Читать книгу Still Standing: Surviving Custer's Last Battle - Part 1 - Judith Gotwald - Страница 5

Summer was new and the days seemed endless. Time itself seemed to stand still for young Sioux boys on the western plains. The year was 1854 and things were beginning to change for the Lakota Sioux. The rhythm of life was growing less certain.

For centuries, June had been predictable. Each spring, there were new boys entering into the pastimes of childhood for the first time. Likewise, some older boys were ready to move on to become warriors, husbands and providers. For the first time they would not be part of the fun. Despite the shifting cast of players, the last days of spring and first days of summer had for centuries meant long days of play for the boys of the Plains tribes. The rituals of youth were new only to them.

Curly and Hump were best of friends, spending nearly every minute of every day as companions. A few months earlier, their fathers and uncles had taken them on their first bison hunt. They would soon be considered men. Each boy was aware that this summer would be the last spent as children. They meant to make the most of it.

Last summer, they had spent most of their time with their horses, mastering riding and weaponry skills. Curly and Hump would ride circles around the Indian camp, daring each other to greater feats, especially when the girls of the tribe were watching. This year, they adopted a more challenging game. Raid. The object of Raid was to sneak into a neighboring camp at night and steal something — anything — for no other reason than to prove they were masters of stealth.

Tonight the game was to take a new twist. Instead of raiding a neighboring Indian camp, the boys found themselves hiding in the bluffs overlooking the supply road to Fort Laramie.

Earlier in the day, Curly and Hump had been hanging out at the trading post near the fort. They had nothing to buy or trade, but they found it to be a fascinating place. They watched and listened as soldiers and wagon trains came through. If they were quiet, people would forget they were there. They would learn all sorts of things which they thought might be important, even if they had no idea how at the moment.

And so on this day they took up their favorite positions on one end of the trading post porch to watch the passing scene. Soldiers were coming and going. They rode up to the post on large horses bigger than those Curly and Hump were used to. They tied their horses to a hitching bar, something Curly and Hump never bothered to do. They strode into the post with their arms swinging but came out with a sack in one arm and a bottle in the other.

No soldier entered the post without a greeting from a few soldiers resting on the other end of the porch. Most visitors to the post were of the same rank, so they addressed one another with no military protocol.

“Hiya, Larkin. Missed you on our scouting expedition yesterday.”

“Missed you, too, Foster. I drew drudge duty in the fort. What did I miss?”

“We rode twenty miles east. Saw a couple of Indian camps. Ran into one wagon train. Settlers. Religious in nature. Just what this territory needs.”

“Any women with them?”

All the soldiers laughed.

“None that would catch your eye, Larkin. Looked like they were all taken. Children all over the place.”

Another soldier muttered, “That’s never stopped Larkin before.”

The men laughed louder.

Larkin accepted the insult. “Sounds like you are speaking for yourself.”

Curly and Hump just looked at each other. They were learning English from these short exchanges. Hump mouthed silently, “Sounds like you are speaking for yourself.”

For Curly and Hump, the most important part of the exchange was new information. Curly signaled it was time for them to leave. Hump instinctively knew the plan. They whistled for their horses, which came at an enthusiastic trot. Fleet was Curly’s horse, a gift from his father. Boldheart was Hump’s horse. Boldheart was an older horse, passed on to him after the death of an uncle in battle. Hump accepted the horse as an honor. Both boys loved their horses as if they were human, almost as extensions of themselves. They jumped onto the horses’ backs and headed east.

+ + +

Curly and Hump rode Fleet and Boldheart along the hills parallel to what the soldiers called “The Holy Road.” Neither Curly or Hump knew where the dusty road began or where it ended, but they knew that hundreds of people—soldiers, trappers, and settlers—were following it through their hunting grounds. Anything along that road was in their territory and was fair game to them.

They rode for an hour, careful to stay behind the bluffs and out of sight. As soon as they found a protected area, they left their horses to graze and went ahead on foot, crouching as they inched toward the edge of a bluff. The Holy Road lay below them with a small meadow between the road and a stream.

