But then she thought of that terrible wind, sharp as a pale eyes' steel knife, shrieking around Gray Cloud's body. If she did something now, he might live; and if she did nothing, he was sure to die.
She had loved Gray Cloud for as long as she could remember. To be without him—she could not bear to think of it.
She had heard 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."