Six days went by with no sign of enemy tribes except the black-and-red striped tepees of the Irennussoik at a distance. No warriors rode out to challenge them, but Kickaha did not relax until many miles had fallen behind them. The next day the plain began to change: the knee-high and bright green grass was interspersed with a bluish grass only several inches high. Soon the party was riding over a rolling land of blue.
“The stamping ground of the Half-Horse,” Kickaha said. He sent the scouts to a greater distance from the main party.
“Don’t let yourself be taken alive,” he reminded Wolff.
“Especially by the Half-Horse. A human plains tribe might decide to adopt you instead of killing you if you had guts enough to sing merrily and spit in their faces while they roasted you over a low fire. But the Half-Horses don’t even have human slaves. They’d keep you alive and screaming for weeks.”
On the fourth day after Kickaha’s warning, they topped a rise and saw a black band ahead.
“Trees growing along the Winnkaknaw River,” Kickaha said. “We’re almost halfway to the Trees of Many Shadows. Let’s push the horses until we get to the river. I’ve got a hunch we’ve eaten up most of our luck.”
He fell silent as he and the others saw a flash of sun on white several miles to their right. Then the white horse of Wicked Knife, a scout, disappeared into a shallow between rises. A few seconds later, a dark mass appeared on the rise behind him.
“The Half-Horse!” Kickaha yelled. “Let’s go! Make for the river! We can make a stand in the trees along it, if we can get there!”