Powderhand and Two Young Bears exchanged glances. Hunting Wolf smiled to himself, although his handsome, wounded face remained set hard as rock. ‘And if it defeats me, my brothers, it is free to release its chaos into the world.’

Powderhand drew himself up. ‘You are the shaman. It is in your hands.’

Hunting Wolf nodded. ‘You think also that I bring it, do you not? You think that to leave me here and take our camp back to the reserve would save you.’

The young man looked anxious, the heat rising to his cheeks. Hunting Wolf made a small gesture with his hand. ‘I saw as I flew with the Eagle, my friend. I meant not to hear your words to the company, but the spirit guided me down to your shoulder as you spoke to them. Understand me. I lay no blame at your feet.’

Powderhand stood up abruptly, his face blazing now.

‘So you use your magic to spy on us? It seems that is a more simple spell than the one you cannot conjure to rid us of this demon.’

He pulled his blanket over a heavily-belted woollen jacket and left the tipi, a flurry of snow entering the warm circle as he let the flap of hide flutter in the wind after him.

Hunting Wolf put a hand to his wounded cheek and spoke softly to Two Young Bears. ‘I am tired now, Brother. Follow him and calm his anger which grows from fear. I cannot.’

The thickset young man stood, put on his wide-brimmed hat and touched his heart in salute to his chief, leaving the warm tipi with more grace than his companion.

Hunting Wolf let himself slump back on the piles of skins that made up his bed. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the wind and snow against the tipi and the small noises of Singing Tree working in her wooden bowl.