly moving towards the riverbank closest to him where they were out of sight. Two young women stood on the bank, one of them holding an infant, while several children splashed in the water. They were Paccus, wearing the same type of clothing he had seen on the slaughtered bodies. They must have come down the path atop the riverbank, but from the north, the opposite direction from which the Snake warriors had just marched their captives.

As he tried to get a better view, a sharp cry of warning came from his right and the two women scrambled into the bushes. The children swam under the overhang of the undercut riverbank and hid between the gnarls and roots of huge trees. Quitkwa instinctively turned to the right. An arrow grazed his shoulder. Before another could be released, Quitkwa scrambled through the brush and pressed his chert knife to a young boy's throat. The boy, no more than twelve, alternately opened and squeezed his eyes tight as he expected his untimely finish.

Quitkwa removed the knife from the boy's throat, and dragged him by the arm to where he'd last seen the others. He looked up and down the riverbank, but they were gone. Slipping down the bank and into the water, he dragged the boy with him. From here, he spotted them upstream from where they'd originally entered the river, huddled under the roots of a large cottonwood where the current had undercut a particularly deep recess. He waded upstream in the waste deep water, still dragging the boy behind, but taking care not to look in the direction where the small party hid. They might think he hadn't spotted them after all. When it was too late for escape, he turned directly towards them and let the boy go. The boy let out a loud scream, expecting the Paccu village to come to his rescue, and praying the Minnecou warrior would take flight. But the Minnecou stood his ground, his expression somewhat sorrowful; he didn't seem at all unnerved at the prospect of a Paccu war party at his throat. Surely, the boy thought, he must know that he is within hailing distance of the village.

A line of blood traced the length of Quitkwa's arm as he motioned with his hands to tell them of the disaster in the village. The only thing they understood was the greeting in Minnecou sign language--a little old woman recognized this handsign. But they remained huddled behind the thick entanglement of roots. He handed the bow and arrows back to the boy and motioned for them to follow. He knew of no other way to prepare them for the catastrophe but to coldly lead them on. They climbed up the bank and Quitkwa followed them with the boy behind him, an arrow at the ready, but not yet notched to the bowstring. Quitkwa pointed towards the Paccu village.

As they walked the narrow path, the children remained quiet, their shoulders slightly hunched as if they expected a blow to the neck at any moment. The old woman, however, spoke to them in a calming manner. She turned back and smiled at Quitkwa, while the children laughed nervously at something she uttered in Paccu. She sensed he wouldn't harm them. Perhaps he was a friend of someone back in the village.

They ascended the gentle slope, to a point where the smell of burnt hides became noticeable. Quitkwa ran ahead and stopped the small party. They glanced at each other apprehensively. The village was silent. Something terrible had happened. Quitkwa grabbed the young boy's arm, for he appeared to be the most capable to handle the grisly scene, and led him towards the camp. The others began to follow. Quitkwa yelled at them to stop. But the old woman shouted back in a mixture of Paccu and Minnecou admonishments, and they continued into the camp.

She moved ahead of Quitkwa and the boy, right into the midst of the horrible stench of butchered and burnt bodies. Her expression was blank; the children screamed and wailed. Two little girls tried to run away. Quitkwa caught them and convinced them to stay outside of the encampment, but still within view. The two older girls hugged each other, crying and wailing loudly; a young infant held between them looked around in uncomprehending bewilderment. The young boy stood, tears streaming down his face, his mouth open, but silent. Quitkwa looked to the old woman to see what she would have him do. When she turned, her face was ashen. She swayed, then fell to the earth.

Quitkwa yelled to the young boy for help, but he stood open-mouthed until Quitkwa shook him. He couldn't even imagine his own reaction had this been his encampment, but he hoped that he would have the strength to continue on with what had to be done. They found some blankets and placed the old woman on them. The two young women at the edge of the village were given charge of the infant and two other small children, while Quitkwa sent the boy to the river for water.