They waited. It wasn’t long before they heard the first hoofbeats, moans of cattle and the rumbling and clanking of wagons, loaded full of household and farming equipment.

The day was drawing to a close. Curly and Hump hid in the deep grass at the edge of the bluff. They guessed that this would be the best stopping point for the settlers to spend the night. They were right. As the wagons came close, a man at the front waved his arm above his head in a wide circle.

The first wagon swung wide into the meadow and stopped. The dozen wagons following pulled close to the one in front of it, forming a tight circle. At the end of the procession was a solitary man on horseback herding a few tired cows and some spare horsepower.

The animals were led close to the stream, largely blocked from Curly and Hump’s line of sight. The wagons were crammed together so tightly that Curly and Hump could catch only glimpses of the inner circle and what was happening between the enclosure and the stream.

Older children were carrying buckets of water for cooking and cleaning. Women busied themselves making fires. The men were scattered. Some seemed to be inspecting wagons; others tended the working livestock. One mother filled a tub with several of the buckets of water carried by the older children. They began to bathe two toddlers. Small children ran about almost as freely as Sioux children, but Hump and Curly noticed that they were never far from parental eyes. They felt not the least bit envious.

Hump looked at Curly and shrugged. Silently, they agreed that this domestic scene might not be the challenge they were hoping for in their game of Raid, but it was something to do. If they were clever, they could make it sound more exciting tomorrow when they bragged to their friends.

They waited together, comfortable in their silence. As the aroma of cooked meat rose into the air, they pulled some dried pemmican from the leather pouches tied to their waists and gnawed at their rough dinner. They knew each other so well that there was no need for words. Soon it grew dark. Quiet slowly settled over the circled wagons.

As the full moon rose, the last figures left the fireside, busying themselves with a few final chores. One by one, they climbed into the wagons for the night, Hump pointed to the horses and a few cows tied close to the stream. Curly signaled “no.” Hump saw why. Two men were standing guard near the livestock.

Both boys hoped for a challenge. The game had no point if it was too easy. They would hold the livestock as an option, but silently they waited for a greater challenge to arise.

They started to climb down from the bluff toward the camp. They heard the settlers’ horses whinny. The boys paused. The animals sensed their presence. The guards paid no attention as they whispered to one another. Curly and Hump sneaked into camp from the opposite side, staying close to the wagons. They could hear the slow, rhythmic, sleep breathing from the wagons as they paused to look around.

Embers from a cooking fire cast a dim light and long shadows. Near the fire was a cooking pot and several dishes and spoons. Moving closer to the fire would risk detection. The guards’ backs were turned but the slightest sound would surely draw attention.

Curly, the smaller of the two, motioned that he would make his move. Curly weighed his options: move fast and risk making a noise or take more care and risk longer exposure to danger. He decided to strike for the middle.

He moved deliberately, but boldly. He walked to the fire and grabbed the cooking pot, turned as if it were his own campfire, and walked back to Hump, who was waiting by the wheel of a wagon.

Hump touched Curly on the back in silent congratulations. Hump wanted a piece of the action and started toward the fire. Curly grabbed his arm. Again they heard the horses sensing what the guards did not. Curly turned to head back for the bluffs. Hump took one last look at the camp. He saw something under the wagon where he had been hiding. He grabbed it and followed Curly, not looking at his prize. The boys climbed the bluff. As soon as they were out of earshot of camp they felt the first thrill of their success.

Suddenly, a loud shout rose from the camp. Several rifles sounded. Curly and Hump ducked low. Had they been seen? Quickly, the camp was astir. Curly and Hump felt the instinct to run but knew that their moving forms would be silhouetted in the moonlight. They would make easy targets for the settlers with powerful shotguns.

They watched carefully, preparing themselves to make the right move at the right time. The men were hastily pulling on jackets and grabbing for rifles. Both Curly and Hump noticed that their attention was directed toward the livestock. The men were not coming toward them but headed towards the creek and their horses and cows.

