Sacred Is the Wind (10 page)

Joshua Beartusk leaned against the side of his cabin, his face tilted to the western horizon, allowing the afternoon sun to warm his features, his sightless eyes, to sink deep into his bones and leach the cold that unending darkness instilled. Old Warrior sat at his master's right leg. Joshua sighed and shifted his weight upon the three-legged stool. The mongrel dog yawned and stretched out its paws, and panting, looked up at the blind man before resting its muzzle back on the ground. It looked up and gave a fitful wag of its tail as Panther Burn rode back from the hunt.

“
Ha-ho,
my nephew, did the All-Father bless your hunt? Was your aim sure and arrows swift?” Joshua listened as Panther Burn stepped down. He heard the younger man struggle with the weight of something. The blind man held out his hands and suddenly the outstretched fingertips brushed the thickly furred hide of an antelope. Joshua licked his lips, already tasting the freshly killed game cooked over a slow-burning fire. Panther Burn placed the hide in the old man's hands. He had butchered the kill out on the trail. He returned to the pinto and removed the rawhide packets of meat and for a moment an image flashed through his mind of another hunt, of a reckless act, of dead friends. He willed the memories away and proceeded to unload the meat. Zachariah Scalpcane rounded the corner of the cabin and trotted up to Panther Burn.

“I saw you.” The boy grinned. He was clad in leggings and breechcloth, and his naked torso was covered with dirt. A bruise formed a purple blossom on his lip. Panther Burn tilted Zachariah's face to one side. The boy read the question in the Northerner's expression. “Some of the other boys … I told them I was going to braid my hair and wear an eagle feather. They made fun of me so I fought them.” He studied the ground a moment, then shrugged. “I did not beat them. They were too big. But it does not matter. They will be planters while I ride the warrior trail and count plenty coup.” The boy puffed out his chest and strutted in a tight circle and then laughed at his own antics. Panther Burn grinned and dropped a packet of meat into the boy's outstretched hands.

“A warrior's first obligations are to see to the care of his mother's lodge.”

Zachariah tucked the packet under his arm as the Northern Cheyenne handed him another. “You will bring this second packet of meat to the lodge of Star, the medicine woman.” Zachariah nodded, understanding the older man's instructions if not their purpose. “Now go. I will come for you tomorrow or perhaps the next day. You must be ready when I call. Will your mother agree to this?”

“When I bring her the food she will,” the boy replied. “I shall go find Star first.” As he started off, Joshua called out to the youth. The boy turned toward the blind man, who held out a hand, then pointed directly at Zachariah.

“Be sure you do not look her directly in the eye,” Joshua warned. “Else she will turn you into a mouse!”

Zachariah stared at the old man a moment, then snorted in disgust. “I am not afraid. I have looked upon her many times. And I am not a mouse.”

“Many times is not now,” Joshua cackled, stroking the antelope hide, his leathery palm gliding smoothly over the deep brown-and-gold fur. “The Star of yesterday is not the Star of today. I am blind, and yet I know these things. Maybe because I am blind.” He leaned back and laughed again. Zachariah retreated a step and then trotted off into the village, where the smoke of cookfires mingled with the scent of buffalo grass. Chickens scampered across his path as he continued toward Star's cabin. His mind wrestled with the problem at hand. Everyone knew Joshua Beartusk was nothing but a crazy old blind man. So only a fool would take stock in such ravings. But as Zachariah neared Star's cabin, it began to glow, bathed as it was in a vibrant ray of sunlight that cut a molten gold swath through the village, leaving half in shadow as a cloud passed before the sun. As Zachariah looked on, his heart suddenly filled with misgivings, the cabin's golden aura dimmed, grew somber and ominous as the cloud blotted out even more of the sunlight. Zachariah slowed, cautiously approached the door. Joshua's warning reverberated in his mind, overpowering the last vestige of his courage. Hands trembling, he placed the packet by the door, rapped twice, bruising his knuckles on the rough-hewn surface, and then scampered off toward his mother's cabin, his tension and fear easing with every step, his spirit soaring by the time he reached home.

Panther Burn had watched the entire incident, and, seeing Zachariah race off after leaving the packet, smiled, then returned to his uncle's side.

