Lance Hunter Quotes

I'm in battle mode. Shut down. Hard. I'm not Hunter anymore. I'm Lance Corporal Lee, USMC. Semper Fi, bitches.

Fireheart sprang forward and burst through the curtain of lichen. Tigerclaw and Bluestar were writhing on the floor of the den. Bluestar’s claws scored again and again across Tigerclaw’s shoulder, but the deputy’s greater weight kept her pinned down in the soft sand. Tigerclaw’s fangs were buried in her throat, and his powerful claws raked her back. “Traitor!” Fireheart yowled. He flung himself at Tigerclaw, slashing at his eyes. The deputy reared back, forced to release his grip on Bluestar’s throat. Fireheart felt his claws rip through the deputy’s ear, spraying blood into the air. Bluestar scrambled to the side of the den, looking half stunned. Fireheart could not tell how badly hurt she was. Pain lanced through him as Tigerclaw gashed his side with a blow from his powerful hindpaws. Fireheart’s paws skidded in the sand and he lost his balance, hitting the ground with Tigerclaw on top of him. The deputy’s amber eyes blazed into his. “Mousedung!” he hissed. “I’ll flay you, Fireheart. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Fireheart summoned every scrap of skill and strength he possessed. He knew Tigerclaw could kill him, but in spite of that he felt strangely free. The lies and the need for deceit were over. The secrets—Bluestar’s and Tigerclaw’s—were all out in the open. There was only the clean danger of battle. He aimed a blow at Tigerclaw’s throat, but the deputy swung his head to one side and Fireheart’s claws scraped harmlessly through thick tabby fur. But the blow had loosened Tigerclaw’s grip on him. Fireheart rolled away, narrowly avoiding a killing bite to his neck. “Kittypet!” Tigerclaw taunted, flexing his haunches to pounce again. “Come and find out how a real warrior fights.” He threw himself at Fireheart, but at the last moment Fireheart darted aside. As Tigerclaw tried to turn in the narrow den, his paws slipped on a splash of blood and he crashed awkwardly onto one side. At once Fireheart saw his chance. His claws sliced down to open a gash in Tigerclaw’s belly. Blood welled up, soaking into the deputy’s fur. He let out a high-pitched caterwaul. Fireheart pounced on him, raking claws across his belly again, and fastening his teeth into Tigerclaw’s neck. The deputy struggled vainly to free himself, his thrashing growing weaker as the blood flowed. Fireheart let go of his neck, planting one paw on Tigerclaw’s outstretched foreleg, and the other on his chest. “Bluestar!” he called. “Help me hold him down!” Bluestar was crouching behind him in her moss-lined nest. Blood trickled down her forehead, but that did not alarm Fireheart as much as the look in her eyes. They were a vague, cloudy blue, and she stared horror-struck in front of her as if she was witnessing the destruction

My neck was slender and long and I could bend it nearly all the way about to take in my body: also slender, also shining. I was a dragon of gold, as if Jesse had touched me and transmuted me but not taken my life. I was sinuous and covered in lustrous golden scales, all the way almost to the tip of my tail, until they faded into purple. I had a mane, too, mapping a line down my back. It looked like a ruff of silk or cut velvet. I folded my neck around almost double so that I could rub my chin on it. Silken, yes, but also jagged. Combing my chin through it sent quivers of pleasure down my spine. Then I saw my wings. They were folded against my back, metallic. Without knowing how I did it, I opened them, using muscles I didn't even have as a person. ... I slashed my tail through the rain and realized that it was barbed when it hit an oak tree and I got stuck. No problem. I pulled it out and danced around, delighted at the fresh, gaping hole in the trunk. ... If the shark-hunters or lance-bearers came for me, I'd chew them to chum.

Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly projecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft Turkish-rugged waters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and danced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected from the white whale's back; and at intervals one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail feathers streaming like pennons. A gentle joyousness—a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested the gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with ravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness, rippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that great majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so divinely swam.

