A Whisper In The Wind (2 page)

Chapter Two

They were on the road early the next morning. Yellow Spotted Wolf had said his goodbyes to Little Wolf and old Two Bulls and the other tribal elders. His cardboard suitcase, packed by a tearful Mrs. Two Bulls, was in the trunk of the convertible.

Michael had remained in the background during his great-grandfather’s leave-taking. He knew his presence was unwelcome. He was an outcast, a man who had turned his back on the People.

Yellow Spotted Wolf’s farewells had been somber. He knew, as did his friends, that they would never see each other again this side of the Spirit Path. There had been many warm embraces and more than a few quiet tears.

Now, Michael glanced over at Yellow Spotted Wolf who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him. The old man was staring straight ahead, his arms folded over his chest, a gaudy orange and red blanket spread across his lap. The
wohehiv,
or Morning Star, was worked into the design. It was the symbol of the Northern Cheyenne.

The old man grunted softly as they passed a sign advertising the Custer Monument. It was the first sound he’d made since they left Lame Deer.

“Custer,
wagh,”
Yellow Spotted Wolf muttered disdainfully. “What did Yellow Hair do to deserve such a memorial? Where are the monuments to the Cheyenne he killed at the Washita? Where are the headstones to honor the People massacred by Chivington at Sand Creek?”

“General Custer was a hero and a great general, Grandfather,” Michael said with a shrug. “At least the whites thought so. They like to build monuments to their heroes.”

“Where are the monuments for Dull Knife and Little Wolf? For Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse? They were heroes and generals.”

“You’re forgetting the Two Moons Monument at Busby,” Michael remarked, referring to the monument that had been erected back in 1936 to honor the Cheyenne who had been killed at the Little Bighorn.

Yellow Spotted Wolf muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.
The white man,
he mused bitterly.
Not only has he stolen our land, but my great-grandson as well.

Michael’s thoughts turned to other things as the miles slipped by. He wondered what Melinda had said when Donna called to cancel their date for tomorrow night, and how Walsh was getting along without him, and how the sales meeting scheduled for that morning had gone.

After a while he turned on the radio, and the strains of
Davy Crockett
and
The Yellow Rose of Texas
filled the air.

Yellow Spotted Wolf woke up when they reached Johnson Siding, a small town near the Black Hills. In the old days it had been a train stop for the Black Hills and Western Railroad. It hadn’t been much of a town then, and it wasn’t much now. There was a decent motel, a restaurant, a country store, a church, and a couple of houses.

“We will need horses,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said as Michael pulled into the motel driveway.

Michael frowned. “Horses?”

“You cannot drive up the mountain.”

“The mountain?”

“I wish to climb
Mo’ohta’honaaeva
to pray before I go to meet the Creator.”

Michael shook his head. This trip was getting more and more complicated all the time.

Two hours later they were mounted on a couple of rented hacks. The old man’s suitcase was lashed behind the saddle of a big gray gelding; supplies and sleeping bags were strapped behind the saddle of Michael’s chestnut mare.

Michael knew he’d made a mistake before they’d gone a mile. He hadn’t been on the back of a horse in over ten years, and every muscle in his body knew it. He was pretty sure Yellow Spotted Wolf hadn’t been on a horse in quite a while, either, but the old man rode easy in the saddle, his frail body moving in perfect rhythm with his mount. Indeed, his great-grandfather seemed to grow stronger with each passing mile.

Perhaps all the old man had needed was some fresh air and a change of scenery,
Michael thought optimistically.

Despite a growing numbness in his backside, Michael felt a sense of wonder as they rode across a vast green meadow watered by a shallow, winding stream. Tall pines lifted their branches toward a clear azure sky, the Black Hills rose in the distance like an island of granite peaks afloat in a prairie sea. He had never seen such magnificent country in his life, and as they rode deeper into the sacred ground of the Sioux and Cheyenne, he felt as though he had stepped back in time. He had never been a fanciful man, yet he could clearly visualize how it must have been a hundred years ago when thousands of buffalo roamed the plains and the Cheyenne lived wild and free in the shadow of the Black Hills.