“He ran away,” Joshua chuckled. “Good. He has learned a valuable lesson today. Sometimes it is better to be a foolish boy than a brave mouse.”

“Are you truly blind, Uncle?” Panther Burn asked in amazement, waving a hand before the old man's face.

“There are things a blind man can see that one with eyes cannot. I had forgotten,” the old man replied. “I pray that I never forget again.”

Panther Burn walked a few paces away. “I pray I can forget how I have looked upon this village from the hills and found nothing I could value.” He sighed. “I will build our cookfire here. We will take our meal in the warmth of the sun.” The Northerner squatted and drew a circle in the dirt. He looked up a moment, watching the tips of the sweet grass ripple, in the gentle breeze. Then he turned his attention to the village that spread in a shapeless mass behind them. He shook his head in despair.

“What kind of people are these? Among the Spirit Mountain folk, your campfire would never want for wood, your belly for food; you would never be alone.”

“Do not judge them too harshly, Nephew. I have not had need of their company. Our young men talk of planting, of how dry the earth is today or how it is too wet and the harvest will be poor, of corn and what will happen if it does not mature, if the cattle do not fatten, what then?” Joshua's features wrinkled in a grimace. “Planters!”

“But are there not other men, such as yourself, who have not forgotten what it is to hunt, to ride against one's enemies, to be strong and respected?”

“Old men with more lies. No, I have heard enough of old men like me. So have we all heard enough. Forgetting the old ways makes the new ways easier to accept. So we keep to ourselves. And guard our dreams.” Joshua shook his head and sighed. “The white man's whiskey helps too. But I have none left. Now there is nothing to do.”

“Nothing, eh? Not now, old man,” Panther Burn said. “I will cook the meat I have brought. But you must do something as well.” He reached inside his shirt and withdrew a juniper branch, walked over, and placed it in the old man's hands.

“My father once told me no woman could resist the tones of his brother's flute. That from the flutes you carved came the sweetest sounds, music like wild honey luring the young maids from their lodges. He used to tell me that the girls of his village were drawn to you like babes to bright beads when you played.”

“A young brave's innocent pastime, before I took up the Red Shield.” Joshua turned the branch in his fingertips. It was nearly straight, about eighteen inches long. He did not need eyes to carve a courting flute, his fingers knew the way, his heart held memories of fire, of his youth when once he too had longed. “I will need a …” Panther Burn placed his knife in the old man's hands before Joshua could even complete his request. “And sinew?”

“Taken from the antelope,” Panther Burn replied. “And dried all morning.” He placed a small clay jar in his uncle's grasp. “I boiled his marrow for the glue you will need.”

Joshua continued to run his fingers over the wood, pursing his lips, humming faintly to himself, drawing out the spirit of the juniper branch that he might carve a flute in beauty. Suddenly he chuckled aloud.

“What is the matter, Uncle?”

“Your pretty speech about the view from the hilltop … you must have found something of value. Some
one
of value.”

Panther Burn looked away in embarrassment, remembered his uncle was blind, but continued to keep his back to the old man. He began to build a fire in earnest.

“I can carve a flute,” Joshua said. “But I cannot teach you to play.” He began to whittle. “That is something every young man must learn for himself.”

Sam Madison strode through the camp marveling at the beauty of the twilight. The sky was washed with purple and obsidian, stars like newly formed gems gleamed against the firmament. Few people crossed his path, for the families he had ministered to these past three years were gathered about home and hearth, enjoying evening meals, enjoying … peace. Samuel envied them. He wanted to be home as well, but Simon White Bull had summoned him and the reverend respected the chief too much to ignore his request.

A mongrel and her pups broke from the shadows to follow the white man, hoping he might have a scrap of food to discard. Fifty feet later they gave up and returned to keep their vigil in the shadows, their muzzles raised to the scent of the nearest cookfires. Sam quietly approached the chief's cabin, rapped twice on the door, and entered into darkness at Simon's invitation. The chief squatted on the floor; his silver hair hung past his ears and was raggedly cropped. His features were wrinkled, sadness haunted his eyes. He nodded at Sam and rose from the fire, a burning twig in his hand. He carried the flame to a lamp on the table and when the amber glow filled the room Sam could see that he was not Simon's only guest. A brave stood before the shuttered windows. He was of average height and looked to be the same age as Simon, and as solidly built as the Southern Cheyenne chief. But there the similarities ended, for their other guest wore only a breechcloth and buckskin leggings. A beaded quill breastplate covered his upper torso. The left half of his face, as he stepped forward, was covered with white paint, creating an illusion of being part skull, part flesh. His right eye was highlighted by a yellow circle. He wore a fur cap adorned with raven feathers. The brave's eyes widened in astonishment.