Pure icy fear lanced through Leafpaw. Tigerstar had been prepared to kill any cat who opposed him in his quest for supreme power. And now another cat was preparing to follow in his pawsteps.

The food is ready,” Zil announced to loud cheers. “But we have something more important to do, first, before we can eat.” Groans. “We have to carry out some justice.” That earned a silent stare until Turk and Hank started raising their hands and yelling, showing the crowd how to act. “This mutant, this nonhuman scum here, this freak Hunter…” Zil pointed, arm stretched out, at his captive. “This chud deliberately murdered my best friend, Harry.” “Na troo,” Hunter said. His mouth still didn’t work right. Brain damage, Zil supposed, from the little knock on his head. Half of Hunter’s face drooped like it wasn’t quite attached right. It made it easier for the crowd of kids to sneer at him, and Hunter, yelling in his drooling retard voice, wasn’t helping his case. “He’s a killer!” Zil cried suddenly, smacking his fist into his palm. “A freak! A mutant!” he cried. “And we know what they’re like, right? They always have enough food. They run everything. They’re in charge and we’re all starving. Is that some kind of coincidence? No way.” “Na troo,” Hunter moaned again. “Take him!” Zil cried to Antoine and Hank. “Take him, the murdering mutant scum!” They seized Hunter by the arms. He could walk, but only by dragging one leg. They half carried, half marched him across the plaza. They dragged him up the church steps. “Now,” Zil said, “here is how we’re going to do this.” He waved his hand toward the rope that Lance was unspooling back through the plaza. An expectant pause. A dangerous, giddy feeling. The smell of the meat had them all crazy. Zil could feel it. “You all want some of this delicious venison?” They roared their assent. “Then you’ll all grab on to the rope.

The buffalo played a large part in the ceremonies and mythology of the Plains Indians. Many myths and folk tales about the buffalo, which delighted both young and old, were told and retold about the campfires. The first buffalo spirit was supposed to have been born in a northern cave and was said to have been pure white. It had great powers in healing, especially wounds. A white buffalo in a herd was supposed to be the reappearance of this buffalo spirit on earth. The hide taken from such an animal was sacred and had special ceremonial purposes. Most of the Plains tribes had buffalo societies. The members of these groups took part in special buffalo ceremonies and dances. These men had personal names suggesting movements, actions, or postures of the animal, such as “Standing Buffalo,” or “Sitting Bull.” The Buffalo Dance of the Plains tribes has many forms. Sometimes a herd of buffalo are represented. In this dance we have only one buffalo wearing a buffalo mask and a buffalo tail. Other dancers, eight or more in number, are hunters carrying feathered lances and shields.

ALPHA:     sleek black-and-brown female with a white fang-shaped mark below her ear (also known as Blade) BETA:     huge black-and-tan male (also known as Mace)       DAGGER—brown-and-tan male with a stubby face   PISTOL—black-and-tan female   BRUTE—black-and-tan male   RIPPER—black-and-tan female   REVOLVER—black-and-tan male   AXE—large black-and-brown male   SCYTHE—large black-and-tan female   BLUDGEON—massive black-and-tan male   MUSKET—black-and-brown male   CANNON—brown-and-tan female   LANCE—black-and-tan male   ARROW—young black-and-tan male OMEGA:     smaller black-and-brown male (also known as Bullet) PUPS:     FANG—brown-and-tan male LONE

