People of the Mist by W. Michael Gear

Willow had come.
                 “I
just came from that way.”
                 “Well,
you know how deer circle.” He licked his lips. “Sorry, I—I have to go. I’ll
make it up to you, f promise.”
                 As
High Fox edged wide around Flat Willow, he saw the dark red stain on High Fox’s
right hand. “Are you hurt?” Flat Willow asked.
                 “Just
a cut.” But tears glimmered in his eyes. He fought to blink them away. “A
foolish fall. My hand landed on an old stump.”
                 “It
happens. Be more careful.”
                 “Yes,
I will. Good hunting!” High Fox called, and hurried off. Good hunting? Flat Willow wondered as he watched High Fox running
down the trail. He shook his head, and turned back to where he’d taken his
shot. He started out to find his lost arrow, but the oddness of it all stopped him.
What had High Fox been doing here? And most of all, just what had he seen to
set him off like that?
                 Reluctantly,
Flat Willow gave up on the arrow for the time being, and cut back to the trail.
He followed it down far enough to see Oyster Shell Landing through the gray
tracery of branches.
                 High
Fox was pushing a slim canoe out into the water. Then he jumped lithely into
the boat, seated himself, and began paddling down the inlet. If he’d cut his
hand as badly as the blood would indicate, it didn’t seem to hinder him.
                 Flat Willow dropped to a crouch. Why would High Fox
have a canoe beached on this side of the neck? Why hadn’t he landed at Flat Pearl Village ?
                 “Well,
High Fox, it’s going to be good riddance. You stupid fool!” High Fox, the
Weroance’s spoiled son, had had everything —even Red Knot. But, as of that very
morning, Flat Willow had taken charge, begun the slow process of paying them
all back.
                 You’ll
see, High Fox. You’ll never underestimate Flat Willow again. He slapped his
thigh and rose to resume the search for his lost arrow.
     

Three
     
                 Hunting
Hawk ground her empty gums against each other. By midday , it had become apparent that Red Knot was
missing. A quick search of the buildings within the palisade came up empty, as
did the search of the houses in the fields just beyond. Hunting Hawk scowled at
the people gathered within the palisade. Why did organizing for a search create
so much milling and confusion? Even fish—mindless as they were—could come
together without much effort.
                 The
visitors from the surrounding villages stood in little clumps, talking to each
other in low voices. That wary look on their faces irritated her. Curse it all,
it was an embarrassment.
                 Copper
Thunder stood to one side, his warriors in ranks behind him. She studied his
face, trying to read the sardonic expression. Was that smugness, wry humor, or
subtle irony?
                 To
her right, Nine Killer’s lieutenants, Stone Cob and Flying Weir, were calling
out orders as Nine Killer detailed parties of warriors to search different
areas. Nine Killer didn’t look like a War Chief. Most of the women were taller
than he, but looks could deceive. Heavy lidded eyes and fat cheeks made him
appear sleepy and lazy. Broad-lipped and wide, the man’s mouth gave him a bland
expression. Those bandy legs might not be fast, but they could carry him long
after the swiftest of runners had played out. His too-long arms could paddle a
canoe nonstop the length of the Salt Water Bay . And as Nine Killer liked to point out,
there was a great deal more to war than imposing size. He’d won his name after
having snuck into Mattaponi Village and single-handedly killed the Weroance and
eight of his warriors, then, to the bafflement of his enemy, mysteriously
vanished into the night. One didn’t underestimate a man like