This was the moment they were waiting for. They broke into a run and did not stop until they reached Fleet and Boldheart, who carried them home.

The boys encountered no one as they arrived at camp. Night was nearly over. Daylight would break in only a few hours. They ducked into Curly’s family tipi. A low fire burned. The boys sat quietly by the fire surrounded by Curly’s family sleeping under buffalo robes. Curly set his cooking pot on the fire with pride. He whispered to Hump, asking him to show him what he had found. Hump looked down at his prize and tried to hide it. Curly grabbed for it several times and finally succeeded in wresting it from Hump. He moved it close to the fire and he saw Hump’s trophy—a doll.

Embarrassment overtook Hump. Curly tried to contain his laughter. Both boys rushed from the lodge to avoid waking the family.

It was to be a long, memorable night of camaraderie. That night, when they were done reliving their exploit, they would sleep on the prairie with Fleet and Boldheart.

+ + +

Daybreak soon dawned on one of the longest days of the year. Hump and Curly awoke to the chatter of other boys, racing about the camp, collecting their horses. As soon as all the boys were all on horseback they would make their plans for the day.

Lone Bear shook a groggy Curly awake.

“I saw the present you left for mother,” he said excitedly. “Tell me about it.”

Curly was dragging, his long night finally taking its toll. “It was nothing,” he answered his younger brother as he stretched and yawned.

Hump woke up with more energy. “Nothing?” he said. “We faced a whole tribe of soldiers on the Holy Road.”

Lone Bear listened, his eyes growing wide as Hump continued his story. Curly added nothing as Hump weaved a story with practiced ease. The soldiers were many. The guns were big. Lone Bear never stopped to think that with all the paraphernalia of a soldier’s camp, their loot was a simple cooking pot! Hump was like a second big brother to him, not to be questioned.

When Hump neared the end of his story, Curly broke in. “Lone Bear, fetch Fleet for me.” Lone Bear looked confused. Fleet was only a few yards away and would surely come with a whistle, but he dutifully followed his brother’s order.

With Lone Bear distracted, Curly nudged Hump. “I was waiting to hear the part about the doll,” he said.

“I was getting to it,” Hump answered with no embarrassment, knowing that warriors had bragging rights to even the smallest victories.

Soon all the boys were on horseback, riding freely on the plains around the camp. At first they rode for speed. Then they turned to tricks, ducking low on either side of their horses. When all the boys were duly impressed, the older boys looked for a new audience and began riding closer and closer to camp.

The young girls of the camp were busy with chores, preparing food, washing and mending clothing and tents, and looking after the youngest and oldest members of the tribe. The boys’ antics were an entertaining sideshow. The mothers would wait as long as they could before interfering. “Pay attention to your work,” they chided. The girls responded with obedience but stole a glance whenever they could.

When they tired of this pastime, the younger boys rode to the bank of the river flowing by the encampment. The horses needed rest and water but that would not stop the boys’ fun. They dismounted and left their horses to drink and graze. They grabbed sticks from the bushes and scooped up some mud from the river bank.

Each boy took a position along the river and began flinging mud from the end of their sticks, aiming at the others. With each successful strike a boy would run up to his victim and touch him with the stick.

Curly and Hump joined the younger boys by the river but they stayed put, watching from horseback. Last year, they had played this game with the others, but somehow, today, following their night’s adventure, it seemed like child’s play.

“Look at Lone Bear,” Hump said as the younger boy rushed to touch another boy with his stick. “He is counting more coup than any of the other boys.”

Curly had spent much of his childhood listening to the warriors returning from battle with tales of “counting coup.” Touching a fallen enemy would transfer the enemy’s power to the victor.

“Lone Bear will be a great warrior someday,” Curly answered with pride.

“Like his brother,” Hump added.

“Like his father,” Curly replied.

“Your father is not a warrior,” Hump said. “Has he ever counted coup on an enemy?”

Curly would have been offended had this comment come from anyone but Hump. Hump hung his head, recognizing that his words stung in a way he had not intended.

“Some warriors draw strength from touching their enemies in defeat,” Curly said. “Our father has not taught us this. Our father has found strength elsewhere.”

