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  Magic sizzled under Trey’s hand that still rested on Gray Talon’s head as his lover resumed his human form. “What do you mean, not good enough?” Gray Talon asked.

  “I did the best I could on every task he asked me to do. But sometimes I think I should have tried harder.”

  “Copperpot, there is a dent in your shoulder that wasn’t there this afternoon.” Trey wanted to draw the metal man’s attention away from the idea that he wasn’t good enough. For the construct to have such ideas reinforced his own thoughts that it was more than just a magically created piece of metal.

  “Some of the patrons got rowdy this evening during the final show. I had to defend one of the dancing girls from unwanted advances. The man tried shooting me, but the bullet didn’t harm me.” He pointed to a new hole in his shiny abdomen that Trey hadn’t noticed before. “So he hit me with the stock of his rifle. That didn’t hurt me either. But when I hit him, he stopped moving. Mr. Jenkins was very upset. Told me to get out, to run. So I left town. I remembered you from this afternoon, so I thought I would try to find you.”

  Gray Talon stiffened next to Trey. “And how did you find us?”

  “I followed your trail,” he answered.

  The hunter glared at him. “We shouldn’t have left a trail. We are both very careful. We know how to move without leaving evidence.”

  “Everyone leaves a trail. Yours was more obvious to me than most.”

  “What kind of trail?” Trey asked. He had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer. It reinforced the idea that there might be a soul inside the metal housing.

  “Why, the glowing one, of course.” Copperpot stopped and blinked his odd circular eyes. “The creator was upset that I could see the trails too. He said it was something I should never tell people about.”

  “No, I’m not upset that you can see the trail,” Trey said. “That’s very interesting, and it brings us back to the question, who were you before you were Copperpot?”

  “Trey, I’m confused here,” Gray Talon said. “Why are these two questions tied to each other?”

  “Because I think Rockwall is using some kind of magic to call spirits into his constructs. That would explain Copperpot having an aura that should be on a living creature, not a metal man. The fact that he’s able to see the aura trails that people leave behind, and follow them, reinforces that belief.”

  “That’s horrible!” Gray Talon stiffened beside him. “Who would think to disturb the afterlife of another person just to imprison them inside some metal body like this? What kind of monster is McNair?”

  “This makes me want to talk to him all the more, when we get the opportunity,” Trey said. “I know it’s possible to speak with nature spirits, like we did with the Old Man of the Storms, but to summon particular spirits from the afterlife….” He paused but couldn’t think of anything like it. “That’s more than I thought possible.”

  “I don’t completely understand but would like to find out who I was before I was Copperpot,” the construct said.

  “It may take me a while to work out how to find out,” Trey responded.

  Copperpot sat down on the other side of the fire from them. “I have nowhere else to go now that Mr. Jenkins said to leave the saloon. Perhaps I could be of some use to the two of you.” The set of the metal man’s head reminded Trey of a camp dog who stayed by the fire in hopes of scraps being thrown to it.

  “What do you think, Talon?” he asked.

  Gray Talon shrugged. “Can you ride a horse? How will you keep up?”

  “I cannot ride a horse, but I can run very fast. I can be fairly loud when I run, however.”

  “As long as you can be quiet other times, I’m okay with that,” Trey said. “We know you can do dishes and play the piano. What else can you do?”

  “What else do you need done? I can cut wood. I can start a fire. One of the women in the show was teaching me to sew.”

  “Sounds like you’ll make someone a good wife someday,” Gray Talon said with a chuckle.

  “I also do not require sleep, so I can keep watch for you.” There was a tone of hope in the construct’s voice. That alone would’ve been enough to tell Trey there was more to him, even without the other evidence.

  “That might be helpful,” Trey replied. “Let’s see how you do tomorrow, and we’ll make a final decision tomorrow night, when we camp.” He glanced up at the moon, now halfway across the sky. They still had a few hours of sleep. “Let’s get some more sleep, Talon. Copperpot, wake us if there is any trouble.”

