5
(Warning: References to Book 2, Prey Series)
After the War, Leo had escaped out of the Twin Cities, headed west. All the way out to Oregon:
Plenty of fine black glass, obsidian, out there – just layin' around for the takin'. Good-sized ones, too. And no rules about pickin' up as much as you want, neither.
Trouble was, they didn't have the right kinda feel to 'em. Checked around, picked a few a them, but already seen they ain't gonna be the ones.
He camped under the stars for a week or two, and then moved on. Hit a few more spots in the state, then headed up to Washington for another week. Stayed out of sight, except for getting supplies: canned beans, canned soup (he tended to like the Campbell's), some corn meal for his biscuits, and a six-pack of beer every once in a while:
Fished the rivers for a little somethin' to add. Picked some greens when he'd found 'em. Trapped a couple of rabbits in a homemade snare. Good country, out there. A man could lose himself pretty good out there.
Still had his knife. Black glass, just like the others had carried. Sometimes, at night, it'd sing to him. Like some of the Old Ones he'd heard, singin' on the res, growin' up. Some of them songs had touched him, deep-like, inside. Sad. Sad for the People.
Growin' up there on the res, nothin' to do; then to the Cities, nothin' to do. Hard life, livin' like that. All the sense of him – inside – all the heart and the pride, damn-near burned out of him through it.
Drinkin' had almost killed him. One day, he'd just hung it up – well, tried to. Lingered a little. But then he was free. Like a demon, shook off his back. Gone, after that.
He'd started sweating himself again, down at Bdote. Where the rivers met. He'd started praying again, too. A little peace had started to come:
Trouble was, camped down there at Bdote, where the rivers met? – and takin' the sweats in the lodge down there? – a man could start tuh feel the bones below him. All the People there. Their Spirits in the ground.
The ones what died back then? – in that cold, cold time? Packed in, hard. Starvin', like dogs to the Whites back then. Died in the hundreds. And a man could still feel their bones, below. The People.
And the Sad come back.
Still had his knife. No plans to use it again. Looking for more of the glass, though. So, time to move on. He'd camped the whole way back. Wasn't in much of a hurry. He'd heard they'd still been looking for him, back in the Cities:
Down in Nevada, got a handful of them Apache Tears, the small ones. Black glass, just like his knife. Half a dozen could fit in the palm of his hand. Been said that anyone carryin' the stones around, why he wouldn't need to cry, ever again. For a lifetime, man. 'Cause them Apache Tears already done all the cryin'.
Kept movin' east. Headed for the Cliff, in Yellowstone. Obsidian Cliff, they call it.
Where the men and him'd found their stones – for the other knives. Trouble was, had them rules against takin' it – bein' that it's a gov'ment place an' all. Some places, a man can go right in and pick it off the ground. An' other places, full a glass, he can't.
Leo smiled to himself:
They'd gone tuh Yellowstone together, the men and him, an' brought back some mighty fine specimens, anyway.
Indian land there. Tired of hearin' the gov'ment men tellin' 'em what to do and what they can't. An' on the People's own damn land!
Glass from that Cliff – kinda special, they say. Everybody knows.
So, each a them made his own knife – one each – to use in the War. Knappin' away on the stone, chippin' the main parts away for the shape, then workin' the edge real sharp. 'Til it's razor-thin, razor-sharp – better'n one a them doctor-knives.
An' once they'd got 'em polished, the knives – they'd shined with some kinda black, spooky glow.
Couple a men wrapped theirs with a leather cord, an' hung 'em around their neck. Full-out, where anyone could see. And fear, maybe.
Leo didn't think that was such a good idea:
Obsidian. Black glass – 'specially from the Cliff up there – well, it had a spirit all its own, you know? An' you just gotta respect it.
Made his way back, all the way tuh Minnesota. Sure he didn't call on no one – no one he'd knowed before the War. Those cops, an' FBI, an' some a them other gov'ment men, still lookin' for him. An' they'd be goin' after his friends down on the res. Askin' questions. An' maybe down at the old flop, downtown, too.
Just had tuh lay low for a while more. Just keep outta sight, so nobody'd know where he was.
Ended up down at Bdote, again. Where the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers meet. Needed a sweat. Gathered the willow to make a lodge, an' picked the grasses to burn.
A quiet time, there. He prayed to the Crow, to Bluebird and Billy Hood – even to Shadow Love. All gone now, after the War:
He prayed there for days, 'til his spirit'd found its rest. Ready to go, then. Been feelin' the bones too hard, under the ground. All the People. Sick and starved out there. Froze to death – out there at the Fort.
Sacred land, this. Full a the bones of the People.