When the boy returned with the water sac, Quitkwa dumped the entire contents on the old woman, hoping that her heart had not given out. She snapped upright, screaming at him; he knew she would be alright. She crawled off of the blankets to vomit, then lay down again, chanting and wailing. When she finally regained her composure, she beckoned the two older girls to come to her, and explained to them how they must prepare the bodies for their journey into the next world.

The two young women laid out many pine boughs, and began to strip and wash the bodies, placing each on its own pile of boughs. The old woman had the boy pounding stakes through the bodies of the Snake warriors so they would have to remain in their rotting carcasses and not be allowed into the next world. Later, they would be buried where they lay so that no person or animal would drag them away from their stakes.

Quitkwa could see that there would not be near enough pine boughs to place all of the bodies on, so he got all the children involved. But, not only to help with the work. He was the only one left to watch them. He left the oldest of the children to supervise the others while he helped the boy pound stakes through the remainder of the Snake warriors, and carry the Paccu bodies over to the two young women. The old woman went through the charred tepees searching for red ocher in order to dress the bodies properly.

Quitkwa wandered back to where the pot of grizzly stew remained embedded in the warm coals. The stew had cooled to the point where he could reach his hand into the warm broth and extract a tender cut of the slowly-simmered meat. As he savored his first mouthful, he noticed that the children had left their work and run down the hill towards the river. Another party of Paccus was approaching.

Petawahin walked southward along the riverbank, following the strange warriors and their captives. There was no doubt. These were Snake people. The stories that had once seemed absurd, now appeared to have some foundation. He climbed the slope to the top of the ridge, where he'd be able to see on both sides. He knew they couldn't have gone very far in the short time he had watched Quitkwa, and that they would be traveling slowly. He took his time walking the ridge line, being careful not to make any inadvertent noises, or to walk blindly into an ambush. As he paralleled the trail of the Snake people, he thought they'd be in view as he came around each bend. But they weren't visible until he'd traveled around many hillsides. The captives were driven at a frantic pace, considering how they were nearly hobbled. They were sweating into their scrapes and bruises, but too out of breath to wail at the same time. The Snake warriors jogged alongside, whipping and clubbing, as the Paccus jerked and dragged each other along in a tangle of ropes.

Petawahin warily trotted along the top of the ridge. Their tactics were very effective and well thought-out. By moving swiftly, not only did they get a good start, but anyone following would be easier to spot as they raced through the many open areas. He took to stopping and observing; sprinting from one position to the next. Overtaking the procession, he sought to reach their turning point before they arrived, hoping that they would not move south along the entire length of the river.

Petawahin moved downstream, quite a distance ahead of them. There were no scouts other than those staying right along the riverbank. Two lead scouts steadily retraced the attack route, not venturing far enough off the trail to run into him. They stopped to wait for the procession. Then he moved ahead until he reached a small ravine heading eastward. Here, he found where the trail led away from the river. But, if they headed back to the east from this point, and if his own people had decided to move south, the Minnecou could cross paths ahead of them. The Snake warriors couldn't wage another battle with so many captives to guard, but there would be reason for them to return if they found Minnecou in the area.

He studied the hundreds of footprints and noticed that there was a lump in the arch of each print. He moved further up the ravine and found holes dug into a sandy area, filled with paint mixtures. They had mixed colored powders with water right in the ground, and then painted themselves or each other to give them the most horrible and frightening appearance. There was a wallow of thick and fine mud from which they had caked their hair. He found several knives of a reddish-green metal, apparently dropped and thought to be lost in the mud. A spear had a similar copper point. Both were thick, but not very sharp. A sudden movement distracted him.

