They have been tracking the soldiers who burned the winter grazing lands to the east. When they found you, half of them wanted to leave you for the wolves. The other half wanted to bring you here to answer for the soldiers. I am not a soldier, Elias said. The denial automatic.
It does not matter what you say, she cut him off. It matters what they see. And what they see is a white man in the lodge of the chief's daughter. Elias felt the blood drain from his face. He understood enough of the customs of the plains to know that hospitality was sacred, but boundaries were lethal.
"They brought me here?" Elias asked. "I brought you here," she corrected him. "I told them you were known to me. It was the only way to stop Iron Dog from putting a lance through your chest on the riverbank."
She looked at him, her dark eyes searching his face, looking for something worth saving. "But now it is morning," she said, her voice grim. "And the morning decides everything. Stay quiet. Do not speak unless I tell you.
Do not fight. You cannot win." Before Elias could ask what she meant, the voices outside reached a crescendo. The heavy flap of the lodge was thrown back, letting in a blast of freezing air and the harsh light of dawn. Rough hands grabbed Elias by the arms.
He didn't have the strength to resist. He was hauled up from the warmth of the robes, his boots thrown at his feet, and then he was dragged out into the cold. The transition was blinding. Elias stumbled, his bare feet numb on the frost-hardened ground. He blinked against the pale, watery sunlight, trying to find his balance.
When his vision cleared, he stopped breathing. They were waiting. In a wide, terrifying half circle around the entrance of the lodge. Men stood with rifles and lances in hand. They were not a disorganized mob.
They were a wall. Elias's military mind. A part of him he tried to drown in whiskey automatically counted them. He scanned the rows, the depth of the formation. There were hundreds, 321 warriors.
If the density of the line held true, they stood in absolute silence. 321 pairs of eyes fixed on him, their expressions carved from stone. There was no anger in their faces. Which was worse? There was only judgment.
They waited as if the entire world had narrowed down to this single patch of dirt and the demand for a reckoning. Elias shivered, the cold biting through his thin shirt. He felt small, a piece of drift looking up at a mountain. Winona stepped out of the lodge behind him. She did not stumble.
She walked with her chin high, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders with a regal, deliberate grace. She moved to stand between Elias and the wall of warriors. A man stepped forward from the center of the line. He was older, his hair streked with gray, wearing a shirt of elk skin decorated with quill work. He carried no weapon, but the way the other men shifted to give him space made it clear who he was, Chief Standing Elk.
His face was heavy with the lines of leadership and a grief that looked ancient. He spoke in his own tongue, his voice deep and resonant, carrying easily across the open space. He did not look at Elias. He looked at his daughter. Winona answered him.
Her voice was steady. Though Elias saw her hands trembling where they clutched the blanket. They spoke back and forth, the cadence sharp and urgent. Elias cut a few words, hand signals he had picked up over the years, but the bulk of it was lost to him. Then a warrior with a scar running through his left eyebrow stepped out.
This was Iron Dog, Elias guessed. The man pointed a finger at Elias, then at the lodge, spitting words that sounded like accusations. He gestured to the south, to the direction of the forts, and then mimed a noose. The chief turned his gaze to Elias for the first time. The weight of it was crushing.
The interpreter, a small man with a withered arm standing near the chief, stepped closer to Elias. "Chief Standing Elk says you were found on our land," the interpreter said. his English thick but understandable. You wear the clothes of the drifting men, but you move like the soldier. You carry a gun that is killed.
You are here to spy for the blue coats. I am no spy, Elias said, his voice cracking. I am just passing through. I have no quarrel with you. Iron Dog shouted something, stepping closer, his hand gripping the knife at his belt.
The interpreter ignored him and continued. You were found in the sleeping place of the daughter of the chief. You woke beside her, Elias swallowed hard. I was unconscious. I did not know.
It does not matter what you knew, the interpreter said coldly. It matters what is in our law to be found in the robes of a woman is to claim her. It is a binding promise. Elias looked at Winona. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw set.
If it is not a promise, the interpreter went on, then it is an insult, a theft of honor, and for that the price is blood. The silence that followed was absolute. Elias felt the sweat freezing on his back. The logic was brutal and inescapable. He had been saved from the cold only to be handed a death sentence.
Iron Dog spoke again, his voice a low growl. He was clearly advocating for the execution. The warriors behind him murmured in agreement. The sound like dry leaves scraping together. Winona stepped forward again.
She spoke to her father, her voice ringing out clear and sharp. She gestured to Elias, then to herself. She placed a hand over her heart, then extended it toward the council. The chief listened, his expression unreadable. He looked at his daughter, then at the angry warriors, and finally at the gray sky.