As he turned her face to study her, he said, “You have more courage than you have strength, Yellow Hair. It is not wise to fight when you cannot win.” Looking up at his carved features and the arrogant set of his mouth, she longed for the strength to jerk him off his horse. He wasn’t just taunting her, he was challenging her, mocking her. “You will yield. Look at me and know the face of your master. Remember it well.” Riding high on humiliation, Loretta forgot Amy, Aunt Rachel, everything. An image of her mother’s face flashed before her. Never, as long as she had life in her body, would she yield to him. She worked her parched mouth and spat. Nothing came out, but the message rang clear. “Nei mah-heepicut!” Releasing her, he struck her lightly on the arm. Wheeling his horse, he glanced toward the windows of the house and thumped his chest with a broad fist. “I claim her!” Loretta staggered, watching in numb disbelief as Hunter pranced his stallion in a circle around her. I claim her? Warily she turned, keeping him in sight, unsure of what he might do. He rode erect, his eyes touching on her dress, her face, her hair, as if everything about her were a curiosity. A taunting smile curved his mouth. His attention centered on her full skirt, and she could almost see the questions churning in his head. He repositioned his hand on the lance. The determination in his expression filled her with foreboding. He rode directly toward her, and she sidestepped. He turned his mount to come at her again. As he swept by he leaned forward, catching the hem of her skirt with his lance. Loretta whirled, striking out with her forearms, but the Indian moved expertly, his aim swift and sure, his horse precision-trained to the pressure of his legs. He was as bent on seeing her undergarments as she was on keeping them hidden. The outcome of their battle was a foregone conclusion, and Loretta knew it. His friends encouraged him, whooping with ribald laughter each time her ruffles flashed. She snatched the dirty peace flag from the wooden shaft and threw it to the earth, grinding it beneath the heel of her shoe. After fending off several more passes, exhaustion claimed its victory, and Loretta realized the folly in fighting. She stood motionless, breasts heaving, her eyes staring fixedly at nothing, head lifted. The warrior circled her, guiding his stallion’s flashing hooves so close to her feet that her toes tingled. When she didn’t move, he reined the horse to a halt and studied her for several seconds before he leaned forward to finger the bodice of her dress. Her breath snagged when he slid a palm over her bosom to the indentation of her waist. “Ai-ee,” he whispered. “You learn quick.” Raising tear-filled eyes to his, she again spat in his face. This time he felt the spray and wiped his cheek, his lips quivering with something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter, friendly laughter this time. “Maybe not so quick. But I am a good teacher. You will learn not to fight me, Yellow Hair. It is a promise I make for you.

Nei mah-heepicut!” Releasing her, he struck her lightly on the arm. Wheeling his horse, he glanced toward the windows of the house and thumped his chest with a broad fist. “I claim her!” Loretta staggered, watching in numb disbelief as Hunter pranced his stallion in a circle around her. I claim her? Warily she turned, keeping him in sight, unsure of what he might do. He rode erect, his eyes touching on her dress, her face, her hair, as if everything about her were a curiosity. A taunting smile curved his mouth. His attention centered on her full skirt, and she could almost see the questions churning in his head. He repositioned his hand on the lance. The determination in his expression filled her with foreboding. He rode directly toward her, and she sidestepped. He turned his mount to come at her again. As he swept by he leaned forward, catching the hem of her skirt with his lance. Loretta whirled, striking out with her forearms, but the Indian moved expertly, his aim swift and sure, his horse precision-trained to the pressure of his legs. He was as bent on seeing her undergarments as she was on keeping them hidden. The outcome of their battle was a foregone conclusion, and Loretta knew it. His friends encouraged him, whooping with ribald laughter each time her ruffles flashed. She snatched the dirty peace flag from the wooden shaft and threw it to the earth, grinding it beneath the heel of her shoe. After fending off several more passes, exhaustion claimed its victory, and Loretta realized the folly in fighting. She stood motionless, breasts heaving, her eyes staring fixedly at nothing, head lifted. The warrior circled her, guiding his stallion’s flashing hooves so close to her feet that her toes tingled. When she didn’t move, he reined the horse to a halt and studied her for several seconds before he leaned forward to finger the bodice of her dress. Her breath snagged when he slid a palm over her bosom to the indentation of her waist. “Ai-ee,” he whispered. “You learn quick.