  “Very good, Master Trey,” the metal man replied. Seconds later an odd creaking sounded, like he was trying to get more comfortable on the ground.

  Gray Talon wrapped his arms around Trey as they settled back down on their side of the dying fire. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered.

  Trey shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

  7

  THEY’D TRAVELED uphill for two days. Copperpot proved to be every bit as fast as Spot, even with a bit of steam coming from him as he clanked along. The horse took a little while to get used to the noise and tried to stay a safe distance from the construct. Gray Talon circled above as he always did when they traveled. It was a bit lonelier than traveling with Trey, but since he’d learned to change into birds, he nearly always traveled on the wing. High above the rising hills, the wind sang the song of the coming winter. In the early mornings it was harder to find the thermals that made flying easier, but by midafternoon the warmth rolling up from the foothills gave him plenty of lift, and most evenings he was better rested than Trey when they made camp.

  “You are unknown to me!” a crow shouted at him from just above his spiraling path. Gray Talon glanced up and saw three crows matching his flight. As sunlight caught the eye of one, it flashed gold, the eyes of one of the People in animal form.

  “I am Gray Talon, hunter of the Comanche tribe,” he screamed his reply.

  “Why have the Comanche sent a hunter into Absarokee lands?” the crow asked, swooping lower to come in alongside him.

  “We are paying a debt to the Old Man of the Storms,” Gray Talon replied.

  “Does your debt involve the white eyes below and his metal monster?”

  “The white eyes below is my partner. He is also on the quest. The metal man is with us as well.”

  “Our chief will want to speak with you,” the crow cawed as the other two flew off. “Go tell the white eyes to follow us. These hills are our lands. If you do not come along, it will be of little trouble to find you all.”

  Gray Talon didn’t want to be responsible for starting an incident with the Crow. They might not be the fierce warriors that the Sioux were, but they controlled a good bit of land. He’d hoped they could cross without drawing unwanted attention to themselves.

  “How far is your chief?” he asked, angling down to Trey and Copperpot.

  “Not far.”

  “Trey, we’re being asked to meet with the Crow chief,” he called. “Follow this crow and me. Others are already on their way to let the chief know we’re coming.”

  “Is there a big problem?” Trey looked up and shielded his eyes from the sun.

  “I don’t know. They seem a little upset about Copperpot. They refer to him as a monster. He could be a bigger problem than us cutting through their lands without permission.”

  “If we stopped to ask permission of every tribe whose lands we crossed, we wouldn’t get this done until spring thaw.” Trey turned Spot toward the west, the way the crow led Gray Talon.

  The crow led them deeper into the foothills. The paths were almost unperceivable from the ground. Several times Gray Talon had to fly down to show his partner the hidden way. At one point the trail was so covered over, the crow had to swoop down to find the path. This was how the Crow People kept themselves safe from the other tribes and the whites. They knew how to make their world disappear.

  After a couple of hours, a small valley appeared amid
the trees. It was full of tipis and a great number of men, women, and children gathered to await their arrival. All the Crow were in human form. This amazed Gray Talon. Among the Comanche it was a common ritual to meet visitors in the spirit form, to show the strength of the tribe. Other than what he could tell were natural dogs and horses, along with a few ravens perched high on the tipi poles, he couldn’t see any animals standing with the people. He didn’t know enough about the Crow traditions to know if this was normal or not. For the first time in several days, he wished either Laughing Hawk or Singing Crow was with them. He didn’t want to embarrass his people in this meeting.

  The crow he’d followed landed and quickly shifted to human. He was a skinny old man, looking malnourished in his loosely fitting buckskins with long, stringy gray hair. Gray Talon glanced down at where Trey and Copperpot stopped a short distance from the mass of people waiting for them. He followed the crow’s path down and shifted before landing. One second his wings were coming down, the next his moccasin-covered feet ran three steps along the ground and he stood next to the old man crow.