Hump did not know how to answer. He knew Curly’s father well. He was a quiet man, known throughout many tribes for his wisdom. It would be easy to ridicule him for not fighting and not taking revenge on his enemies. But Crazy Horse had always been different. Hump could see that his friend Curly had many of his father’s traits. He regretted his remark deeply.

“Still, Lone Bear shows promise,” he concluded.

The sound of approaching horses brought all fun to an end. Curly and Hump, still on horseback, motioned to the boys to come away from the river to higher ground. The boys quickly obeyed. All horses were left to roam as the boys hid in the grass. It was unsettling to look down at their homes where their mothers and fathers were facing imminent danger. They felt helpless.

Soon the horses came into sight. Several dozen cavalrymen stopped near the edge of camp. A wagon carried a large gun. One soldier rode ahead to the center of camp with another rider, not in uniform.

“Who is that man with the soldier?” Hump asked Curly in a whisper.

Curly had seen this man many times near the fort and at the trading post.

“It is Wyuse. He is a half-breed. He has no dealings with us. He lives with the white man.”

The boys watched as Conquering Bear, their tribal leader, came to meet the soldiers. They could not hear what was being said, but Conquering Bear led the soldiers to a tipi. He looked inside but nothing seemed to be happening. Conquering Bear, the soldier, and Wyuse walked back and forth between the tipi and the troops several times. They could see that Conquering Bear was losing patience. Wyuse and the soldier walked away toward the awaiting troops.

Suddenly the boys heard the loudest noise they had ever heard. It was like a hundred gunshots. A percussive roar filled the air. For a brief moment all fell quiet. In seconds, every warrior in the village appeared. Arrows flew. All the soldiers lay dead. Wyuse screamed and ran, ducking into the nearest tipi.

The respected tribal leader, Conquering Bear, was lying in a pool of blood.He was the village’s only victim.

The ensuing rage was instantaneous. The boys watched as warriors dragged Wyuse from his hiding place to the center of camp. Each took a turn kicking him until he lay still. The braves walked away, leaving the body of Wyuse only a few yards from where Conquering Bear still lay. All attention was turned toward their fallen leader.

Slowly, the boys emerged from their hiding places. They walked to the center of camp unnoticed by their elders who were busy caring for their chief. The oldest boys, Hump and Curly included, took turns filing silently past the body of the dead half-breed, lifting their breechcloths in disdain.

+ + +

No one needed to say a word. It was clear to even the smallest child that something terrible had just happened and that their adults had no more power to control events than they had. Curly and Hump stood with their friends who only moments before had been reveling in youthful exploits. Now they could do little more than watch with rage growing inside them. The blast of a single gun had changed everything.

The village seemed to be paralyzed. But it was quickly coming back to life. The men of the village gathered around their tribe’s fallen leader, Conquering Bear. The women brought a buffalo robe and spread it on the ground.

Four warriors carefully lifted his bleeding body and laid him on the robe. One man stood over Conquering Bear, chanting a healing song.

As they watched their fathers and uncles carry Conquering Bear to his tipi, the boys broke their silence.

“Conquering Bear will die.” Hump voiced what each boy feared.

The boys felt invisible. They were left alone to watch their own village as if it were a colony of ants rebuilding after a heavy foot destroyed the hills and tunnels that had been built with care.

Soon there was new activity. The women began taking down the tipis. “We are running,” Curly said with resentment.

He knew the routine. More soldiers would be coming with more guns and more anger. The village, peaceful and happy only minutes before, now faced danger. The sound of the gun had probably been heard as far as the trading post. Word would soon reach the fort that shots had been heard, followed by silence. Soldiers would be coming, armed for revenge. They knew that within minutes their camp would be abandoned leaving only the bodies of the dead soldiers.

No Sioux dared to be present when they arrived. The boys continued their vigil, watching as the village went into its familiar nomadic routine. Curly thought back to the morning of carefree fun. He instinctively knew his childhood had ended.