Were the Comanches still out there, hidden from sight but watching? Was that lance a message from Hunter to his people? I will come to you like the wind. I am your destiny. She visualized the Indian returning with a dirty blanket or two, a scrawny horse he no longer wanted, perhaps a battered pot. And Uncle Henry, coward that he was, would waste no time in handing her over. Loretta Simpson, bought by a Comanche. No, not by just any Comanche, but Hunter himself. It would be whispered in horror all along the Brazos and Navasota rivers. Hunter’s woman. She’d never be able to hold her head up again. No decent man would even look at her. If she lived… With a whining intake of air, Loretta lunged to her feet and ran to the door. Before anyone could stop her, she was across the porch and down the steps. She’d show that heathen. If this was a message that she belonged to him, she’d destroy it. Grabbing the lance, she worked it free from the earth. “Loretta, you fool girl!” Tom came after her, catching her arm to whirl her around. “All you’ll do is rile him.” Jerking free, she headed for the front gate. Rile him or not, if she didn’t refute the Comanche’s claim, it would be the same as agreeing to it. Maybe he would come back for her, but if he was out there watching, at least he’d know he wasn’t welcome. She walked beyond the yard fence, then turned and swung the lance against the top rail. The resilient shaft bounced back at her. She swung again. And again. The lance seemed to take life, resisting her, mocking her. She envisioned the Comanche’s arrogant face and bludgeoned it, venting her hatred. For Ma, for Papa. She’d never belong to a filthy redskin, never. Sweat began to run down her face, burning her eyes, salty on her lips, but still she swung the lance. It had to break. He might be out there watching. If his weapon defeated her, it would be the same as if he had. Her shoulders began to ache. Each lift of her arms became an effort. Beyond the realm of her immediate focus, she saw her family standing around her in shocked horror, staring as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. Loretta fell to her knees, gazing at the intact lance. Willow, green willow. No wonder the dad-blamed thing wouldn’t break. Furious, she snatched the feathers off of it and ripped them into shreds, sputtering when the bits of down flew back in her face. Then she knelt there, heaving for air, so exhausted all the fight in her was drained away. He had won.

Willow leaves swayed before Hunter’s eyes, but his gaze held fast, riveted on the slender girl as she tried to break his lance. With each swing of her arms, he clenched his teeth, growing angrier. Then the absurdity of it hit him, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. She knew he was out here. Grown men quivered in fear at the sound of his name, but a frail girl dared to defy him? He recalled how she had looked when she walked out to face him, golden head held high, big blue eyes meeting his in defiance. How dare she spit at him, not once but twice? He wavered somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and admiration. She might not look like much, but she had courage, he’d give her that. His brother, Warrior, hunkered beside him and snorted with laughter, clearly pleased with the situation. Above the roar of the river, he said, “If she knew who you were, she wouldn’t defy you like this.” Hunter never shifted his gaze from the girl. “Once she knows who she’s up against, this nonsense will stop. If there’s anything I’m an expert on, Hunter, it’s women. They push only when they think they can get away with it. You shouldn’t have let her spit at you. Next time, slap her.” Hunter arched an eyebrow. Given the fact that his brother’s wife was the most spoiled female in the village, he found this bit of advice amazing. He studied Warrior’s solemn expression. “Is that so?” “Trust me. She’ll never try it again.” “How many times have you slapped Maiden of the Tall Grass?” “I haven’t. She knows who has the stronger arm.” Hunter bit back a grin. “Yes, she certainly does.” Returning his attention to the girl, he scowled. He would teach her some respect or kill her trying. At last the girl’s strength gave out, and she fell to her knees in defeat. A spray of feathers flew up around her. As the white plumes floated downward, her shoulders sank with them. Suvate, it was finished. She had to face her fate and learn to accept it, just as he must. Destiny knew no foe.