  “My chief,” the old man addressed the tall, powerful man standing in the front of the gathered tribe. “This is Gray Talon, Comanche hunter. He says he is on a journey for the Old Man of the Storms and travels with the white eyes and the metal monster that have followed us here.”

  “Are Cunning Bird’s words true?” the chief asked.

  Gray Talon bowed in respect for the tribal chief. “They are.”

  “If one of the great spirits has sent you into our land, then why has he chosen to send you here with a white eyes and metal monstrosity?” the chief asked.

  “Trey McAlister may be a white by blood, but he has been raised Comanche.” Gray Talon kept his voice even. “He has trained many years at the knee of our shaman, Singing Crow.”

  A whisper rippled through the crowd.

  “We have heard of the great shaman Singing Crow,” the chief replied. “If he has welcomed the white eyes as his student, then he is welcome at my fire this night. Come, Gray Talon of the Comanche. Bring your brother into camp. Tonight you will dine with Jumping Elk. Leave the metal man where he stands. He isn’t welcome here. His kind have done enough damage to my people.”

  Gray Talon wondered how the Crow knew about the constructs, but it was impolite to ask such things until invited to do so. Without changing shape he walked away from the gathered Crow toward Trey. Behind him people moved around. He didn’t turn and look over his shoulder at them. To do so would be seen as a sign of mistrust, and he wasn’t sure he, his partner, and the construct would be able to survive if they angered the tribe.

  “We’re invited to dinner,” he said as he got within earshot. “But Copperpot has to stay out here. Something about his kind hurting the tribe.”

  Trey looked confused as he swung down off Spot. “What?”

  “That’s what Jumping Elk said.” Gray Talon shrugged. “Sounds like the tribe has already encountered constructs. I’m not sure.”

  “I will stay here and watch over the horse,” Copperpot said. “I do not care.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Trey said, patting the construct’s arm. They had both started offering forms of encouragement to the metal man the past couple of days. For a thing made of copper, it showed more and more signs of having a soul, even if Trey hadn’t been able to prove it for sure. Trey loosened the cinch but didn’t take off Spot’s saddle.

  “Okay, Spot, you be a good horse, listen to Copperpot, and we’ll be back.” He rubbed the paint’s neck for a second, and then they turned and walked back toward the encampment.

  Only the chief and a couple of what were probably advisors waited for them. They were perfectly arrayed based on the size of their war bonnets. The chief, in the middle, had the largest one, and several people away, on opposite ends of the line, stood men with only a few feathers in their headdresses. They might not have all had elaborate headdresses, but the chief and his advisors were very powerful men. Gray Talon would have matched them in their human forms with any of the Comanche warriors who made up his own chief’s council. For a moment he wondered if he would ever make chief, and if so, what his council would look like, with Trey standing at his side.

  He stepped up to the Crow chief and gestured for Trey to stand at his side. “Chief Jumping Elk, may I introduce Trey McAlister of the Comanche, student of Singing Crow. Trey McAlister, this is Jumping Elk.”

  Taking off his wide-brimmed hat, Trey made the appropriate bow, and Jumping Elk smiled warmly before bowing himself.

  “You honor us, Chief Jumping Elk,” Trey said as he straightened and put his hat back on.

  The chief’s bow was little more than a nod. “It is always an honor to meet a white eyes that has been accepted into a tribe like the Comanche. Thanks to the likes of Ronald Dabinshire and Rockwall McNair, it is a wonder that any of your kind are not killed on sight by the People. Come, share my tipi and my meal. You and your partner must tell me of your travels.” The chief turned and led them and his counselors into the village.

  Jumping Elk’s tent was near the center; a large fire pit with several communal benches waited nearby. Several women busied themselves with a deer turning on a spit over the fire. They glanced coyly, as women were bound to do when they didn’t think men would catch them, at the men walking past. It reminded Gray Talon of his own tribe.