“A white man! What trick is this, White Bull?” Sam took the brave for a Ute; behind that garish war paint the Indian exuded hatred.

“No tricks, Coyote Walking. He lives among us. He has taught us much.” Coyote Walking spat on the floor. Simon's gaze narrowed. “Do not forget, we have been enemies longer than we have been friends.”

“Simon, why have you called me here?” Samuel managed to say. He knew of the depredations in the area. The Ute and his followers had come down from the mountains to raid and kill. And he knew only the presence of Simon White Bull kept the Ute from plunging his knife into the reverend's heart. Samuel tried to hide his nervousness. He took a seat at the table near the fire. Plates had been set out and a clay tureen of stew dominated the center. Steam still drifted from a coffee cup, but Simon's wife, Husk, was nowhere to be seen. Blankets hung from the walls and the makings of a buckskin shirt had been left in the seat of the rocking chair Sam had presented to the chief as a gift.

“Husk is with her sister,” Simon said. He sat across from Samuel. “Coyote Walking comes in friendship. We have raided one another's camps, stolen each other's horses, but now he comes in friendship.”

“I do not like this,” the Ute muttered, edging toward the. door.

“Coyote Walking is a chief. He has seven braves down by the Warbonnet, hiding. He wants me to join with him, to lead my braves with him down the path of war. If I do not, he will return to the mountains, he will follow the passes toward the setting sun and rejoin his people.” Simon glanced at Coyote Walking. “The Ute is valiant, but he has no stomach for riding against the soldiers that have come. But if my young men paint their faces for war, he will stay to fight at our side.”

“Will he also help to bury your dead?” Samuel said. Suddenly the strength of his convictions had returned. He matched Coyote Walking's stare.

“The white dog barks,” said the Ute. “Among my people, we know what to do with barking dogs. We drive them from our village with stones and clubs.”

“You are not among your people,” Simon White Bull replied.

“It is so. But I came here in friendship. If you do not join with us, then I shall leave. As an enemy.”

“As an enemy? Then I am thinking you will not leave at all.” The menace in Simon's voice gave the reverend a start. He had never heard his friend sound so dangerous. But then, he had been lucky. When he arrived in the village of the Southern Cheyenne, Simon White Bull had been ready for peace. Even Coyote Walking seemed impressed, for he lost some of his defiance and his gaze revealed his uncertainty.

“I shall leave as I came,” he meekly answered. Simon White Bull nodded and an instant later the Ute had vanished through the doorway with hardly a sound to mark his departure.

Samuel exhaled loudly. “My God, Simon. The next time … well …” He rose from the table.

“There is food,” Simon said.

“Esther is waiting for me,” Samuel explained. “Tell me, why did you send for me?”

“I wanted you to see. This night, I chose the way of peace. Tell the others, the
ve-ho-e
who do not trust us, what your eyes have seen, what your ears have heard. The Morning Star people walk the path of peace.”

“I will tell them,” Samuel Madison said, reaching forward to place his hand on the chief's shoulder. “In Castle Rock … and in Washington, when I meet with the Great White Father.”

“But will he listen?” said the Southern Cheyenne, his voice tinged with a kind of sorrow that seemed to spring from his soul, like blood from a raw wound. All his sons were dead. All his sons.

“Yes,” said the Reverend Samuel Madison, and he prayed he was right.

“I see him,” Samuel Madison said, watching from the window of his cabin. He had not been able to get the Ute out of his mind. He could not sleep and had come to the window for a breath of air. And spied Panther Burn, another brave who seemed destined to ride the warpath. Even in the late spring the nights were cool. A fire cracked cheerily in the hearth. Esther rose up from the pillow and patted the empty spot beside her on the mattress.