Don’t shoot,” Tom cautioned again. “That brave in the lead has a crooked lance with a white flag. Whatever it is they’re wantin’, it ain’t a fight. You speak any Comanch’?” “Not a word,” Henry replied. “I don’t know much. If they do a lot of tradin’, they can probably talk English, but if they don’t--all we can do is hope my Injun will get us by.” Tom spat a glob of chew onto Rachel’s bleached floor. Then he bellowed, “What do you want?” Loretta’s nerves were strung so taut, she leaped. Nausea surged into her throat as the brown tobacco juice soaked into the floor. Was she losing her mind? Who cared if the puncheon got stained? Before this was over, the house might be burned to the ground. She heard Rachel crying, a soft, irregular whimpering. Terror. The metallic taste of it shriveled her tongue. “What brings you here?” Tom cried again. “Hites!” a deep voice called back. “We come as friends, White-Eyes.” The lead warrior moved some twenty feet in front of his comrades, holding the crooked lance high so the dusty white rag was clearly visible. He sat proudly on his black stallion, gleaming brown shoulders straight, leather-sheathed legs pressed snugly to his mount. A rush of wind lifted his mahogany hair, wisping it across his bronzed, sharply chiseled face. Loretta’s first thought when she saw him was that he seemed different from the others. A closer look told her why. He was unquestionably a half-breed, taller on horseback than the rest, lighter-skinned. If not for his sun-darkened complexion and long hair, he might have passed for a white man. Everything else about him was savage, though, from the cruel sneer on his mouth to the expert way he balanced on his horse, as if he and the animal were one entity. Tom Weaver stiffened. “Son of a--Henry, you know who that is?” “I was hopin’ I was wrong.” Loretta inched closer to get a better look. Then it hit her. Hunter. She had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. But until this moment she hadn’t believed he existed. A blue-eyed half-breed, one of the most cunning and treacherous adversaries the U.S. Army had run across. Now that the war had pitted North against South, the homesteaders had no cavalry to keep Hunter and his marauders at bay, and his raiders struck ever deeper into settled country, advancing east. Some claimed he was far more dangerous than a full-blooded Comanche because he had a white man’s intelligence. As vicious as he was, there were stories that he spared women and children. Whether that was coincidence, design, or a lie some Indian lover had dreamed up, no one knew. Loretta opted for the latter.

There they came, forty Comanches, all whooping and hollering, lances raised, a frightening spectacle indeed. Forgetting for the moment that she must guard what she said, she cried, “They aren’t attacking. He promised.” “Then what the hell are they doin’? Get outa my way!” Henry shoved her aside and resighted his rifle. “He promised? She’s touched, Rachel! They messed her up in the head, keepin’ her all this time.” Loretta ran for the door. “He isn’t attacking! I know he isn’t. Please, don’t shoot!” The bar stuck as she tried to lift it. Her heart began to slam as she wrestled with it. A vision of Hunter lying dead in the yard flashed through her head. This was exactly what she had dreaded might happen, what she’d tried to explain to him last night. “Please, Uncle Henry--he promised me. And he wouldn’t make a lie of it, he wouldn’t, I know he wouldn’t!” The bar finally came free. “Don’t shoot him, don’t!” Throwing the door wide, Loretta ran out onto the porch. The Comanches were circling the house. She ran to the end of the porch and saw a lance embedded in the dirt fifteen feet away. Hi, hites, hello, my friend. Her knees went weak with relief. “Uncle Henry,” she cried over her shoulder, “they’re marking the property. Protecting us! Don’t shoot or you’ll cause a bloodbath for sure!” She ran to the window and peered in the crack at her uncle. “Did you hear me? If they were wanting to murder somebody, I’d be dead.” She turned back to watch as the Comanches widened their circle to mark the outer perimeters of Henry’s land. Tears stung her eyes. Hunter was leaving a message to every Indian in the whole territory: those at this farm were not to be attacked. Within minutes the braves had driven all forty willow lances into the dirt and ridden to the crest of the hill. Loretta shaded her brow, trying to find Hunter in the swarm. Recognizing him from the rest at this distance was impossible. Then they disappeared over the rise. Loretta stared at the empty knoll, her chest aching, her knees still shaking. “Good-bye, my friend,” she whispered. As if he had heard her, Hunter reappeared alone on the rise. Bringing his stallion to a halt, he straightened and lifted his head, forming a dark silhouette, his quiver and arrows jutting up above his shoulder, his shield braced on his thigh, his long hair drifting in the wind. Forgetting all about her family watching her, Loretta stumbled down the steps and out into the yard to be sure Hunter could see her. Then she waved. In answer, he raised his right arm high in a salute. He remained there for several seconds, and she stood rooted, memorizing how he looked. When he wheeled his horse and disappeared, she stared after him for a long while. I will know the song your heart sings, eh? And you will know mine.

