Chapter 3
Daniel reined his horse to a halt when he reached the top of a small rise. Turning in the saddle, he looked back at the home he was leaving behind. His mother stood on the front porch, one hand clutching the rail, her face turned toward him. Not certain if she could see him or not, he waved anyway, felt a tug in his heart when she waved back. He told himself he wouldn’t be gone long, that his parents would be all right while he was away. His brothers and sister lived close by; they would look after the folks. But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he might never see his family again.
Grunting softly, he told himself he was acting like a child leaving home for the first time. And then he grinned. He might not be a child, but he was leaving home for the first time.
With a last wave to his mother, he clucked to his horse, his apprehension overcome by a sudden rush of excitement. Fox Hunter was waiting for him.
He rode all that day. For all that Bear Valley had grown, once Daniel left home behind, there was little sign of civilization other than a few scattered ranches. Herds of cattle now grazed the land that had once been inhabited by the buffalo.
The land was lush and green. Wildflowers made vibrant splashes of color on the hillsides – white and yellow, pink and lavender. There were stands of cottonwoods along the rivers and streams. Talking trees, the Indians called them.
He rode for several hours, feeling as though he were seeing the countryside for the first time even though he had hunted these same hills with his father and his brothers for as far back as he could remember. And even though he had gone hunting on his own since he was fifteen, being out here now was different somehow, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because he was going to be gone for more than a few days. Whatever the reason, he felt like he was truly on his own for the first time in his life. It was a good feeling.
If something went wrong, his father wouldn’t be there to help him out. Mary wouldn’t be there to offer advice. Blackie wouldn’t be there to make jokes. Hawk wouldn’t be there to reassure him. He grinned. If he got hurt, his mother wouldn’t be there to kiss it and make it better. No, this time he was really, truly, on his own.
When he found a shady spot near a shallow stream, he reined his horse to a halt. Dismounting, he dropped to his hands and knees and took a long drink of the cool clear water, and then let his horse drink.
He ground-reined the big bay mare, then pulled a roast beef sandwich out of his saddlebag. He ate while walking along the stream, drank again, then swung into the saddle, eager to be on his way.
He rode until dusk, then stripped the rigging from the bay. After hobbling the mare, he gathered wood for a fire and set about making dinner.
Later, stretched out on his bedroll, he stared up at the sky, his gaze following the path of the Milky Way. The Cheyenne called it ekutsihimmiyo, the Hanging Road. The People believed that the souls of the departed traveled the Hanging Road to Seyan, the Place of the Dead. All who died went to Seyan to live with Heammawihio, except for those who had taken their own lives. For all others, there was no reward and no punishment. In the Place of the Dead, all were equal. In Seyan, the dead lived as they lived on earth.
Daniel remembered a story his father had once told, about a young Cheyenne warrior who got very sick. The warrior was unconscious for three days and during that time, he believed that he traveled the Hanging Road to Seyan, though he never reached the camp of his ancestors. Along the way, the warrior spoke with his father, who had died in battle the year before, and with a younger brother who had died of one of the white man’s diseases, but no matter how far the warrior walked, he was never able to reach the camp. He kept trying, and he met many people he knew along the way, but before he could reach the camp, he regained consciousness. Sitting up, he told the people what he had seen – of numerous scaffolds holding drying meat, snug lodges pitched along the shores of a quiet river, women tanning hides, men working on their weapons, children playing happily.
Daniel let out a sigh. It was difficult sometimes, walking two paths, never quite knowing what to believe. Still, the Cheyenne’s belief in Seyan was not all that different from his mother’s belief in Heaven, except that the Christian religions preached that only the “good” people would make it into Heaven. Sometimes, he wondered which was right, his mother’s beliefs or his father’s. But not tonight. Tonight he was more concerned with life than death, more interested in his future than the past. He knew his mother was worried about him. She wanted him to find a nice young woman and fall in love, marry, and settle down the way his brothers and sister had. It was what he wanted, too, but so far he hadn’t found the right woman. His father had assured him that, when he met the right woman, he would know it.
