People of the Wolf (North America’s Forgotten Past) Gear, Kathleen O’Neal and Gear, W. Michael

Description

Product Description
Following a vision of a wolf, a valiant dreamer leads a band of prehistoric people across the Bering Strait to settle in an unspoiled and unpopulated American continent
About the Author

Kathleen O’Neal Gear is a former state historian and archaeologist for Wyoming, Kansas, and Nebraska for the U.S. Department of the Interior. She has twice received the federal government’s Special Achievement Award for “outstanding management” of our nation’s cultural heritage.

W. Michael Gear, who holds a master’s degree in archaeology, has worked as a professional archaeologist since 1978. He is currently principal investigator for Wind River Archaeological Consultants.

The Gears, whose First North American Series and Anasazi Mystery Series, are both international as well as
USA Today bestsellers live in Thermopolis, Wyoming.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1
 
 
The Long Dark continued, unending, eating their souls.
Wind Woman whipped across the frozen drifts, whirling wreaths of snow into the arctic night. In her fury, she blasted the mammoth-hide shelters of the People with a gust that battered the frozen skins over the head of the one called Runs In Light.
Blinking awake, he listened to the howling gale. Around him, the others of the People huddled in their thick robes, deep asleep. Someone snored softly. Cold, so cold…An uncontrollable shiver made him wish they had more fat to burn in the fire hole, but it was gone. Seventeen Long Darks hadn’t put much muscle on his skinny bones to start with—and famine had wasted the rest.
Even old Broken Branch muttered that she’d never seen a winter like this.
Carried on the wind, a faint whimpering came from behind the shelters. Some animal scratched for food scraps the People had long since chipped from the ice. Wolf?
Heart pounding with hope, Runs In Light traced chill-stiff fingers over his atlatl—the ornately carved throwing stick used by the People to catapult stone-tipped darts. He squirmed out from under frosty hides. Creeping tendrils of cold stroked the last warm places on his body as, bent low, he stepped silently over fur-wrapped sleepers. Even in the icy air, the stink of the shelter—occupied for months—came to his nose.
Buried under the hides, Laughing Sunshine’s baby squeaked its hunger. A spear of sound, its pain reflected in Runs In Light’s pinched expression.
“Where are you, Father Sun?” he demanded harshly, tightening his grip on the atlatl until his fingers ached. Then, like a seal through an ice hole, he wiggled under the crawl flap. Wind Woman rushed down from the black northwest, shoving him backward. He steadied himself against the shelter, squinting into the lighter darkness beyond. Snow crystals chittered mutedly on the packed ice.
Wolf’s muffled sounds came again, claws scratching at something buried in the snow.
Runs In Light circled, following the lee of a drift, hoping Wind Woman would keep his scent from wolf’s keen nose. On hands and knees, he crawled to the top of the drift and slithered over the crest on his belly. Dark against the stained snow, wolf struggled to dig Flies Like A Seagull’s body from the clinging ice.
He bowed his head in sorrow.
He’d found his mother frozen in her robes a week before. Echoes of her stories would haunt his mind forever, voice warm as she told him the ways of the People. He smiled wistfully, remembering the light in her eyes as she chanted of the great Dreamers: of Heron and Sun Walker and other legendary heroes of the People. How soft and caring her hand had been as it resettled the furs around a younger and happier Runs In Light’s cold face.
A bitter chill touched his soul as he saw a more recent visage of her toothless death rictus—her frost-grayed eyes.
So many had starved.
Too weak to do more than stumble out of the shelters, the People had carried Flies Like A Seagull’s corpse only this far. Here, on the ice, they’d left her to stare at the