The joy of Loretta’s homecoming was overshadowed by Henry’s rage. Friends with a murderin’ savage, was she? A Comanche slut, that’s what, kissin’ on him in broad daylight, comin’ home to shame them all with her Injun horse and heathen necklace. His land looked like a bloomin’ pincushion with all them heathen lances pokin’ up. He was gonna get shut of ’em, just like he had those horses. Half of ’em stole from white folks! Some trade that was! Loretta listened to his tirade in stony silence. When he wound down she said, “Are you quite finished?” “No, I ain’t!” He leveled a finger at her. “Just you understand this, young lady. If that bastard planted his seed in that belly of yours, it’ll be hell to pay. The second you throw an Injun brat, I’ll bash its head on a rock!” Loretta flinched. “And we call them animals?” Henry backhanded her, catching her on the cheek with stunning force. Loretta reeled and grabbed the table to keep from falling. Rachel screamed and threw herself between them. Amy’s muffled sobs could be heard coming up through the floor. “For the love of God, Henry, please…” Rachel wrung her hands in her apron. “Get a hold on your temper.” Henry swept Rachel aside. Leveling a finger at Loretta again, he snarled, “Don’t you sass me, girl, or I’ll tan your hide till next Sunday. You’ll show respect, by gawd.” Loretta pressed her fingers to her jaw, staring at him. Respect? Suddenly it struck her as hysterically funny. She had been captured by savages and dragged halfway across Texas. Never once, not even when he had just cause, had Hunter hit her with enough force to hurt her, and never in the face. She’d had to come home to receive that kind of abuse. She sank onto the planked bench and started to laugh, a high-pitched, half-mad laughter. Aunt Rachel crossed herself, and that only made her laugh harder. Henry stormed outside to get “those dad-blamed Indian lances” pulled up before a passing neighbor spied them and started calling them Injun lovers. Loretta laughed harder yet. Maybe she had gone mad. Stark, raving mad.

As the Comanchero cupped his hands around the fullness of her breasts, his attention shifted to the medallion she had been wearing, concealed from Uncle Henry under her dress. His bleary eyes sharpened, then went wide. He jerked his hands away and quickly crossed himself. “¡Jesucristo!” He scrambled backward, his gaze riveted to Loretta’s heaving chest. “El Lobo!” he cried. “Do not touch her.” As if by magic, Loretta found herself unhanded. She blinked dazedly, not quite sure what had happened. Indeed, the yard had gone deathly silent. She sat up slowly, clutching her ruined bodice. The men who held Amy were studies in motion, their eyes wide with fear. Loretta glanced down. What in blazes? She stared at the crude stone medallion that rose and fell against her bosom. And then it struck her. El Lobo, the wolf. Hunter of the Wolf. Her friend had protected her with something more than just lances in the yard. He had left his mark on her person. You will wear it for always? A hysterical laugh welled in her throat. And then relief swept through her. Hunter’s woman. They were afraid to harm her! She pushed to her knees. The Comancheros were scattering as if they’d just come face to face with Satan himself.

