Wolff pointed down the side of the hill and across the plain at a small river. There were woods along it, but it was not that which caused his excitement. At the river’s edge, partially blocked by the trees, white tepees shone.
Kickaha looked long before saying, “The Tsenakwa. The mortal enemy of the Bear People, as who isn’t?”
“Here they come,” Wolff said. “They must have been notified by sentinels.”
He gestured at a disorganized body of horsemen riding out of the woods, the sun striking off white horses, while shields, and white feathers and sparking the tips of lance.
One of the Hrowakas, seeing them, began a highpitched wailing song. Kickaha shouted at him, and Wolff understood enough to know that Kickaha was telling him to shut up. Now was no time for a deathsong; they would cheat the Half-Horse and the Tsenakwa yet.
“I was going to order our last stand here,” Kickaha said. “But not now. We’ll ride toward the Tsenakwa, then cut away from them and toward the woods along the river. How we come out depends on whether or not both our enemies decide to fight. If one refuses, the other will get us. If not… Let’s go!”
Haiyeeing, they pounded their heels against the ribs of their beasts. Down the hill, straight toward the Tsenakwa, they rode. Wolff glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the Half-Horse were speeding down the side of the hill after them. Kickaha yelled, “I didn’t think they’d pass this up. There’ll be a lot of women wailing in the lodges tonight, but it won’t be only among the Bear People!”
Now the Hrowakas were close enough to discern the devices on the shields of the Tsenakwa. These were black swastikas, a symbol Wolff was not surprised to see. The crooked cross was ancient and widespread on Earth; it was known by the Trojans, Cretans, Romans, Celts, Norse, Indian Buddhists and Brahmans, the Chinese, and throughout preColumbian North America. Nor was he surprised to see that the oncoming Indians were red-haired. Kickaha had told him that the Tsenakwa dyed their black locks.
Still in an unordered mass but now bunched more closely together, the Tsenakwa leveled their lances and gave their charge-cry, an imitation of the scream of a hawk. Kickaha, in the lead, raised his hand, held it for a moment, then chopped it downward. His horse veered to the left and away, the line of the Bear people following him, he the head and the others the body of the snake.
Kickaha had cut it close, but he had used correct and exact timing. As the Half-Horse and Tsenakwa plunged with a crash and flurry into each other and were embroiled in a melee, the Hrowakas pulled away. They gained the woods, slowed to go through the trees and underbrush, and then were crossing the river. Even so, Kickaha had to argue with several of the braves. These wanted to sneak back across the river and raid the tepees of the Tsenakwa while their warriors were occupied with the Half-Horse.
“Makes sense to me,” Wolff said, “if we stay there only long enough to pick up horses. Hums Like A Bee and Tall Grass can’t keep on riding double.”
Kickaha shrugged and gave the order. The raid took five minutes. The Hrowakas recrossed the river and burst from the trees and among the tepees with wild shouts. The women and children screamed and took refuge in the trees or lodges. Some of the Hrowakas wanted not only the horses but loot. Kickaha said that he would kill the first man he caught stealing anything besides bows and arrows. But he did reach down off his horse and give a pretty but battling woman a long kiss.
“Tell your men I would have taken you to bed and made you forever after dissatisfied with the puny ones of your tribe!” Kickaha said to her. “But we have more important things to do!” Laughing, he released the woman, who ran into her lodge. He did pause long enough to make water into the big cooking pot in the middle of the camp, a deadly insult, and then he ordered the party to ride off.