At first, the boys tried to piece together what had happened. They gathered the bits of gossip they could hear. “The soldiers were angry that a warrior killed an old cow belonging to a wagon train of settlers,” someone said.

Curly and Hump exchanged glances. Surely, this was the same party of settlers they had raided last night. Had the soldiers been looking for them? Were they to blame for Conquering Bear’s death? Guilt paralyzed them. They could do nothing but listen.

“This is Flat Forehead’s fault,” another boy added. “The soldiers were looking for him. He was hiding in a tipi and would not come out.”

Curly and Hump took their first unmeasured breath since they had heard about the cow, but they were still too frightened to add anything.

They listened as various boys added what they had been able to learn to the story.

Lone Bear nudged Curly. “They are saying it happened last night along the Holy Road. You and Hump were there, weren’t you?”

Curly said, “Quiet!” Lone Bear knew when Curly meant business and he immediately fell silent. Soon the details started to come together. Last night, Flat Forehead had fired an arrow at a weak cow belonging to a wagon train of Mormon settlers.

The settlers chased him, but when they couldn’t catch him, they rode into Fort Laramie, reported the incident, and demanded that the soldiers take action.

Curly thought that what he was hearing did not make sense. It was common for warriors to steal from settlers traveling on the army supply roads. It was fun for them, nothing more than a stunt — just like Curly and Hump’s late night raid. There was certainly no reason to visit an entire Indian village with a huge gun. If Flat Forehead had meant to seriously harm the settlers he would have aimed his arrow at a healthy working horse, not a sick cow.

Curly thought back to their raid. The horses had probably been whinnying because Flat Forehead was nearby. The shout that had awakened the camp was probably alerting them about the ambushed cow. Last night’s adventure had been more dangerous than he or Hump had imagined and just now they didn’t dare tell their story.

Curly said, “More soldiers will be coming.”

“We must prepare to fight,” the oldest boy said. His comment ended the boys’ gossiping and the boys were suddenly alert.

There was much to do and each boy thought back to his childhood dreams of manhood and chose a role to play. While the village stood watch over Conquering Bear, they would get ready. The war paint would be mixed, the ponies prepared. This was their turn to face glory for the first time.

Curly slowly retreated from his friends. His future had been much on his mind. Suddenly things were moving faster than he had ever imagined. He did not doubt himself, but he felt a yearning. He did not want his future to be decided this way. Slowly, he approached the tipi, the center of all activity. He stooped near the tipi entrance and peered inside. His father sat next to Conquering Bear. His uncle was there, too. Other warriors circled the edges of the tipi. Curly longed to talk to his father but he knew that this was not the time. Every adult in the village had Conquering Bear in mind. The children would be tended to as needed but any child able to fend for himself, at least for the moment, was on his own.

Curly watched for a while but soon backed away. He glanced across the camp to his circle of friends. Their silence had turned to healthy banter as they talked of revenge. He overheard their war plans. But Curly sensed that he was not ready. He thought back to a few months earlier of how proud his father had been that he had found the buffalo herd and had led the older men in the chase. It was his arrow that had downed the first stampeding beast. He remembered his father’s stories at campfire that night. Curly, the buffalo hunter, was his son. Now Curly remembered how few of the boys who were now so full of excitement had been part of the hunt. Those who had participated at all had steered wide of the powerful bison. “Now they are ready for war?” Curly thought skeptically.

Curly had never felt more confused. He was alarmed at the danger he and Hump had unwittingly faced. He was exhilarated at his role in the raid. He was angry that his village had been attacked and that their beloved leader lay dying.

He had never felt more in need of his father or uncle — anyone to talk to. He went to his own tipi. On a normal day, the tipi was a center of activity with women working and children playing and men sharing their stories. But now Curly sat alone in the dark. His mother would soon dismantle their tipi along with the others, but for this final moment of his childhood, Curly took comfort, sitting alone in the family tipi.

As he listened to the noises of the camp, he began to plan.

“I must seek a vision,” he concluded.

+ + +

“I must know my future. I must know this now.”