She stared at the crude stone medallion that rose and fell against her bosom. And then it struck her. El Lobo, the wolf. Hunter of the Wolf. Her friend had protected her with something more than just lances in the yard. He had left his mark on her person. You will wear it for always? A hysterical laugh welled in her throat. And then relief swept through her. Hunter’s woman.

Lances, leaning like drunken soldiers standing guard, lined the perimeter of the property, feathers fluttering, their slender shafts black lines in the moonlight. Henry had learned his lesson after the Comancheros’ visit. This time he had let the lances be. Loretta wondered which was Hunter’s. If she knew, she could take it inside and keep it in the loft. A keepsake for her baby. The child might never have anything else. Tipping her head back, she studied the moon. Mother Moon, Hunter called it. The wind caressed her cheeks. Loretta closed her eyes, thinking of the four directions. Below her was Mother Earth. Come morning, Father Sun would show his face in the east. A primitive man’s gods? Loretta smiled. Hunter worshiped the creations of God, the visible signs of His greatness. One God with many faces, whom they each addressed in different ways. Was Hunter out there somewhere, looking up? She wondered. Was he praying? Please, Mother Moon, let him be all right. Lead him in a great circle back to me. Aloud, she whispered, “I love you, Hunter. I need you. Your child needs you.” She hoped her words would float on the wind and speak to him. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she prayed the golden light would remind him of her, his bright one. Come back to me, Hunter.

Go into the house, Aunt Rachel,” Loretta called. “Why? What is it?” “I’m not sure. He comes in anger.” “You come with me, then!” Loretta swallowed an upsurge of fear. One Indian was taller on horseback than all the rest, broader across the shoulders and chest. Hunter. She kept her gaze on him. A month ago she would have fled in panic. She would never run from him again. “Go to the house, Aunt Rachel. Pull the shutters. Do as I say!” Loretta began walking again, afraid yet not afraid. A war party of Comanches was an intimidating spectacle, even to her, but the man she loved rode with them. Before she reached the gate, the warriors urged their horses forward. Instead of attacking, though, as she had feared they might, they rode the perimeters of the property, driving lances into the earth every few feet. Once again Hunter had come to mark her home. Loretta no sooner realized that than she also realized that Hunter wouldn’t mark the property if he intended to take her with him. He was leaving her. She bolted into a run. “Hunter! Hunter, please…” She gained the gate and watched in helpless despair as the warriors sped past on their mounts, sending up such a cloud of dust that she couldn’t tell which man was Hunter. “Hunter, at least talk to me!” If Hunter heard her, he paid her no heed. Moments later the war party withdrew and rode over the rise. Loretta stood there, staring. Was Hunter divorcing her because of the tosi tivo attack? As hurt as she was, Loretta could muster no anger. It was her own fault he was leaving her. The night before the attack, she had vowed to leave him if he wouldn’t go away with her. She had insisted he choose between her and the People. He had done just that. His father and countless others had been killed. His honor demanded that he avenge them. She pressed her hand to her chest, over the medallion that bore his mark. Throwing back her head, she screamed his name, praying he would hear her and return. She waited, and she prayed. But he didn’t come.

Go into the house, Aunt Rachel,” Loretta called. “Why? What is it?” “I’m not sure. He comes in anger.” “You come with me, then!” Loretta swallowed an upsurge of fear. One Indian was taller on horseback than all the rest, broader across the shoulders and chest. Hunter. She kept her gaze on him. A month ago she would have fled in panic. She would never run from him again. “Go to the house, Aunt Rachel. Pull the shutters. Do as I say!” Loretta began walking again, afraid yet not afraid. A war party of Comanches was an intimidating spectacle, even to her, but the man she loved rode with them. Before she reached the gate, the warriors urged their horses forward. Instead of attacking, though, as she had feared they might, they rode the perimeters of the property, driving lances into the earth every few feet. Once again Hunter had come to mark her home. Loretta no sooner realized that than she also realized that Hunter wouldn’t mark the property if he intended to take her with him. He was leaving her.

