Page 77 of Savage Illusions

Jolena knelt down be­si­de Spot­ted Eag­le and bre­at­h­les­sly wa­ited for the me­di­ci­ne man. Af­ter a short whi­le "he who le­ads the buf­fa­lo" was se­en co­ming, ri­ding his hor­se, sho­uting at the buf­fa­lo, brin­ging a lar­ge band af­ter him.

Soon the buf­fa­lo we­re in­si­de the li­nes. The pe­op­le be­gan to ri­se up be­hind them, sho­uting and wa­ving the­ir ro­bes.

Now that she saw the buf­fa­lo clo­se up, Jole­na was too awes­t­ruck to par­ti­ci­pa­te. They we­re for­mi­dab­le and frig­h­te­ning lo­oking ani­mals when ex­ci­ted to re­sis­tan­cet­he­ir long, shaggy ma­nes han­ging in gre­at pro­fu­si­on over the­ir necks and sho­ul­ders, of­ten ex­ten­ding down to the gro­und. The cows we­re less fe­ro­ci­o­us, tho­ugh not much less wild and frig­h­t­ful in the­ir ap­pe­aran­ce.

The Blac­k­fo­ot we­re not in­ti­mi­da­ted by the be­asts, ho­we­ver, and so­on the buf­fa­lo we­re jum­ping and tum­b­ling over the ste­ep pre­ci­pi­ce.

Jolena scram­b­led down the si­des of the ste­ep hill with the Blac­k­fo­ot, and on­ce they re­ac­hed the pis-kun, the wo­men and chil­d­ren ran up and sho­wed them­sel­ves abo­ve its walls. By the­ir cri­es they kept the buf­fa­lo that we­re still ali­ve from pres­sing aga­inst the walls in an ef­fort to es­ca­pe.

As the sur­vi­ving buf­fa­lo ran ro­und and ro­und wit­hin the en­c­lo­su­re, the war­ri­ors ra­ised the­ir bows and ar­rows.

Arrows be­gan whiz­zing abo­ut Jole­na, and the buf­fa­lo ma­de lo­ud, thun­de­ring so­unds as one by one they fell to the gro­und, de­ad.

Although Jole­na un­der­s­to­od the me­aning of a go­od Buf­fa­lo run, she was still ap­pal­led at the sight and was just abo­ut to turn her eyes away when Spot­ted Eag­le fit­ted his elk-horn ar­row to his bow and jo­ined the ot­hers in the mas­sac­re. The but­c­he­ring wo­uld be do­ne in the pis-kun, and af­ter this was over, the pla­ce wo­uld be cle­aned out, and the he­ads and fe­et wo­uld be re­mo­ved. Wol­ves, fo­xes, bad­gers, and ot­her small car­ni­vo­ro­us ani­mals wo­uld vi­sit the pis-kun and wo­uld so­on ma­ke away with the en­t­ra­ils.

The Blac­k­fo­ot wo­uld re­turn ho­me sin­ging and car­rying gre­at lo­ads of me­at for the long win­ter ahe­ad.

The wind blew even mo­re fi­er­cely now, ma­king whi­ning, whis­t­ling no­ises and whip­ping Jole­na's ha­ir aro­und her fa­ce. Then so­met­hing el­se blew aga­inst her fa­ce, mo­men­ta­rily blin­ding her.

With cla­wing fin­gers, she re­ac­hed up and grab­bed hold of a pi­ece of pa­per that was flut­te­ring aga­inst her fa­ce. When she saw what it was her he­art did a flip-flop.

''It's a from one of my lost jo­ur­nals," she whis­pe­red, sta­ring down at the pa­per on which her en­t­ri­es we­re sme­ared, yet still le­gib­le.

Her he­art skip­ped a be­at when anot­her flew past her and was spe­ared by a branch on a tree clo­se be­si­de her.

With wild, dis­be­li­eving eyes, she sto­od fro­zen to the gro­und as many mo­re s flew past her in the wind.

"Lord," she whis­pe­red to her­self, her he­art ham­me­ring aga­inst her bre­ast as she tur­ned and pe­ered down the long ave­nue of the val­ley that stret­c­hed out bet­we­en ot­her high but­tes on each si­de of it. She knew that the sce­ne of the ac­ci­dent had to be many mi­les away, yet the wind had pluc­ked the s from her jo­ur­nal and was han­ding them to her to­day li­ke a gift!