With a grin, Daniel closed his eyes. Out here, he was Blue Hawk, the warrior, and whoever his future wife might be, she would have to wait until he returned from the reservation and became Daniel once again. He was confident that all his questions would be answered, all his doubts would be resolved, and that he would learn which life path he should take while he was in the company of the Old Ones on the reservation.
* * * * *
Blue Hawk woke with the dawn. Rising, he stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders, then stirred the ashes and put the coffee pot in the center of the coals to heat. Breakfast was a couple of his mother’s cinnamon rolls and a cup of coffee.
After pouring the dregs from the coffee pot into the firepit, he kicked dirt over the smoldering coals, then saddled the mare. Rolling his blankets into a tight cylinder, he tied it behind the cantle.
He took a last look around his camp to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind then swung into the saddle and clucked to the mare. He rode until he came to a narrow, winding stream. Dismounting, he dropped to his hands and knees and filled his canteen, then let the mare drink.
In the saddle once again, he urged the mare into an easy lope. She was one of his father’s best horses, with a soft mouth and a smooth, effortless gait. Putting everything else from his mind, Blue Hawk gave himself over to the sheer pleasure of riding across the greening prairie.
He camped in a shallow draw that night and rose with the sun, eager to be on his way.
The reservation lay just ahead. He would be there by tomorrow morning.
He recalled the last time he had been to the reservation. He had gone with his father and Blackie last year, just before winter. They had taken a small herd of cattle to help see the Cheyenne through the winter. Life was hard on the reservation. Jobs were scarce. Some of the families raised cattle and had suffered huge losses when the bottom fell out of the cattle market last year.
Blue Hawk always felt a sense of hopelessness and despair when he visited the reservation, along with a faint sense of impotent anger against the whites who had sent his people to live there in the first place. Back in the old day, Indian children had been sent away to boarding school in an attempt to “civilize” them. Their hair had been cut short. They had been forbidden to speak their native tongue, or practice their religion.
Before the Cheyenne had been forced to surrender, they had fought against great odds to preserve their freedom. Chief Black Kettle and his people had been attacked by whites along Sand Creek even though they were camped beneath an American flag and a white banner. Three-fourths of those killed that wintry November day had been women and children. Four years later, General George Armstrong Custer had attacked a camp of peaceful Cheyenne along the Washita River. Chief Black Kettle had been killed in the battle, along with forty other men, women, and children.
In 1875, General George Crook had attacked a camp of Sioux and Cheyenne. In June of 1876, the Cheyenne and Lakota, united under Crazy Horse, met Crook again on the banks of the Rosebud. This time, the Indians were victorious though Crook would claim the victory. A week later, the Sioux, the Arapaho, and the Cheyenne joined forces in what would later be known as the Battle of the Little Big Horn. The battle was a major victory for the Cheyenne and their allies,
but also a turning point in their history.
The whites, angered by Custer’s death, had been quick to retaliate. Colonel Ranald Mackenzie had launched a surprise attack against a Cheyenne camp and had sent nearly a thousand Cheyenne into harsh winter weather without food or shelter. In order to survive, the People had surrendered and been sent into exile in Oklahoma.
In 1878, the Cheyenne fled the reservation in Oklahoma. The Army pursued them. Little Wolf’s band headed west and made it into Montana in April of 1879. Dull Knife’s people had to surrender and they were confined at Fort Robinson. After days without food or water, the People broke out of prison. Many were killed during the escape, but death was preferable to another day of captivity.
The People had made it back to Montana, but they still lived in poverty.
