Child of the Dead by Don Coldsmith

bring war parties down into the Sacred Hills like wolves to the bleating of a lost calf.
    But something
must
be done. Wolf was not certain what. And, this time, Broken Lance came straight to the point of the council, and no one seemed to care. As a strong leader, the old band chieftain knew when to call for discussion and when to say how it will be. In this case, he did the latter, and no one objected, because no one had a better idea, and they were all afraid.
    “Something that I can fight, I do not fear,” said one old warrior. “But this …
aiee!”
    “So be it,” Broken Lance announced. “Any lodge that shows the sickness will stay behind.
All
those living in that lodge, sick or well. The rest will keep on moving until the
poch
is left behind.”
    “Then where is summer camp to be?” someone asked.
    “We do not know. Wherever we are when the spirits leave us alone, maybe,” said the chief. “But … let us winter on the Sycamore as we had thought to do. Is that not good, holy man?”
    “It is good, my chief.”
    Wolf did not really know. Surely this horror would be over by then. If not, the survivors could still gather and decide what to do about the coming winter.
    “What is to prevent those left behind from following us?” asked someone.
    “Honor,” replied Broken Lance. “If that fails, the Bowstrings will stop them.”
    It was possibly the harshest rule in the history of the People, yet few objected. But of course, in a matter of honor, there was little possibility that enforcement would be needed by the Bowstrings anyway.
    “What of the horse? Is it not the cause of our trouble?”
    They were still camped where death had overtaken No Tail Squirrel, while his family performed the burial arrangements. They had already decided to stay behind to care for their younger son, who had now sickened. The mother had used Squirrel’s blanket to wrap his body, so Wolf had not made further suggestion on that.
    But the horse …? It was not unknown to sacrificea horse for the dead hunter to ride on the Other Side. Some tribes, Wolf knew, even tied the animal to the burial scaffold and let it starve to death, but the love and respect that the People had always held for the horse usually prevented that. (“Are we not called the Elk-dog People by others?”)
    Some felt that the horse should be killed, but the argument was feeble. Singing Wolf was glad. He was still sure that it was not the horse, but its
blanket
, on which the
poch
had been carried, but it could not be proved. The blanket was now out of consideration, so he said nothing more of his theory. But after all, the
poch
was French, and so was the blanket, no? It made sense.
    It was decided that the safest thing to do was leave the horse behind, and to drive it away if it tried to follow.
    “
Aiee
, what a loss,” observed Beaver Track as he took one last look over his shoulder at the proud stallion. “I would breed all my mares to him.”
    Singing Wolf felt much the same.
    “You did breed all that you could, Beaver, did you not?” he chided as they moved out.
    Behind them, the mourning family of No Tail Squirrel looked pitifully defenseless. They grew smaller in the distance, standing beside the burial scaffold of their son, until the column crossed over a low rise and they were not seen at all.
    There were a few days when it seemed that the world had returned to normal. A good day’s travel, a halt for the night, move on. The prestige of Singing Wolf rose, because the holy man’s advice had enabled the band to avoid the deadly sickness. The loss of one lodge and its three warriors was regrettable, but did not seriously affect the defensive strength of the band. There was a spirit of optimism, and there was talk of considering a place for summer camp.
    Then the
poch
rose again, striking down a young man who had been a friend of No Tail Squirrel. The connection was obvious. There was much concern, but little panic as the band left another family