A-are you going on a raid tomorrow after you take me home?” He glanced up from his work. “With this? His dark eyes filled with laughter as he peered along the crooked shaft of the lance. “Blue Eyes, a crooked tse-ak such as this would kill my friend beside me. This tse-ak will say hi, hites, hello, my friend.” “To who?” “To all who pass. You will see, eh?” “You’re sure you aren’t planning to attack my home?” “No fight. You will be easy.” After his lance was finished, she and Hunter made their fire away from the others, then sat near the flames to eat the traveler’s fare his mother had thoughtfully packed for them. As Loretta chewed her jerked buffalo meat, her mouth went dry. The meat got bigger and bigger, a gigantic wad she couldn’t swallow. This was it, the last time they would ever eat together beside a fire. The very last time. It was insane to feel sad, but she did. Soon after they finished eating, they arranged their respective beds near the dying fire and retired for the night. Loretta lay on her back, gazing at the stars. Hardly more than an arm’s reach away, Hunter slept. At least she guessed he was asleep. She never knew for sure. He could be still as death one minute and on his feet, wide awake, the next. All afternoon he had been quieter than usual. Perhaps he was a little sad, too. Tomorrow they would have to say good-bye.

What do your feathers say?” “They have my mark. And tell a little bit my life song.” His full lower lip quirked in a grin. “My marks say I am a fine fellow--a good lover, a good hunter, with a mighty arm to shield a little yellow-hair.” She hugged her knees and grinned back at him. “I bet your marks say you’re a fierce warrior, and yellow-hairs should beware.” He shrugged. “I fight the big fight for my people. This is bad?” Loretta grabbed a handful of grass and ripped it up. Its smell was sharp in her nostrils. “A-are you going on a raid tomorrow after you take me home?” He glanced up from his work. “With this? His dark eyes filled with laughter as he peered along the crooked shaft of the lance. “Blue Eyes, a crooked tse-ak such as this would kill my friend beside me. This tse-ak will say hi, hites, hello, my friend.” “To who?” “To all who pass. You will see, eh?” “You’re sure you aren’t planning to attack my home?” “No fight. You will be easy.

To Loretta’s dismay, the closer they got to her home, the less anxious she was to get there. The time passed too quickly. At dust the next day they stopped for the night at the base of Whiskey Mountain. During the trip, the men had collected slender willow limbs, and they now sat in small groups to make lances, each of which was marked with the maker’s feathers. Loretta was at first alarmed, but after Hunter assured her they had no intention of making war at her farm, she relaxed and sat beside him to watch. His long, lean fingers fascinated her--graceful, yet leathery and strong. She recalled how they felt against her skin, warm and feather light, capable of inflicting pain yet always gentle. A tingling sensation crawled up her throat. She noticed that each man’s feathers were painted differently. “What do your feathers say?” “They have my mark. And tell a little bit my life song.” His full lower lip quirked in a grin. “My marks say I am a fine fellow--a good lover, a good hunter, with a mighty arm to shield a little yellow-hair.” She hugged her knees and grinned back at him. “I bet your marks say you’re a fierce warrior, and yellow-hairs should beware.

And there upon a lance tip, maybe Heingyl the Stag Hunter’s lance tip, maybe not, the line of Radaszic ended, and went into the ground to feed the flowers that would feed the bees.

[Armor Piercer (Basic): Thrust with power and pierce the obstacle in your way. Works best if you target a weak point unless you keep thrusting to make one. There was once a warrior who spoke proudly of his lance. He wielded a hammer, however, so I spoke to correct him. Consequently, he corrected me with a tale of how he had been stripped bare and had to best a female orc with his lance.]

The art of diplomacy is often to tell someone you want to be their best friend, but failing that, you might have to destroy them. It’s kind of like Christianity. Congressman Lance Boyd.