Sundance 17 by Peter McCurtin

Author:Peter McCurtin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Six

It was a ten-dog hitch, big Malemutes pulling the heavily loaded sled at a smart pace over fresh snow. The air was cold and clean, the mountains bleak against the winter sky, and in this country it was as if man had never existed, as if they were the only two humans ever created. In the long journey from the Storm River post back to the Murchison trapline, Sundance, guided by Laughing Woman, took a circuitous route, more interested in concealment than making time. They stayed off the skyline, kept the dogs working through heavy cover whenever possible, making it impossible for anyone to choose a predictable spot ahead to set up an ambush; and during the six days they traveled, they saw no trace of mankind, hostile or friendly. Twice Sundance killed deer, meat for themselves and for the dogs. But he did it with total soundlessness.

Once they were on the trail, he unpacked the long, cylindrical pannier that was part of his gear. From it he took a short, recurved bow of juniper tipped with buffalo horn, strung with cord made from the tough sinews that lie along a bison’s backbone, dried and braided. There was also a panther-skin quiver of arrows, each feathered with vulture pinions, and, as Laughing Woman saw to her surprise, with stone points. “A few of my people still use bows and arrows,” she said, “but they always use steel arrowheads.”

“Most Indians do, nowadays,” Sundance said. “But these barbed flint points suit me better. When they hit a man, there’s more shock, more stopping power. That’s an edge, and in my business little edges like that are important. So I make my own.”

“That’s such a short bow.”

Sundance grinned. “Look, I can drive an arrow clean through a bull buffalo with this bow. Or—” his grin went away “—a man. Up to about three hundred yards, it’s as good as a gun. Better in some ways. It makes no noise, and I don’t want any gunfire to tip off our location.” He pointed to a fresh deer trail in the snow ahead of them. “Maybe in a little while, you’ll get a chance to see what I mean. Let’s change direction, get the wind with us.”

The Malemutes, trail weary, ran silently now. Two miles farther on, Sundance stopped the team, in the shelter of an edge of woods, and pointed. Out in the open, two hundred yards away, a fair-sized buck trotted through snow not yet deep enough to hamper it. Sundance slid the strung bow from his shoulder, whisked an arrow from the quiver. He drew the string, thumb resting on his cheekbone, aimed, took his lead. The arrow was a blur, hurtling through the air.

The buck leaped as it sank in behind his foreleg, nearly to the feathers. Still it lurched on; but Sundance had another arrow launched already and the second drove in almost feather-to-feather with the first. The buck gave one last jump, went down. Sundance made a sound

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