Blue Hawk loosed a heavy sigh. His father had fought in some of those battles. The People had been warned of the changes that were coming. Blue Hawk recalled that his father had often told him and his brothers and sister stories of Sweet Medicine, the prophet. Sweet Medicine had predicted the coming of the white man and predicted that his coming would bring many changes to the Cheyenne and their way of life. He had told of the coming of the horse, which would be a great blessing to the People; he had prophesied that the buffalo would disappear and be replaced by the white man’s cattle. Sweet Medicine had gone on to predict that the whites would cause the Cheyenne to lose their old ways and to behave in strange and peculiar ways. Sweet Medicine had indeed been a prophet, Blue Hawk thought, for all his predictions had come true.
Daniel arched his back and stretched his shoulders. Lost in thought, he rode steadily onward until the sun began to slip behind the horizon in a riotous blaze of reds and yellows.
He was about to find a place to camp for the night when he saw someone coming toward him. Blue Hawk shivered. With the blood-red sun setting behind the rider, the horseman seemed to be riding out of the sun itself.
Eyes narrowed, Blue Hawk reined his horse to a halt, and waited.
As the rider drew nearer, Blue Hawk saw that it was a man mounted on a black and white horse. Details gradually became clearer. Long gray braids and dark skin identified the rider as an Indian. The cut of his moccasins showed he was Cheyenne.
A soft grunt of surprise rose in Blue Hawk’s throat when Fox Hunter drew rein before him.
“Pave-eseeva,” the old warrior said by way of greeting. Good day.
Blue Hawk nodded. “Pave-eseeva, tsehe-mesemestovestse.” Good day, grandfather.
“How is your family?”
“They are well. My father sends his respects.”
Fox Hunter nodded, his rheumy old eyes narrowing as his gaze moved over Blue Hawk.
Blue Hawk shifted in his saddle. Why had Fox Hunter ridden all this way to meet him?
Fox Hunter’s gaze rested on Blue Hawk’s face for several moments and then he grunted softly. “Let us go,” he said, and turned his horse to the south, away from the reservation.
Confused but curious, Blue Hawk followed the old warrior. Fox Hunter was a man well known among the People and their allies. He had fought alongside Crazy Horse at the Greasy Grass.
They rode for perhaps an hour and then Fox Hunter drew rein at the summit of a high hill. “We will rest here.”
They spent the next half hour setting up the camp. Blue Hawk dug a firepit and gathered wood for the fire.
“Did you bring meat?” Fox Hunter asked, coming up behind him.
Blue Hawk shook his head. “No. I guess you didn’t bring anything, either.”
“Only this.” The old man thrust a bow and a quiver of arrows into Blue Hawk’s hand.
Blue Hawk glanced from the bow to the old warrior. “I hope you’re not too hungry. I haven’t hunted with a bow since I was twelve.”
“We will eat whatever you bring in.”
“And if I don’t find anything?”
Fox Hunter shrugged. “Then we will go hungry.”
They wouldn’t go hungry, Blue Hawk thought. He still had some canned goods and beef jerky in his saddlebags.
Shouldering the bow and quiver, he walked down the hill through the tall grass. If he was lucky, he might flush a rabbit or two. If he was really lucky, he might bring down a deer.
It was quiet, there in the tall grass. The wind whispered through the leaves on the trees and soughed over the grasses. He glanced up at an eagle soaring high overhead. Another predator on the hunt, he mused.
Remembering his father’s teachings from long ago, Blue Hawk slowed his steps, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, his bow at the ready.
Without warning, a rabbit exploded from the cover of a bush. Excitement thrummed through Blue Hawk as he sighted down the shaft and let it fly. The arrow struck the rabbit and it went tumbling head over heels.
Feeling a sense of exhilaration, Blue Hawk retrieved the rabbit, remembering the thrill of his first hunt, his first kill.
Half an hour later, he flushed another rabbit and then made his way back to the campsite. He grinned when he saw that Fox Hunter had already laid a fire and had a spit waiting.
Fox Hunter offered Blue Hawk a knife and he quickly skinned and spitted the rabbits.
“How did you know I’d be successful?” Blue Hawk asked.
“The spirits told me.”