They saw wildlife now and then, an eagle soaring high overhead, a small herd of deer grazing in the tall grass, ground squirrels and chipmunks, a lizard sunning itself on a rock, a bird dusting its feathers.

They rode until dusk and then made camp alongside a shallow stream. Michael prepared a quick meal of canned corned beef, canned potatoes, and canned peaches, but his great-grandfather had no appetite, and after drinking three cups of coffee heavily laced with sugar, Yellow Spotted Wolf crawled into his sleeping bag and was quickly asleep.

Michael poured himself a second cup of coffee, then sat cross-legged beside the dwindling fire and gazed into the distance. The hills drew his eyes. They rose tall and quiet, dark silhouettes against the darker night. A mild breeze sighed out of the north, whispering secrets to the lofty pines, waltzing with the tall grass. Frogs and crickets lifted their voices in songs of good night; he heard the soft swish of wings as an owl passed overhead in search of prey.

Draining the last drop of coffee from his cup, Michael extinguished the fire and slid into his sleeping bag, but sleep would not come.

Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared up at the night sky. Millions of stars winked down at him, twinkling like tiny Christmas tree lights strung across a black velvet pine.

An hour passed and the wind freshened, its voice like the sound of rushing water as it moved through the branches of stately ponderosa pines and lacy aspens.

Welcome home,
the North Wind seemed to say.
Welcome home.

Chapter Three

Michael woke to the sun in his face and the cry of a hawk ringing in his ears. Opening his eyes, he gazed up at a clear blue sky. The air was clean and sweet and cool, and he sat up, unaccountably pleased to be in this place with Yellow Spotted Wolf.

Stretching, he glanced over to where his great-grandfather lay sleeping, felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at Yellow Spotted Wolf. The old man didn’t seem to be breathing, and Michael felt a sudden fear that his great-grandfather might have died in the night.

Rising, he hurried to the old man and knelt beside him. “Grandfather? Grandfather!”

Yellow Spotted Wolf’s eyes flew open in alarm; then, seeing Michael, he frowned. “You do not have to shout,” he admonished. “I am not yet deaf.”

Michael smiled his relief. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. Go back to sleep while I fix breakfast.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You’ve gotta eat something.”

“You sound just like old Mrs. Two Bulls,” Yellow Spotted Wolf complained, grinning.

Michael put the coffee on to heat while he fried up some corned-beef hash. Yellow Spotted Wolf drank several cups of coffee, but ate little. He sat on a rock while Michael washed and dried the dishes and saddled the horses.

Michael could hear his muscles crying out in protest as he climbed into the saddle, but Yellow Spotted Wolf seemed none the worse for yesterday’s journey.

As the morning passed, Michael found himself growing eager to reach the hills, to walk where his ancestors had walked. Strange, he thought, the way the towering peaks beckoned him, calling to him in whispered voices of days long past, promising to tell him secrets that were shrouded in the mists of time.

They stopped at noon for coffee and to rest the horses. At Michael’s insistence, Yellow Spotted Wolf ate a couple of glazed doughnuts, then climbed back in the saddle. The old man’s movements were slower now, and Michael could see the strain in his eyes as he settled into the saddle, see the faint lines of pain etched around his mouth.

“We can stop here for today if you like, Grandfather,” Michael suggested.

“No, let us go on.”

With a nod, Michael swung aboard his own horse. His great-grandfather had not said the words aloud, but they echoed in Michael’s mind.
There is no time to waste.

They rode steadily. Michael’s excitement grew with each passing mile, as did his dread. Death was riding with Yellow Spotted Wolf, and it would not wait much longer.

They’d been riding for about seven hours when dark purple thunderclouds gathered overhead. Thunder echoed from the tall canyon walls and huge drops of rain showered the earth, quickly soaking man and beast.

When Michael drew his horse to a halt, Yellow Spotted Wolf called for him to go on.

“The storm will soon pass,” the old man said confidently.

And as soon as it had begun, the rain stopped. The clouds moved past, leaving a bright sun behind. Raindrops sparkled on fresh-washed pine needles, and the grass looked brighter and greener than before.

