"Kathleen O' Neal & Michael W. Gear - People 3 - People Of The Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Neal Kathleen)

He still held the fossil shark's tooth. The stone felt cool and heavy
in his hand. How many centuries had it lain next to that skeleton? How
did a bunch of dumb Indians drill a hole through stone like that? What
damn Indian would have done such a thing? Who the hell cared? Skip had
a project to build.
Prologue

Three Forks Camp, Wind Basin, 5,000 years before present.

Sandstone the color of dried blood rose in a sheer ridge that jutted
from the rich grasses of the river bottom. The shape of the ridge
goaded Sage Ghost's frightened imagination while he lay hidden in the
grass; it looked as if some huge buffalo's back thrust up from the land
itself to shelter the Earth People's camp from the prevailing winds. He
shifted his gaze back to the camp he spied on. Sage Ghost belonged to
the Sun People--a member of the White Clay clan. Here, in this
southern land, he hunted again. He pitted his skill and cunning
against an unknown people. Failure would mean swift death.

A shaft of sunlight split the clouds, brightening the crimson stone of
the ridge until the rock seemed to burn. Erosion had carVed the
slopes; Sage Ghost could see the bones within the buffalo-shaped ridge.
Did his imagination trick him, or did the ridge contain some Power he
couldn't understand?

Is that the Power of the Earth People ? Do they draw monsters from the
din and rock? Stories told by Traders haunted his memory--stories of
Spirits the Earth People had tied to the rocks and trees. And if the
Earth People catch me, is that what they'll do? Kill me? Trap my soul
in the ground to wail forever in darkness? Thunderbird, help me!
Taking a deep breath to buttress his courage, he returned his attention
to the camp.

The spot had been well chosen, with a southern exposure to catch the
sun in winter. Five earthen mounds humped the sandy soil at the base
of the ridge. Each no more than four long paces across, the dwellings
resembled wasp nests, or the doings of some huge mud dauber. Openings,
at ground
level, faced the southeast. For the moment, the door flaps of tanned
animal hide had been rolled up and tied with thongs.

A group of elderly men and women sat under a sagebrush sunshade in the
trampled place between the structures. A smoldering fire contributed
desultory tendrils of blue smoke to the evening. With a great waving
of arms and cackling speech, one of the old women dominated the group
as she told a story. Heads nodding and bobbing, the listeners watched
enraptured. The odd language carried to where Sage Ghost lay. Their
tongue sounded like the cooing and clucking of the mourning doves--and
every bit as incomprehensible to him.