Changing Times
Jump squinted as early morning light warmed her face, waking her. She tried to sit up and immediately regretted the decision as she felt the massive lump on her head. She let out a groan as she laid back in the bed of furs, taking in the roof of the ragged tent she found herself in.
“Glad to see you awake, you had me worried,” Albert said, piercing the morning quiet. He leaned over Jump and adjusted the bandage on her head. “You’ve been out cold all night.”
“Where am I? Where is Kip?” Jump asked, urgency creeping into her voice.
“We’re at your people’s camp,” Albert said and then paused, his face taking on a pained expression. “I’m sorry about Kip, he didn’t make it through the night. I tried to tend to him, but I had to take care of you first. I was too late, and I’m sorry.”
The scout was speechless, but Albert could see the grief in her eyes. He knelt beside her as her body began to shake and placed his hand on her shoulder. After a few moments, Jump could not control herself anymore, and her body was wracked by sobs. Albert held her shoulder reassuringly, doing the best he could to comfort her.
Eventually Jump’s sobs began to subside, and she dried her eyes. “Can I see him?” she asked, desperation in her eyes.
“Yes, child. He’s in the camp. I thought you would want to pay your last respects.” Albert helped Jump stand up and steadied her as her vision blurred and head swam. Once she had her balance, he asked, “Can you walk now? I’ll be right beside you.” The scout nodded curtly and led the way from the tent.
It was no longer dawn, and the camp was bustling with White Legs carrying out their duties. As Albert guided her, Jump could not help but notice the people that pointed and stared, others whispering among themselves as she passed. She had to lean heavily on the Old One, uncertain of her balance, but the pair steadily made their way to the edge of the camp where Kip’s body rested.
He was wrapped in an ornate hide, beaded with patterns of paw prints. Only his head stuck out from the shroud, concealing his grievous wound. Jump knelt beside her loyal companion and cradled his head in her arms, deeply lost in thought. Albert could not help but be touched by the relationship Jump had with her dog, and it reminded him of the fundamental goodness he had seen in the White Legs. The events of Jericho became much clearer in that moment; he had been the root of the evil, not the White Legs. Albert’s people had destroyed the world, and he had given the White Legs a taste of that power without any hesitation. How could they know when one older and supposedly wiser than them had seen no issue?
As Jump prayed over her fallen companion, Albert made his own vow within his heart. No longer would he try to teach the White Legs; his way had led them to unspeakable evils. Instead, he would learn from them.
As Jump rose, cradling Kip in her arms, she headed to the funeral pyre that had been built by her tribesmen. She gently laid the dog atop the wood, and a White Leg approached bearing a torch. Jump lit the pyre and watched as the flames licked at Kip’s body, helping his spirit run forevermore on the wind.
As the ceremony ended, Jump returned to her mentor and took his arm once more. Before she could say anything, Albert hesitatingly attempted to speak in the White Legs’ tongue, saying, “I’d like learn your language. You know mine, now you teach me.” Jump’s face lit up as she let out a laugh, concerning Albert. “What, did I say something wrong?!” he demanded.
Jump could barely gather her breath she was laughing so hard, but finally gained control of herself. “You just said you wanted to taste me! Maybe you are a monster!” she teased.
Albert laughed at his mistake before replying, “See, I need your help to learn!” With that, the pair made their way back to camp, picking up as if they had never been apart. Things were different, but their friendship had grown back stronger than before.
Cornelius looked down on the bodies of his slain legionaries with disgust and outrage. The savages had left them to rot in the dust, disrespecting loyal servants of Caesar. One bore a crude slashing wound to the back, while the other had been shot and mauled by a dog. The combination of wounds in the heart of White Legs’ territory gave a clear indication of who was at fault, but the white paint coating the slain men's hands erased all doubt.
Cornelius had returned to the Utah to collect further tribute from the White Legs, but the murder of his men was just the latest disaster. First, the frumentarius had disappeared into the wastes without a trace, leaving the White Legs without Caesar’s steady hand to guide them. Salt had become sullen and disrespectful, arrogant from his victories, and no legionary had been there to put the savage in his place; Cornelius planned to rectify that mistake.
Cornelius and his remaining contubernium made their way back to the camp, bearing their fallen comrades. The group followed their leader to the tent of Salt-Upon-Wounds. As they made their way through the camp, the legionaries were wary of the tribals they passed. None would meet their gaze, and they all seemed to know the crime that had been committed. Only the Legion’s iron discipline had kept the men from taking their revenge, but Cornelius knew he could not contain their rage for long.
As Cornelius and his followers reached Salt’s tent, they were halted by the tribal sentries, bearing looted storm drums. One of Cornelius’ men tightened his grip on his rifle, but the decanus subtly calmed him. “I have come to see your chief. I demand he hear my complaints,” Cornelius sternly commanded the sentries.
Before the sentries could reply, Salt-Upon-Wounds emerged from the tent, inscrutable beneath his mask. Cornelius eyed the chief, taking note of the new scar along his arm. Otherwise, the chief remained unchanged, still as savage as the day they parted. The chief said nothing to the legionaries, enraging Cornelius.
The decanus motioned to his men, and they laid their fallen comrades before Salt. “The Legion demands compensation. Pay and be grateful we don’t ask for more!” Cornelius exclaimed.
“No,” Salt replied. “White Leg women are not your slaves, and your men learned that lesson.”
“So you know what happened?! I demand justice!” Cornelius blurted, outraged by the savage’s insolence.
“It is White Leg justice. Be happy we did not kill all the Legion dogs infesting our camp!” Salt sneered in reply.
“You dare seek the wrath of Caesar? The Son of Mars shall rain destruction down upon you if you do not repent!”
“Mars has no power here, and we are no longer afraid of his Son. The White Legs are strong and will not be bullied. Justice was done, and your threats change nothing. Now be gone from our camp!”
“You savages!” Cornelius exclaimed as he moved to draw his rifle. However, Salt was like a blur, grabbing Cornelius by his tunic and forcing the rifle from his hands.
“You lucky we honor the guest rite. Go, before I change my mind,” Salt growled. Cornelius saw his terrified reflection in Salt’s lifeless mask; it had finally dawned on him that his life was in danger.
After the slightest nod of assent from the beleaguered decanus, Salt released him. “We shall go, but Caesar will hear of this outrage!” Cornelius replied as he led his men away in a hurry.
“Do not worry. Slaves and tribute will flow but carried by White Legs now. No Legion shall walk our lands,” Salt replied. Cornelius muttered a reply and led his men from Indian Peak, trying to maintain a dignified walk until they were out of sight. Salt kept his expressionless gaze upon them, contemplating what the Legion would do when they received word of this insult. It would be some months until they received a reply, but Salt was certain it could not be good…