And then they were at the foot of the Black Hills. Michael gazed up at the gray granite peaks, at the evergreen ponderosa pines and firs and aspens that covered the hills, and felt the wonder and awe that had captured the hearts and souls of the Sioux and Cheyenne and made them fight so hard to hold onto this piece of ground above all others.

Yellow Spotted Wolf sighed heavily as he urged his horse up the hill. The pain that had been his constant companion for the last eight months receded as he breathed in the scent of damp earth and trees. His soul felt light, as though it sensed it would soon be released from the aches and fatigue of mortality.

Higher and higher they climbed, leaving all the cares and worries of the world behind.

In the distance Michael saw a deer and a pair of spotted fawns; further on he spied an antelope grazing on a patch of yellow grass.

They climbed steadily upward, pausing now and then to rest the horses.

At dusk they reached a flat section of ground that lay between two narrow granite spires.

“We will stop here,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said.

“You’ve been here before,” Michael guessed.

“Ai,
yes, a long time ago. I came here, to Eagle Mountain, to seek my vision. I knew then that this was where I would die.”

Michael nodded, unable to speak. When Yellow Spotted Wolf died, Michael would have no family left. The thought had never bothered him before. He’d been so busy fighting his way to the top, so engrossed in becoming a white man, he had never given any thought to his family, or to the fact that he would have no family at all once the old man died. He wished suddenly that he had done things differently, that he had spent more time with his great-grandfather. But the old man had always been there…

By nightfall they had a small fire going. Yellow Spotted Wolf crawled into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, too weary to do anything but sleep.

Michael prepared a quick meal, then discovered he wasn’t really hungry. Guilt and remorse did not make for a hearty appetite, and he was plagued with both as he sat there gazing at his great-grandfather. He had left the reservation, left Yellow Spotted Wolf, and never looked back. It occurred to him now, when it was too late, that he should have taken better care of the old man. He should have moved his great-grandfather off the reservation, made his last years more comfortable. At the least, he could have gone to visit him, or written a letter or two.

“It is too late for regrets,
Ho-nehe
,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked quietly.

“I thought you were asleep, Grandfather.”

The old man shook his head. “What is done is done and cannot be changed. We must each follow the path where our heart leads.”

“I failed you.”

“No.”

“Have you no regrets, Grandfather?”

“Only one, and it has haunted me for eighty years.”

Michael frowned. “Will you tell me about it?”

Yellow Spotted Wolf grunted softly. “It was at the Greasy Grass.”

“When you fought Custer?”

“Ai.
I had a younger brother who wanted very much to fight Yellow Hair, but he was not yet old enough to be a warrior. The night before the battle, he told me he was going to follow the warriors into battle, that he was going to count coup on the enemy. I did not believe him. He was only a child of ten summers, always making up stories of the brave deeds he would do, always teasing me. But this time he was not making up stories. He waited until a runner brought word that Yellow Hair had reached the river, and then, in the midst of the excitement and confusion that followed, he caught up his pony and rode after me. He was killed in the first wild rush as the blue-coats crossed the river.”

“But you couldn’t have known he was serious about following you.”

“I should have listened to him,” Yellow Spotted Wolf insisted. “At the least, I should have warned our mother to keep an eye on him. He was her youngest child, and her favorite. She grieved for him the rest of her life.”

“I’m sorry, Grandfather.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf let out a long sigh. “Perhaps it is never too late for regrets, after all. Even when things cannot be changed.”

“Perhaps,” Michael agreed. He searched for words that would express his regret at not having spent more time with Yellow Spotted Wolf, but such words came hard, and by the time he found them, his great-grandfather was asleep.

The soft, low beat of a drum roused Michael from sleep and he opened his eyes, frowning irritably. Turning his head, he saw his great-grandfather kneeling on the ground, a small drum between his knees. Eyes closed, the old man lifted his voice toward the rising sun in what Michael recognized as an ancient morning prayer to the Great Spirit.

Not wanting to intrude on such a private moment, Michael lay still, just listening as the drum and the words spun their magic around him.

Abruptly the drumming stopped and Yellow Spotted Wolf stood up.
“Pave-voonao, Ho-nehe
.”

“Good morning, Grandfather,” Michael replied. “Are you hungry today?”

The old man nodded. “Yes, very hungry. Fix a big breakfast, one that will sustain me on my journey.”