Curly’s thoughts as he sat in his family’s dark tipi spurred him to action.

He was not selfish by nature. It occurred to him that he should help the village. Nevertheless he felt compelled to claim his place in the tribe now, regardless of the precarious situation facing all of them.

Curly knew the customs. Young men should set out to seek a prophetic vision only under the guidance of the tribe’s elders.

There were rituals to be performed, preparations to be made. The vision would guide him into manhood. Curly could wait no longer.

Curly stepped out of the tipi and looked around the camp, which was beginning to disappear as poles were attached to every available horse. Family belongings were loaded onto travois. His friends had spread out across the camp. Some were with the horses. Others were running between their families’ tipis, proudly displaying their painted faces.

“They are still playing war,” Curly thought.

While the women of the tribe prepared for flight, the men were still focused on Conquering Bear’s tipi.

A horse was led to the door of the central tipi. Curly watched as his father and uncle lifted Conquering Bear, still lying on a buffalo robe, onto two poles harnessed to the horse. Curly made his way almost unnoticed to the edge of camp. His younger brother, Lone Bear, called to him. Curly did not answer. He whistled for Fleet and his horse came at once. With one motion Curly was astride Fleet and on the move. He raised a fist to Lone Bear who stood puzzled. Curly headed for the hills.

Curly and Fleet traveled hard for an hour. The team covered several miles quickly but the going was slower as the hills grew steeper. Curly wanted to be far away. He wanted no one to find him. He crossed several ridges and came at last to a lake.

He was thirsty but he would not drink. Neither would he eat. He remembered that he had yet to eat that day. The attack on the village had left no time.

Curly would not allow his pony to suffer with him. He dismounted and led his pony to the edge of the lake. He pulled Fleet’s head down and wrapped the reins around the pony’s leg. The pony could reach the water and roam toward new grass, but he would not go far.

Curly walked away from his pony along the edge of the lake. He did not want to be tempted by the water. He came to part of the lake where the land rose steeply from the edge of the water. Curly began to climb. He climbed for nearly a half hour. It had been a long day and now the light was very dim. Curly reached a sheltered area close to the summit. He paused and knelt to rest. He looked down over the hill he had just scaled. The last light sparkled on the water and he was glad that he was not near temptation. For a moment he saw Fleet’s silhouette and then it was dark. Curly sat and pulled his knees under his chin. He was tired but he could not allow himself to rest. If he was to have a vision, he must deny himself sleep and all comfort.

Curly sang to himself softly. His tune was a war tune. It would keep him awake and it reminded him of the scene he had left behind. He thought of how the soldiers from the nearby fort had fired their powerful gun over the Indian camp. He remembered his last sight of his father lifting Conquering Bear onto the travois. Stars began to appear in the sky. Curly stared into the heavens and imagined pictures among the nocturnal lights. He thought of stories to go with his mental pictures. He began to wonder if his father had done the same thing many years before when he set out to seek his vision. Curly remembered the stories his father had told him about his dream. He remembered, too, the tales of other warriors and their dreams.

“When will my vision come?” Curly wondered.

Curly became aware of just how tired he was. His eyes burned. For a moment he lay back against the side of the protective rock niche. He felt himself drifting into sleep. He forced himself awake. Curly felt in the dark for stones, the sharper the better. He would spend the night resting in discomfort. He must stay awake if his vision was to come.

+ + +

Curly did not sleep. His eyes were open when the first rays of the sun spread shimmering light across the lake below. The dark turned to a uniform gray. Slowly, the shadows began to appear, and the land began to take shape. Curly looked for Fleet but could not see him. He was glad. Worrying about his pony would help him stay awake.

He lay back on his bed of stones and studied the cloudless sky. A formation of ducks passed high overhead and circled back to take a closer look at the lake. Curly turned his attention from the distant sky to the nearby land. He looked for wildlife and soon spotted a lizard crawling to the edge of a nearby rock to catch some sun.

Curly spoke to the lizard and hoped that it would speak back to him and tell him the secrets of his vision. But the lizard did nothing but lie in the sun.