  The tipi itself wasn’t much larger than the ones around it. The hides forming the outside were all dyed black, and a red elk painted above the entrance flap was the only adornment. One of the lower-ranking counselors held the flap aside as they entered. Had it not been for a bright fire, the tent would’ve been as dark as night inside. Gray Talon wondered why anyone would dye a tent black, but again, it would be impolite to ask.

  Jumping Elk walked around to the far side of the fire and sat down. The others appeared to have regular seats as well and walked calmly over to them, leaving two spaces to the left of the chief open for Trey and Gray Talon. As the older hunter, Gray Talon took the seat closest to the chief. The advisor who held the door dropped the flap. Shadows and silence filled the tipi, interrupted only by the scuff of the men’s moccasins on the richly woven rugs that covered the floor.

  “So what is it like to deal with the Old Man of the Storms?” Jumping Elk asked once the final advisor was seated.

  “I don’t know,” Gray Talon replied. “Trey and Singing Crow were the ones who met with him, right after our last buffalo hunt.”

  “So the Comanche try to appease the storm spirit to find buffalo now?” one of the advisors asked from the far side of the fire. His war bonnet was made of hawk feathers, telling Gray Talon he was not in line to be chief. If he were, the bonnet would’ve been eagle feathers. But there was a plethora of feathers, indicating he was a great hunter and warrior.

  “No, there was a storm moving in as we were preparing the kills,” he explained. “If we hadn’t asked the storm to go around us, it would’ve spoiled much of the meat, leaving our tribe hungry this winter.”

  “We have heard that even the Sioux now struggle to find enough buffalo to feed their people,” another man spoke up. Gray Talon couldn’t tell which one in the tipi’s shadows.

  “I haven’t spoken with the Sioux personally, but I have heard that is true,” Gray Talon replied. “The past years we have had to ride long distances to find the herds and make costly treaties to hunt. This year the Arapaho allowed us to hunt their lands in exchange for a very large amount of meat so that their wives and children do not hunger this winter.”

  “It has been two turns of the seasons since we last saw a buffalo in our normal hunting grounds,” Jumping Elk said. Sorrow clouded his voice. “We are fortunate that near our winter camps, the elk herds are still strong. It is said that the whites’ iron horse will soon be laid across even our tallest of mountains, bringing even more of them from beyond the Great River.”

  “That is sad news that I had not heard,” Gray Talon repl
ied. He wondered how the elders of the Comanche would react to such news. They fought the expansion of the railroad where they could, but the whites outnumbered them more every year.

  The door skin moved aside, and several women carried food in for them. They set platters of meat, fruit, and tubers down in front of the men, then, without making a sound, retreated from the tipi.

  Jumping Elk picked up a large piece of meat. “Unfortunately it isn’t just their iron horse that brings problems. Now they’ve brought metal men to kill us.”

  “Cunning Bird mentioned something about the metal men when he met me in the skies over the valley east of here.” Gray Talon took his own piece of the savory deer meat. “He distrusts our friend Copperpot but wouldn’t say why.”

  “How did you come by this metal man?” the advisor with many hawk feathers asked as he reached for a tuber.

  “We met him in Cheyenne.” Trey spoke up for the first time since entering the tent. He paused with a piece of meat in his fingers. “He is a magical construct. From what I have been able to tell, there is a human soul trapped in the metal body.”

  “How is such an abomination possible?” Jumping Elk asked.

  “I am hoping to consult with others trained in the magical arts to get their opinions,” Trey replied. “It seems a vast injustice to the spirit trapped within. I’d enjoy speaking with your shaman before we take our leave to complete the journey that the storm spirit set us on.”

  A dark frown creased Jumping Elk’s face as he sighed. “It is most unfortunate that all of our shamans were killed a moon back, slaughtered by a party of the metal men that attacked us looking for someone.”

  The deer meat in Gray Talon’s mouth lost all flavor. How could a tribe function without its shamans? Who would teach the young children the mysteries of spirit? Who would lead the souls of the dead to the afterworld so they wouldn’t haunt the living?