It was a soft, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat. Luke sat up. The women were gathered around the fire again, but this was not a council. A young girl, one who had recently come of age, was dancing. She moved with small, shuffling steps, her arms raised to the sky.
She held a cane adorned with feathers. The other women sang, a high, keening sound that seemed to vibrate in the rocks. It was the sunrise dance, or something like it. Luke had heard of it, but never seen it. He watched, mesmerized.
The dance went on for hours. It was endurance. It was prayer. It was a defiance of the exhaustion that plagued them. The girl looked exhausted, but the older women danced beside her, supporting her, lending her their strength.
"You are spying again. " Luke jumped. Ayanna was standing just outside the circle of light, watching him watch them. "I am not spying," Luke said, keeping his voice low. "I am listening. " "You mock us," Ayanna said, her voice tight. "You think it is savage.
You think it is foolishness to dance when our bellies are empty. " "No," Luke said. He looked back at the dancer. "Tell me, then, white man, what do you see? " Luke hesitated. He struggled to find the words. "I see.
I see that you are holding her up. I see that she is tired, but you will not let her fall. " Ayanna fell silent. She had expected an insult. She had expected him to laugh. "It is beautiful," Luke added softly.
"I do not understand the words. I do not know who you are singing to, but it is beautiful. " Ayanna looked at him, really looked at him. For a long moment, the firelight caught the sharp angles of her face. She looked confused, as if he had spoken in a language she did not know she understood. "You are a strange enemy, Carver," she whispered.
Then she turned and walked back to the fire, leaving him alone in the dark. The truce, fragile as it was, nearly broke two days later. Luke was working near the horse corral, repairing a section of fence where the rails had rotted through. The horses were nervous today. The wind was gusting, carrying the scent of something that made them spook, perhaps a mountain lion, or just the coming storm.
The corral held six horses, tough, wiry mustangs that were the tribe's most valuable possession. Among them was a black stallion with a white blaze, a new capture that was still half wild. Luke had his back to the gate, wrestling a heavy cedar post into place. He heard a soft giggle. He turned.
It was Sunny's boy, the one who had been sick. He was better now, and he had wandered away from his mother's watchful eye. He was standing inside the corral, toddling toward the black stallion. The boy held out a handful of dry grass. "Horse," he chirped.
The stallion's ears pinned back. It snorted, pawing the ground. The sudden movement of the small child startled it. Luke dropped the post. "No! " he shouted.