“What journey? I thought you wanted to camp here.”

“The journey has already begun,” Yellow Spotted Wolf replied. “I will see your great-grandmother and all those who have gone before me before this day is done.”

“Grandfather…”

Yellow Spotted Wolf lifted his hand. “I am ready to meet my Creator,” he said softly. “It is a good day to die.”

Michael nodded. Wordlessly he prepared breakfast, which Yellow Spotted Wolf ate with gusto.

“We spoke of regrets yesterday,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked when he had finished eating. His dark eyes focused on Michael’s face. “I have one other regret that haunts me.”

“What is it, Grandfather?”

“I have always regretted that you did not seek a medicine dream. A man needs a vision to guide him through life.”

Michael started to laugh as he imagined himself crying for a vision, but then he saw that Yellow Spotted Wolf was quite serious. “Did my father seek a vision?”

“No. I think it is one of the reasons he had no purpose in life. He did not know who he was, what he was. He had no direction to follow, no vision to guide him down the path of life. He looked for answers in the white man’s firewater.”

“What of your medicine dream, Grandfather? Has it helped you in your life?”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded solemnly. “Yes, my son. I came here, to this mountain, when I was fourteen summers. I fasted and prayed for four days. I offered tobacco to the four winds, to the earth who gives life, to the sky where the spirits dwell. I was very tired and very hungry when a yellow wolf with white hail spots on its rump appeared out of the east and walked toward me. As he came closer, I seemed to hear his voice speaking to me, and he said that I would fight in many battles, that I would see many changes in my lifetime, that I would see great chiefs rise and fall. As he spoke, his hair grew long and white and I knew I would live many winters before my spirit went to meet the Creator. Above all, the wolf told me to stay true to the beliefs of the People, to always honor our customs and hold fast to the traditions of our fathers.”

Michael stared at Yellow Spotted Wolf. Did the old man really believe a wolf had talked to him? Wasn’t it possible it had all been a hallucination brought on by fatigue and hunger?

“You do not believe me,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said.

Michael shrugged. “Perhaps it is enough that
you
believe.”

“It requires only a little faith and a willing heart,” the old man murmured. And then he looked directly into Michael’s eyes. “It would please me greatly if you would seek a vision.”

“Me?” Michael choked back the laugh that rose in his throat so as not to offend his great-grandfather. “I don’t know…maybe someday.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded, and then he embraced Michael, his bony arms holding his great-grandson close one last time. “Go,” he said. “Take a walk. I wish to be alone.”

“All right, Grandfather,” Michael agreed. “I won’t be gone long.”

The old man drew himself up to his full height, and his dark eyes were bright and eager. “I will not need much time.”

Michael swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. “Grandfather…”

Yellow Spotted Wolf nodded, his dark eyes shining with unshed tears as his heart heard the words his great-grandson could not say.

“I won’t be long,” Michael said again. And then, fighting tears, he gave his greatgrandfather a hug and walked away.

There was a silence in the hills as Michael made his way down a steep slope heavy with timber and brush. No birds sang in the treetops, no wind stirred the branches. There was only the faint hum of winged insects and the muffled sound of his own footsteps.

Fragments of what his great-grandfather had said whispered in the back of his mind: stay true to the People…seek a medicine dream…a little faith…a willing heart…

Michael shook the words from his mind. Medicine dreams and visions were things of the past, like the horse-and-buggy and kerosene lamps. No one believed in visions anymore. It was just a lot of hocus-pocus.

He swore under his breath. What was he doing walking around in the Black Hills when he should be back in L.A. looking after business? Hell, he’d had enough of playing Indian. It was time to go home…

He came to an abrupt halt as he rounded a bend in the trail and came face to face with an old white wolf. Time vanished, the forest seemed to fade away, and he was aware of nothing but the old wolf standing in his path.

Yellow Spotted Wolf has gone home.

The words rang in Michael’s ears, as sharp and clear as if they’d been spoken aloud.

The wolf stared at Michael for the space of a heartbeat, then it was gone.

Yellow Spotted Wolf has gone home.

The words rang in Michael’s mind as he turned on his heel and ran back to camp.