Path of the Spirit Runner

White Hawk~ Lamochatee of Panther Clan Este Nation, Tallu Forsmoon, 4413 Lamochatee flattened his back against a tall pine. The morning drizzle swept a wet strand of hair over his eye. He brushed it aside and dared one slow peek around the pine’s trunk. The men traveled the trail through the woods, their attention fixed ahead as they rode. His toes clenched in the pine straw, and the wet seeped through his soft bucs. The sparse underbrush offered no cover, but he needed none. He moved too quickly and quietly for the men to notice. He ducked his head and bolted to the next tree. Even stalking them on foot, he easily kept pace with the long line of riders, horses, and pack mules. At least a dozen mules trudged the path westward, laden with overstuffed packs wrapped in oiled blankets. There might be a hundred more trudging behind them. The musky scent of wet beasts blended with the earthy aroma of tobacco wafting from pipes the men puffed to keep lit in the damp. Lamochatee peered around the next pine and searched out the lead rider, a big man with hair the color of corn. You are caught, White Hawk. I am a hunter. He drew back and pressed his head against the bark, waiting. Whuh-whuh-thuk. The reverberation hummed through the trunk and prickled his neck. Lamochatee grunted in annoyance. He stepped from behind the pine and found White Hawk leaning back in his saddle, wearing a smug smile. “You are lost?” The trader spoke Estean like he was born to it. “I can show you the way to Etowah, eh?” Lamochatee knew his way home. He was a silent tracker, a fearless hunter. Scowling up at the trader’s knife lodged in the trunk, he stood on his toes and pried out the blade. “A long time, I followed you.” Lamochatee walked over and offered back the knife. “You did not know.” “Ten deer-leaps you followed me,” said Captain Tobias Buchanan. “I knew.” The Este called him White Hawk. Red-tipped eagle feathers in his braid marked him as one of the few white men the micos allowed to travel over Este land. White Hawk slid the knife back into his boot. He carried a brace of silver pistols in a belt of Estean weave, a broad sword across his back, and a long-barreled musket strapped to his horse’s flank. White Hawk was not a man to make an enemy. He’d been a friend of Lamochatee’s father’s for years, ever since he’d proved he could stomach the black brew and run with the Este spirit runners. White Hawk was no soft-foot. “Lamochatee of Panther Clan, son of Malatchee Mico.” The trader’s eyes shifted from blue to grey and back again. “You are a head taller than last I saw you. But still young to be out scouting alone. Does Noya know you are so far from home this grey morn?” Lamochatee pulled himself up tall. He was nearly a man now. A man didn’t need his mother’s permission to leave Etowah’s walls. “A hunter decides where he hunts,” he said. His eyes wandered to the bulging packs. “What do you bring that I have not seen before?” he tried sounding bored. White Hawk glanced back to an old man riding behind him. Ducky wasn’t Rhynn. He came from a soft-foot town, but he was tougher than most of his kind. Ducky had a face like a dried-up apple core, and his long hair and beard were coarse as wiregrass and thin as a worn-out broom. The old trailhand was quick as a rattler and no better company. White Hawk hired men like Ducky to tend the mules, mind the loads, and clear the trail ahead of the pack train. He trusted only his Rhynns with the pack train’s protection. “Duck, what do we have that might interest Lamochatee?” White Hawk switched to a mix of Estean and Innish. “I can tell you he won’t be impressed with children’s toys.” “Well, let me think, boss.” Ducky tugged his beard. “There’s that ironwood bow we picked up in the islands. Strongest man in this train couldn’t break one of those arrows over his knee,” he said in the same fluid mix of languages. “Silver eagles on both tips of the bow. Would be a smart lookin’ weapon for a young man.” Lamochatee shrugged. “I might want to see the bow.” He didn’t say so, but what he admired most were the pistols. More than anything, he wanted a silver pistol. But it would be expensive, even for the son of Malatchee Mico. “I hear the hunters fared well this season,” said White Hawk. “Etowah has a few deerskins to trade?” “Mounds and mounds,” Lamochatee bragged. “More than fifty mules can carry. You will have to hire me to carry some back to Buchanwick on my horse.” “Still trying to weasel your way out for an adventure, eh? I told Malatchee already. You should see more of the world.” “Tell him again. I am old enough. Tell him again, White Hawk.” “I will tell him, for all the good it does. Where is he? Sitting by his fire or off scaring Laradians?” “Home. He came back two nights past. Father did more than scare them. He caught the soldiers building a fort on Mocama Island.” “That’s farther north than they dared before.” “Farther north than they will dare again.” “Good for him,” said White Hawk. “Come ride with me.” He reached down an arm, and Lamochatee clambered up behind him. “Tell me more news of Etowah, but tell it in Innish. Let me hear you practice.” Chapter 2