A long, black snake wound along the length of a gray-weathered, fallen tree. It lifted its head. Petawahin, not looking directly at the strange serpent, became aware that it was following his every move. He remained aloof, pretending to study a trail of footprints that led to within a few steps of the snake. He picked up a stout stick and turned on it with stunning speed, but it took flight along the length of the log the moment Petawahin had even touched the stick. His first swipe missed by a full length and it slithered rapidly away in a baffling swirl. The next swing caught the very middle of the snake's body. It turned, and in a screaming hiss seemed to curse every shred of his existence. The serpent bolted once again. He noticed the long stripe that began between its nostrils and ran down the length of its back. He immediately recognized the yellow and black checkered pattern. He took another swing, trying to smash its vile looking head, but the serpent stopped short and began to slither away into an unseen hole.

Petawahin was stunned as he watched this most unusual snake vanishing lengthwise into the air. In a desperate effort, he dove and caught the end of the snake's tail. There was a little resistance, then the piece broke off in his hand. He grabbed again and tried to pull the serpent out of the dimension into which it was making its escape, but there was no way to pull it back. With all of his strength, he couldn't budge the snake back out, but if he let up for an instant, the snake would wrangle in a little further. He held on as tight as he reached for his chert knife, then hacked away until he'd cut off the back half of the snake. A chilling shriek rang in his ears and the wriggling piece of snake fell through his fingers as dust, vaporizing into a thin, foul-smelling smoke before reaching the ground.

Petawahin had heard of such things, but he'd never believed they were true. As he thought about this, he realized that he was actually standing some distance away from where he had just had the experience with the serpent. He swore to himself that what had just happened was real, yet not even his own footprints came close enough for him to reach the snake, even with the stick he had used to club it. He then realized that the experience had occurred in his mind. He dismissed it as a strange dream.

In the distance, the yells and taunts of Snake warriors grew louder as they drove the captives toward him. As the procession approached, Petawahin heard the low moaning and wailing of the Paccus, and hid in the nearby brush. The procession suddenly halted. There was confusion among the Snake warriors; messengers ran back and forth along the trail. A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, yet there were no clouds in the sky.

At the head of the procession twenty Paccus were tied together, with eight painted warriors driving them along. But most of the Snake warriors suddenly ran back along the procession to protect the rear, leaving only two guards, their bows at the ready and aimed directly into the group of hobbled and unarmed Paccus.

Petawahin waited till the other Snake warriors were gone and pulled back with all of his strength, piercing the back of the nearest painted warrior at a point where he determined his heart would be. He immediately loosened two more arrows into the throat and eye of the furthest Snake warrior.

Petawahin moved quickly, slashing the heavy braids that enchained the suffering Paccus. Those who were freed took the copper knives from the dead guards and cut their friends and relatives loose. They seized the weapons from the dead Snake warriors and Petawahin led them swiftly back along the hidden side of the ridge, towards their ravaged encampment.

Petawahin and the freed Paccus moved quickly into the village, and after locating Quitkwa, determined that they must leave immediately. Snake warriors would follow their trail. Twilight was upon them and the glow of sunset was fading. Petawahin pulled Quitkwa aside.

"We must get back to our own, now," Petawahin demanded. "The Snake people may be heading directly towards them. There are not enough Minnecou in our clan to fight them off, especially without warning. The Paccus must either follow or go their own way, but the Snake warriors will surely come back here, even if they didn't find our trail. If they catch up with us, they will not be taking captives. If the Paccus want to follow us back to the clan, it would be best for all of us, because with them and the clan together, the Snake warriors would be foolish to attack."

Quitkwa went to gather his weapons, then ran back to Petawahin. They headed east through the conifer forest. The Paccus, at a loss of what to do or where to go, left everything and followed the two Minnecou with what few weapons they could find. Two of the Paccus remained behind and gathered food and more weapons.

Petawahin led the way through the small forest and quickly crossed the flat and open meadowland; those who could not keep up would be left behind to fend for themselves. He would allow no time to be wasted in getting his warning to the clan. When they reached the eastern side of the meadow, they scrambled down the embankment; even the children kept pace. They followed the long, shallow ravine back to the pond where two days earlier Petawahin and Sequannah had come to the aid of the Paccus for the first time.