Cheyenne Madonna

Cheyenne Madonna
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One stormy night in 1826, just north of Galveston Bay, Old Bull, a Cheyenne Indian who had just seen the ocean for the first time, found himself trying to outrace a hurricane. Lifted from his horse, spun around, and thrown down in the bayou, Old Bull rode the current into a small canyon, and survived. He was the only one of his party to return from the expedition, arriving home nearly naked, nearly hallucinating, riding a horse.<br><br>Such is the auspicious beginning to the life of Jordan Coolwater, a distant relation to Old Bull, whom we meet as a boy in the 1970s, shooting turtles on a summer day, and being raised by his grandparents on Creek Indian land in the house of his great-great-grandfather, a survivor of the &quot;Trail of Tears.&quot; Bearing the burden of his ancestry, Jordan Coolwater&mdash;from bored young boy, to thoughtful teenager, struggling artist, escaped convict, and finally, father&mdash;is the subject of Eddie Chuculate&#39;s prize-winning collection of linked short stories. The first story in the collection, &quot;Galveston Bay, 1826,&quot; won an O&#39;Henry Prize in 2007, and the second, &quot;Yo Yo,&quot; received a Pushcart Prize Special Mention.<br><br>Reminiscent of Denis Johnson&#39;s Jesus&#39;s Son, Chuculate&#39;s gritty, deceptively simple stories also recall Junot Dias and Sherman Alexie. This is not only a portrait of a young Native American artist struggling with the two constants in his life, alcohol and art, but also a portrait of America, of its dispossessed, its outlaws, and its visionaries.

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Eddie Chuculate. Cheyenne Madonna

Galveston Bay, 1826

YoYo

Winter, 1979

A Famous Indian Artist

Dear Shorty

Under the Red Star of Mars

Cheyenne Madonna

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ON THEIR SECOND DAY, Old Bull’s party began to see many wolves and coyotes in the distance, slung low to the ground, throwing backward glances. They appeared in the midafternoon as mirages through a heatwave gauze that rose off the plain and made things shimmer and seem not as they were. One stopped and sat on his haunches and looked behind him. He licked his chops then looked right at Old Bull before slinking away. Something extraordinary was happening, plainly, but Old Bull was unconcerned. There were many days to cover before this Great Lake he had heard so much of. They were Old Bull, Red Moon, Sandman, and Whiteshield. Other than strips of dried meat wrapped in skins, they carried no excess baggage other than an extra horse each on a side rope. Their horses were lean and muscled and born to run. But this wasn’t a war party or a scouting trip. This was plain-and-simple joyriding – an adventure – and who wants to be bogged down on an adventure? Privately, Old Bull thought the stories were exaggerated – days and days of water in either direction? The absolute end of the earth? Surely if this was true, this would be the very origin of their existence, he thought.

The water was very low in the Red River, and they let the horses drink after they crossed. Toward evening the antelope came – sand-brown like the terrain and splotched with white. First one, then in groups of twos and threes. Soon, Old Bull’s party was surrounded front and back by the usually very skittish animal. They stopped their horses and looked in all directions. Old Bull liked the way the antelope sprang in long graceful arcs, one after the other, like they were playing children’s games. But Sandman drew and shot an arrow into one’s neck right at the top of its jump. It fell on its two front legs and lay quivering in the grass. He got down and pulled out his arrow then cut its neck with a quick jerk. He did all this calmly. Old Bull shook his head. Red Moon laughed. That damned Sandman.

.....

“OK then,” Jordan said. “To where?”

“Through that gate right there that goes to that pond.” It was about fifty yards away.

.....

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