Nightrise

whooping. The bow was in his hands.

    For a moment Banes stood there, unaware that his hand had dropped and that the gun was now pointing at the ground. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Hot blood flowed over his lower lip.
    His last thought was that he had never expected to die like this, and certainly not quite so soon. Then he fell to his knees and crashed facedown into the sand.
    Max Koring stood up shakily. A few supervisors were still firing but it was already over. The last of the vehicles had disappeared into the desert night.

    ***
    Sunrise.
    Daniel McGuire woke up and found himself lying on a thick, woolen rug in a tent that was completely circular, tapering to a point high above him. The walls were made of some sort of leather and were wrapped around a framework of wooden poles. There was a flap for the door and he could see the sunlight filtering through the cracks. It was still early in the morning. The air inside the tent was cool and the light was tinged with red.
    He had slept fully dressed. He blinked and stretched and then crawled forward, pushing his way through the flap. He saw at once that he was in the mountains. There were great boulders all around and although the tent had been erected on a flat shelf, the ground rose up steeply behind him. And it wasn't a tent.
    Looking around, Daniel saw that he had spent the night in an Indian tepee.
    There was a figure sitting cross-legged in front of a small campfire, his eyes fixed on the smoke curling into the air. Daniel recognized the man who had helped rescue him the night before. What had Jamie called him? Joe. Now Daniel recalled what had happened. The sudden appearance of Jamie in his cell, the blackout, the gunshots, the race out of the prison. As he had woken up, he had thought it might all have been a dream, but with full wakefulness came the knowledge that it had actually happened. And Jamie…
    "Where is he?" he asked.
    Joe Feather turned. 'You must have something to drink," he said. "And eat…"
    "Is he all right?"
    Joe gestured. Daniel had noticed a number of bundles spread out over the ground. Now he saw that one of them was Jamie, completely wrapped in blankets with only his face showing. The face was very white. His eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be breathing.
    "Is he dead?" Daniel asked.

    "He is very close to death." Joe's voice was low. "I have done what I can for him."
    "We've got to get him to a hospital!"
    "A hospital cannot help him now. And anyway, there is no hospital. Not for thirty miles. Even if we could carry him there, he would be dead before he arrived."
    "Then what are we going to do?"
    'You are going to eat and drink."
    "I don't want anything…"
    Joe's eyes flared. "This boy risked his life to take you out of Silent Creek. You won't help him by sitting there, dehydrating. He wanted to take you back to your mother, and I will make sure that happens. But for now you must trust me."
    "Can you help him?"
    "I have already helped him. I have called for the shaman. The shaman will be here soon."
    Daniel nodded. There was a bottle of water and a basket containing fruit, bread, and some sort of dried meat. He forced himself to eat. Joe was right. He could hardly believe it but the nightmare of Silent Creek was finally behind him — and it was all thanks to this boy he had never met but who somehow knew his mother. He glanced across at the silent figure. He remembered the moment when the bullet had hit him as they sped out of the compound. It seemed so unfair. One more minute and they would have been away.
    The morning wore on. The sun rose, becoming ever hotter. Jamie had been placed in the shade, protected by a great boulder. Daniel was worried that someone would find them — the police must surely be looking for them by now — but Joe seemed unconcerned. But then, of course, Native Americans had spent years hiding in the mountains.
    Not being found had been the only way for some of them to survive.
    A little before midday, there was a movement and a figure appeared, riding on a horse. At first it was difficult to see who it was. The sun was behind the person, who seemed to shimmer, out of focus, as the warm air rose up from the ground. But Joe sprang to his feet, relief flooding into his face. Daniel understood.
    It was the shaman. The medicine man.

    The horse and its rider seemed to take forever to reach them, struggling against both the steepness of the slope and the heat of the day. Daniel saw the