Jolena so­on for­got the wo­men who we­re now busy at work but­c­he­ring the lar­ge ani­mals. She even for­got abo­ut Spot­ted Eag­le, who was now min­g­ling with the ot­her war­ri­ors, go­ing from ani­mal to ani­mal to be su­re they we­re de­ad be­fo­re be­ing but­c­he­red. Fran­ti­cal­ly, Jole­na be­gan run­ning aro­und, grab­bing the s as they blew past her, gat­he­ring them in­to her arms, hol­ding them as tho­ugh they we­re pi­eces of pre­ci­o­us gold. Then when she saw one of the pi­eces of car­d­bo­ard fly by, on which she had pin­ned many of the but­ter­f­li­es that she had ca­ught, she be­gan cha­sing af­ter it.

Spotted Eag­le tur­ned and saw what Jole­na was do­ing. His he­art skip­ped a be­at when she be­gan strug­gling and clim­bing up the ste­ep hil­lsi­de, in­tent on fol­lo­wing the car­d­bo­ard that he now al­so spi­ed, as it se­emed to be lif­ting as tho­ugh by so­me­one's hand, hig­her and hig­her, abo­ve Jole­na's he­ad, exactly as the nympha­lid but­terfly had do­ne as it had te­ased her in­to dan­ger.

Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted up­ward. He gas­ped, and his he­art felt as tho­ugh it had drop­ped to his fe­et when he saw one lo­ne buf­fa­lo bull that had not fol­lo­wed the ot­hers over the cliff. It pran­ced abo­ut as tho­ugh it sen­sed the sla­ug­h­ter that had oc­cur­red be­low him.

Spotted Eag­le's ga­ze shif­ted back to Jole­na, who was al­most at the top of the but­te, too stub­born to let the pri­zed car­d­bo­ard of but­ter­f­li­es get away from her. On­ce she got to the top and met the bull fa­ce on, she wo­uld be the one for­ced over the cliff to her de­ath.

Spotted Eag­le ner­vo­usly not­c­hed one of his elk-horn ar­rows to the string of his bow and aimed, then cur­sed si­lently to him­self when he fo­und that the buf­fa­lo had mo­ved out of eye ran­ge.

Yet Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld still he­ar the ani­mal's lo­ud, cra­zed bel­lows.

He co­uld even see it in his mind's eye as it pa­wed an­g­rily at the gro­und, fi­re in his eyes and ra­ge in his he­art! Jole­na bre­at­hed he­avily, and her fin­gers we­re stin­ging as she pul­led her­self far­t­her up the si­de of the hill. She frow­ned when she co­uld no lon­ger see the flying car­d­bo­ard, then her eyes ope­ned wildly when on­ce aga­in it flut­te­red along the gro­und, just at the ed­ge of the but­te over­he­ad.

"Damn," Jole­na whis­pe­red be­ne­ath her bre­ath. "But I shall ha­ve it. I lost it on­ce. But not a se­cond ti­me. I must ha­ve so­met­hing for Kirk to ta­ke ho­me to fat­her."

Determination mo­ved her on­ward, kno­wing that she now only had to re­ach up and grab a ro­ot that was gro­wing out from the si­de of the hill and she co­uld pull her­self up on­to so­lid gro­und.

Spotted Eag­le cup­ped a hand over his mo­uth and sho­uted for Jole­na. He cal­led her na­me over and over aga­in, but she still did not he­ar.

His mus­c­les cor­ded, his jaw tight, Spot­ted Eag­le slung his bow over his sho­ul­der and star­ted clim­bing the hil­lsi­de. Be­ing mo­re skil­led at clim­bing, he fo­und him­self clo­se be­hind Jole­na just as she pul­led her­self up and out of sight.

Jolena was so in­tent on what she was af­ter that she had not no­ti­ced Spot­ted Eag­le clim­bing af­ter her. Nor did she pay any at­ten­ti­on to the buf­fa­lo that was eye­ing her with blo­od­s­hot eyes and fla­ring nos­t­rils, a ho­of dig­ging grass up by the ro­ots as it pa­wed over and over aga­in in­to the gro­und.

Her he­art thum­ping, Jole­na bent to her kne­es and re­ac­hed for the car­d­bo­ard of but­ter­f­li­es. When she had it fi­na

l­ly wit­hin her fin­gers, she ga­zed down at the col­lec­ti­on, he­ar­t­b­ro­ken. Most of the but­ter­f­li­es we­re mis­sing, and tho­se that had sur­vi­ved we­re in­com­p­le­te, only the­ir bo­di­es still pin­ned to the car­d­bo­ard, or per­haps a wing or two, strip­ped of the­ir co­lors.

"Oh, no," she whis­pe­red, slowly sha­king her he­ad back and forth. "Why didn't I re­ali­ze it co­uld be no mo­re than this?"

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