Walk into the Night [antikvár]

'Proie o^ue 1873 The Comanche wind moaned with a pain all its own. It whipped her hair and tore at her doeskin as Storm Trail lifted one leg stiffly over the back of her pony and dropped to the ground. The old bullet wound near her hip throbbed irom sitting so long astride, and something in the small of her back squirmed nastily. Ah, she was old, and he was all of her memories. She jerked at the unbidden thought of him. Why should she think of him now, after so many seasons? Then as she turned slowly to look out at the abandoned camp, she understood. She felt him. He had been here. The lingering ghost of his presence was still in the air, and she had always been able to sense it. She forced herself to walk, picking her way slowly through the hundreds of bumed-out fire pits. Dog-ravaged carcasses of antelope circled the place where the warriors had danced. The earth was packed hard there, and if she closed her eyes, she could ahnost hear their moccasins stomping in desperate urgency. The Nermenuh, the once-mighty Comanche, had flocked here so that Eeshatai The Prophet might give them hope again with his puha, his medicine. Eeshatai had promised that a fire-star would blaze across the night sky, and that there would then come a period of drought. He had told the Nermenuh