The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [262]
Then all the horses had passed her by. As Whinney and Racer stood shivering with fear, the last of the herd disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Ayla shuddered at the distant sound of neighing, screaming, whinnying horses, and then she was stunned by the silence. Whinney and Racer and she, herself, could have been with them. She breathed deeply at the close call, then looked around for Jondalar.
She didn’t see him. The fire was moving south but east; the wind was blowing away from the southwestern edge of the field—but the flames had served their purpose. She looked in all directions, but Jondalar was nowhere in sight. Ayla and the two horses were alone on the smoking field. She felt a lump of fear and anxiety rise in her throat. What happened to Jondalar?
She slid off Racer and, still holding his lead rope, leaped easily onto Whinney’s back, then headed back to the place where they had separated. She scanned the area carefully, walking back and forth, looking for tracks, but the ground was covered with hoofprints. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spied something and ran to see what it was. With her heart pounding in her throat, she picked up Jondalar’s spear-thrower!
Looking more closely, she saw footprints, obviously many people, but distinctive among them were the imprints of Jondalar’s large feet encased in his well-worn boots. She had seen those prints too many times at their campsites to be mistaken. Then she saw a dark spot on the ground. She reached down to touch it and pulled back a fingertip red with blood.
Her eyes opened wide, and fear caught in her throat. Standing where she was, so as not to disturb the signs, she carefully looked around, trying to piece together some sense of what had happened. She was an experienced tracker, and to her trained eye, it soon became clear that someone had hurt Jondalar and dragged him away. She followed the tracks north for a while. Then she took note of her surroundings, so she could pick up the trail again, mounted Whinney, with Racer’s lead firmly in hand, and turned west to retrieve the backpack.
As she rode toward the west, she was scowling, and the hard angry frown expressed exactly how she felt, but she had to think things out and decide what to do. Someone had hurt Jondalar and taken him away, and no one had the right to do that. Perhaps she didn’t understand all the ways of the Others, but that was one thing she knew. She knew something else, too. She didn’t know how yet, but she was going to get him back.
She was relieved when she saw the backpack still leaning against the rock, just as they’d left it. She dumped everything out of it and made a few adjustments so Racer could carry it on his back, then began to repack. She had left off her carrying belt that morning—it had felt rather clumsy—and stuffed everything into the backpack. She lifted the belt and examined the sharp ceremonial dagger that was still in the loop, accidentally pricking herself with the point. She stared at the tiny drop of blood beading up, and for some strange reason she felt like crying. She was alone again. Someone had taken Jondalar away.
Suddenly she put the belt on again and stuffed her dagger, knife, hatchet, and hunting weapons back into it. He wasn’t going to be gone for long! She packed the tent on Racer’s back, but she kept the sleeping roll with her. Who could tell what kind of weather she might run into? She kept a waterbag, too. Then she took out a cake of traveling food and sat down on the rock. It wasn