The two men ate in companionable silence, and then Fox Hunter lit his pipe. He offered it reverently to the four directions before taking a puff, and then he offered the pipe to Blue Hawk, who puffed it four times and returned it to the medicine man.
They smoked in silence until the tobacco was gone, and then Fox Hunter wrapped his pipe in a piece of hide and put it away.
“Two Hawk’s Flying tells me you are not happy with the path you are walking.”
The old man’s words caught Blue Hawk off guard. Usually, the People eased into a subject. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”
“What would you say, exactly?”
Blue Hawk shrugged. “I was hoping to spend some time on the reservation, to get a feel for what it was like in the old days.”
Fox Hunter snorted. “Do you see buffalo on the reservation? No! Do you see pride on the faces of our young men? No! Do our people live in the old way? No! There is no hope on the reservation, no joy in living. There is only despair. Our young men drink the white man’s firewater to forget what they have lost. Some of our old ones look back, to the past. Others wait only for death.”
“But I thought…did you ride out to meet me to tell me I wasn’t welcome there?”
“No.” The old man gazed into the darkness, his head turning this way and that, as if he feared they were being watched. “For some, it is given to travel back through the mists of time.”
Blue Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“There is a path between the past and the present, between what was and what is. Some know the way.”
“Do you?”
“I know where the journey begins. I have not found the path.”
“Has anyone?”
Fox Hunter nodded soberly. “There are stories of those who have found their way into the past.”
“The Cheyenne are good at telling stories,” Blue Hawk replied skeptically. “We have stories for life and death, for creation and power.”
“Otaha! These journeys into the past are not fables for children,” Fox Hunter said sharply.
“And if one finds his way into the past, how does he find his way back home?”
“The Great Spirit will tell you when it is time to return. If you do not heed the call, the way will be closed to you forever.”
Blue Hawk stared at the old man. He was talking about time travel. Such a thing was impossible. Wasn’t it? Blue Hawk frowned. Not long ago, he would have thought many of the things he took for granted today were impossible—things like automobiles, telephones, and electricity. But time travel…that was nothing more than fantasy. Men wrote stories about it, argued about whether or n
ot it might be possible, but it was nothing more than conjecture. Wasn’t it?
Fox Hunter returned Blue Hawk’s stare, unblinking.
“Do you know of anyone who had traveled into the past and returned?”
The old man nodded.
Blue Hawk cleared his throat. “What do I have to do?”
“You must believe, in here,” Fox Hunter said, tapping his chest. “If you do not believe, if you do not want it badly enough, believe in it strongly enough, it will not happen.”
“I want it.”
Fox Hunter nodded. “Tomorrow, we will have a sweat. You must empty your heart and your mind of all but that which you most desire. And then, if Heammawihio feels that you are worthy, He will show you the path.”
* * * * *
In the morning, Blue Hawk helped Fox Hunter construct a brush hut, which would serve as the sweat lodge. At Fox Hunter’s bidding, Daniel gathered several armfuls of wood, which he stacked near the back of the lodge. He watched, silent, as Fox Hunter built a rectangular-shaped fire pit, then dropped in an armful of wood and lit a fire. Next, he dropped several large stones in the pit to heat. When that was done, Fox Hunter filled a large wooden bowl with fresh water and placed it beside the pit.
Ordinarily, there would have been an old buffalo skull propped up against a pile of stones or a mound of earth outside the sweat lodge, but they would have to forego that today. Under normal circumstances, the stones would have been heated outside the lodge and a woman would have passed them inside. But, since there were just the two of them, adjustments had to be made.
When all was in readiness, Blue Hawk started to enter the hut, only to be stayed by Fox Hunter’s hand on his shoulder.
“Otaha! Listen! If you find the path to the past, you must tread carefully. You must not take a life, or save a life that is meant to be lost. To do so could change not only the past, but the future as well.”
Blue Hawk frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.
“There is no way to tell how far back you might go, or who you might meet while you are there. You must tell no one who you are, or where you have come from.”
Tales of Western Romance Page 17
