eard tales of women who died fighting beside their men. Yes,
better to die with Gray Cloud, to walk the Trail of Souls into the West
with him, than live a long life grieving for him.

She listened to the sounds of the sleepers, Iron Knife's rumbling snore,
Wind Bends Grass's heavy breathing that sounded like her name, the
rustlings and murmurings of Wild Grape and Robin's Nest.

Owl Carver still had not come in, and he might stay out there most of
the night. She dared not wait any longer. She would have to face him.

Silently she pushed off her coverings and stood up. She quickly put back
on her fur cap, boots and mittens.

The deepened cold bit into her cheeks like a weasel's teeth. While she
had lain in the wickiup the snow, which had been falling continually for
a night and a day, had stopped at last. The clouds overhead were
breaking up, and she could see the full moon, round and bright as a pale
eyes' silver coin. The Moon of Ice. It seemed frozen in place in the
black sky. Stars glittered, little chips of ice. With her first indrawn
breath the insides of her nostrils seemed to freeze, the air burned in
her nose and throat. Her heart quailed for Gray Cloud.

The black figure of Owl Carver stood just where she had left him. How
could he stand the cold this long?

Owl Carver turned to her. "Where are you going?"

"To Sun Woman's wickiup, to watch with her."

She hated Owl Carver. He was the one who had sent Gray Cloud on this
spirit journey, and now would do nothing to save him from death.

As if sensing her agony, he said, "The spirits will watch over Gray
Cloud."

She wanted to believe him, but she could not. She had begged him to help
Gray Cloud, and he had commanded her to be silent. Now she had no more
to say to him. She turned from Owl Carver.

He could have forbidden her to go to Sun Woman. But he would not do
that. There was an understanding between Redbird and her father that she
could not put into words. She knew that when he looked at her, he was
torn between pride that she, the oldest of his children by Wind Bends
Grass, possessed the same gifts he did, and sorrow that she was a woman,
and could never be a shaman. And she knew that of all his children, he
loved her best.

The snow, blown off the roofs of the wickiups, piled up in long drifts
on their western sides. The east wind battered Redbird as she plodded
through the winter camp toward one low, rounded black structure that
rose out of t