People of the Earth by W. Michael Gear

             Shortly after that, Singing Stones had left
the People to go to Dream high in the Sideways Mountains. If only he were here
now! The greatest of all Healers, he might have made the difference for Warm
Fire. But the old man had disappeared into the high places to find something he
called "the One."
                   Bad Belly walked up the trail to where the
rocks that jutted up from the gravelly soil loomed black in the night. He
lifted a foot onto the rough granite and stared up at the dark shape of the
Round Rock Mountains that rose behind the camp. At another time he'd been
climbing up there, and because he had only one good hand, he'd slipped and
fallen and hurt his right leg. Fortunately, Warm Fire had been close and had
carried him back to camp. Warm Fire—he'd always been there in times of trial.
                   Warm Fire's words of encouragement and comfort
whispered through Bad Belly's uneasy recollections. No one else understood him,
treated him as a worthy human being. And now Warm Fire lay in the lodge . . .
no, don’t think it.
                   Warm Fire listened to Bad Belly's incessant
questions about the way things were. He didn't laugh when Bad Belly's attention
wandered and he lost track of his thoughts. Instead, Warm Fire smiled and
helped protect his brother-in-law when Larkspur's wrath exploded at Bad Belly's
preoccupation.
                   "I can't help it," Bad Belly
whispered to the night. Everything had a secret. Everything evoked a question.
Why did birds fly? Where did wind come from? How could snow, rain, hail,
thunder and lighting all come from the clouds? Most of his people, the Round
Rock clan, considered him a fool for thinking about such things.
                   Bad Belly cleared his throat, enjoying the icy
needles of wind-driven cold as they prickled his skin. The earthen lodge had
been hot, damp, overwhelmed by the smell of sweating human bodies. Only the
pungent relief of the water-soaked sagebrush leaves and crushed yarrow that
Black Hand cast onto the radiating hearthstones had helped. Sagebrush—the
life-giver—cleared the breathing passages, working the magic of renewal.
                   Trouble walked off toward Bitterbrush's
lodge—a black-and-white shadow in the darkness.
                   Bad Belly filled his lungs with the frigid
air. Time to go back. Time to force all of his soul into the Healing Songs, to
pray that his only friend might remain alive and well.
                   He lifted his eyes to the star-shot sky and
chanted, "Creator, if you must take a life, take mine. Leave my friend
alive. Give him strength and happiness. Take my life in place of his. People
need him."
                   Blinking at the longing echo in his voice, he
stared at the heavens. Only the wind moaned in answer. Bad Belly started down
the trail.
                   The sound of claws scratching across rock
caused him to wheel and stare into the darkness. The huge animal stood
silhouetted against the sable cloak of night. From where he stood, Bad Belly
could see the amber eyes glowing with an internal light of their own. A fist of
premonition twisted in his gut.
                   Bad Belly backed away, step by careful step,
eyes locked on the wolf's. Spirit animal, what do you do here? Have you come
for a soul? Are you the answer to my prayer?
                   He nerved himself, repeating aloud, "Take
me. Let Warm Fire live."
                   The wolf's broad head lowered, ears going back
as curling lips bared gleaming teeth. A low sound issued from the animal's throat—a
muted moan crossed with the ghost of a howl.
                   Bad Belly's heel caught in the sage. He
teetered briefly, arms flailing, before he toppled over backward, a cry
breaking his lips when he hit the ground. Snow crunched as he pushed himself up
and