The day passed. Curly spoke often to the lizard. He sang to himself and the lizard every rhythmic tune he had learned. Occasionally, he looked below to catch a glimpse of Fleet. And then he repeated his day’s entertainment. Night fell again and Curly’s lizard crawled away. Curly was angry at the lizard for deserting him. He was vaguely aware that this made sense only to his sleep-deprived mind.

The second night seemed to be twice as long as the first. Curly felt himself growing weaker. As the sun rose once again, Curly could think of nothing but his hunger and thirst.

But he was growing impatient. He was here to receive his vision. His vision must come.

Just then, he heard sounds from below. Voices. Curly was glad Fleet was not in sight. Curly looked carefully. On the edge of the lake he saw a white man and a boy his own age with a horse. The horse was pulling a large travois burdened with animal skins. Curly recognized the look—a fur trader who must be traveling with a son. Then he spotted an Indian woman, following well behind the man and boy. This was a family, Curly thought. The boy must be part Indian, probably Crow. The timing was right for mountain traders to bring winter furs east to market. Curly knew many traders well and wondered if he had ever seen this particular trader before. He hoped that Fleet would make no noise and would stay out of sight. Curly thought of heading down the hill but was afraid his movement would bring notice. Besides, he had barely enough strength to stand. Curly stayed still and watched anxiously.

The trader stopped for a moment by the side of the lake. The boy was pointing to something on the ground, and Curly knew that he had spotted the evidence of Fleet. Curly watched breathlessly. The trader surveyed the lakeshore and looked up into the hills. Then Curly heard the same sound the family below could hear. Fleet had caught the scent of the intruders and was whinnying his alarm to Curly. The boy started to run towards the sound of the pony, but the father called to him. The boy returned with obvious disappointment in his bearing. Man and boy spoke and Curly could only guess that the trader was telling the boy that the owner of the pony, ptobably Indian, was doubtless nearby. They had best be on their way, causing no trouble. The trader and his family moved on. Fleet was safe.

Curly’s thoughts returned to his vision quest. He had now been three days alone in the hills with no food and no drink . . . and no vision. Curly thought back to how he had left camp without telling his father and without the blessing of the tribal leaders and he now regretted abandoning the tradition he knew so well.

Curly rose to start down the hillside. As he rose his head spun with the dizziness of hunger. He reached for the rock wall but fell back to the ground into a stupor.

Suddenly he saw a man riding out of the lake on a beautiful horse with colors changing with every step. The man was pale and simply dressed in buckskin. He wore one lone feather and had a stone tied behind his ear. Curly could hear him speaking, although his lips did not move. He was riding above the water and now above the land. The horse’s hoofs rotated in perfect motion, but connected with nothing below its feet. The rider was facing an enemy he could not see. Arrows and bullets were flying but evaporated without hitting any target.

Curly saw friends come up behind the horse’s rider and try to stop him, holding his arms. But the rider shook free and continued riding towards Curly, coming ever closer and silently shouting words of advice. “Curly, do not wear a war bonnet.” The pounding of hooves came closer. “Do not tie your horse’s tail.”

Closer still the horseman came. “Dust your pony before battle and sprinkle the same dust over your own body.” It seemed that the horseman would overtake him but Curly’s dream continued. “Do this and you will not be hurt in battle.”

And then the horseman gave one last command. “Never take anything for yourself from the field of battle.”

With these words a storm rose up all around the horseman. A flash of lightning split the air and Curly could see the horseman’s face. The lightning bolt left its mark there along with dots of hail. The storm ceased and from the distance more men appeared on horseback. This time they came from all sides and tried to close in on the horseman. Curly heard the scream of a hovering hawk and suddenly all was silent.

Curly lay quietly contemplating his vision. He was afraid if he moved too fast the dream would disappear from his memory. He lay on the stony hill reviewing the dream in his mind over and over again. He must not forget. Every detail was important. Finally, he opened his eyes to see the faces of his father and uncle.

“Conquering Bear is dead,” his father said. “You have caused us worry.”