“But you don’t think he was,” Jeb said. “Not someone who escapes into the wilderness to save her horse.”
Meg fixed her eyes on Jeb. “That’s right. I don’t think he was a fool at all. Protecting what you love is as natural as breathing.”
Win pulled his hat back over his eyes to resume his nap. “Amen to that.”
“I saw some fish in that stream,” Meg said. “Who wants to camp here tonight and have fish for dinner?”
“Sounds wonderful. Try to stay dry,” Win said from under his hat.
Jeb found it uncanny how alike Meg and Win were. Resiliency and loyalty lay beneath their lighthearted exteriors. He wondered if they noticed how similar they were. He decided not to draw their attention to it.
“Let’s go fishing.” Jeb rose. Meg pulled on her boot and scampered out of earshot. Win mumbled quietly from under his hat that Jeb was a bastard.
Jeb whispered hoarsely, “Hey, our pact didn’t say we can’t be nice to her. We just can’t fight about her.”
Stretched out comfortably, hat over his eyes, Win simply raised his hands in a brief surrender. Jeb smiled and followed Meg down to the creek.
Jeb didn’t want her to come between Win and him, either. Jeb owed Win everything. Looking back, his initial reluctance to give up his job at the sawmill was a bit unsettling, and most certainly depressing. He would have missed the endless stretches of land and the herds of antelope and buffalo. He never would have seen how bright the stars are on the prairie at night. He never would have met Meg. Win’s good idea of the pact ensured that neither relationship would be at the expense of the other. At least, that was his hope.
CHAPTER TWELVE: GRAY WOLF
Foothills of the Colorado Rockies
Gray Wolf, the leader of a small band of Arapaho living in the mountains, climbed to a rocky outcropping to check on the two men and a woman who had camped that night just below him. He watched the taller man with light-colored hair come back from relieving himself. He had gone much farther from camp than necessary. Gray Wolf concluded from the man’s modesty that the young woman did not belong to him. From the way they moved about camp, he concluded that she didn’t belong to the darker-haired man, either, but neither was she a prisoner. They piqued Gray Wolf’s curiosity.
The tall man had jumped up to help the young woman with flame-colored hair when she slipped at the creek. Gray Wolf was astonished by the ease with which she had ridden the day before, her arms outstretched, revealing both bravery and unity with her horse. But her clumsiness then surprised him, making him laugh. The other man had peered curiously into the hills. Gray Wolf sensed his presence had been felt and, strangely enough, he respected the man for his astuteness.
The recent fighting between Indians and whites made Gray Wolf wary, but these intriguing travelers were not military men in blue coats. They reminded him of his own youth, when he raced his friends across the plains, all of them showing off their riding prowess and their skills as worthy fighters. A fierce warrior, he counted coup to prove his bravery, and had many eagle feathers as evidence. When he was their age, the world was different. It had been a grand time to be young then.
Twenty summers ago, Gray Wolf’s name was Many Stars. He’d gone into the desert to fast and seek guidance from the spirits, a ritual expected of young men his age. He’d fasted four days when a white man, near death, stumbled into his prayer circle. The young man had no food or water, and no weapon. Weak himself, Many Stars dragged the white man into the shade, brought him some water, and stayed with him. The Arapaho had a vision of himself as a wolf, not attacking the man, but protecting him. He prayed to the spirits and became a wolf. He saw the world through the wolf’s eyes, and heard himself growl and bare his teeth. Many Stars brought the white man, Clint Sanders, back to his village where he regained his strength. His kinsmen gave Many Stars the new name of Gray Wolf because the wolf spirit had entered him.
Gray Wolf and Clint became friends. They taught each other their languages and customs. Gray Wolf didn’t understand much of the white people’s ways. Gold in a place beyond the mountains called California made white people race across buffalo land, disrupting the herds. The Fort Laramie treaty of ’51, as Clint called it, separated Indian nations into geographic areas. Gray Wolf thought location was a strange way to think about tribes of people. If a Shoshone stepped into Arapaho territory, did he become an Arapaho? Of course not; nor did a line drawn on paper keep white people from traveling into Arapaho country to hunt for gold. While Gray Wolf believed what Clint told him was true, little of it made sense.
Clint sympathized with his friend’s confusion, and warned Gray Wolf not to sign the Fort Wise treaty, which gave away the land designated for the Arapaho a decade earlier. Hohacache—or Little Raven, as Clint called him—wanted peace, and signed the treaty along with Storm, Big Mouth, and Shave-Head, leaders from the southern tribe. But their signing did not bring peace.
Gray Wolf’s heart ached as he recalled the day last winter when runners—fleet-footed braves who delivered messages back and forth to camps—reported that many of his Arapaho brothers, including his friend, Left Hand, had been slaughtered at Sand Creek, murdered without cause or mercy. A white soldier named Chivington had issued the order.
In retaliation for the Sand Creek massacre, many of his Arapaho kin joined the Cheyenne, who rampaged against white settlements. Over the past winter, Cheyenne and Arapaho attacked places the white people called Julesburg, Mud Springs, and Rush Creek. In the spring, the warriors attacked outposts and stagecoach stations in an effort to drive away the invaders and preserve what was left of their hunting land and way of life. Even now, his warriors joined other Arapaho, Lakota, and Cheyenne warriors for an attack on what white people called the Platte Bridge Station. The summer of warfare was far from over.
The Arapaho living on the northern plains had additional troubles. More gold had been discovered in the north, and it seemed there was no stopping the white man’s lust for it. White men used Indian trails to get to the gold that was in Indian country, brazenly trespassing on land the white government said belonged to the Arapaho, Shoshone, and Lakota nations. Gray Wolf asked Clint why white people came onto Indian land when Indians were not allowed on white land. His friend had no answers for him, except to say in the white man’s eyes, the land always and only belonged to white people. Montana Territory, as Clint called it, first belonged to the French, who sold it to the United States. Once gold was discovered, President Abraham Lincoln quickly created the Montana Territory, despite the fact that all land west of the Mississippi was Indian land, according to a promise made years ago by the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Gray Wolf argued with Clint, saying that no one can own the Earth, just as no one can own the sky, and it made him very angry that white people were scaring away the game and telling the Arapaho where they could and could not go. Clint agreed; it made no sense to him, either.
His friendship with Clint complicated Gray Wolf’s role in the fighting. He didn’t hate all white people, like some in his tribe, and he didn’t believe that killing innocent white people avenged the deaths of Arapaho. He believed in killing the men responsible. He would cut out the heart of the blue coat leader Chivington, if he could, to see if it was as black as he imagined it to be. Gray Wolf wasn’t afraid to fight, but to kill helpless white women made him no better than the white murderer. There was no honor in it, and he would not do it. Gray Wolf chose his own path.
Clint warned him that there would be no stopping the white settlers. Gray Wolf would have to fight them all, and there were too many. If he fought until he was dead, how would that help his family? Clint said Gray Wolf’s best chance for survival was to escape into the mountains. Clint offered to help any way he could.
So, when the white government started rounding up Indian nations and escorting them to reservations, Gray Wolf moved his family behind the first range of foothills. The hidden valleys and protected canyons teemed with wildlife. White people had already sear
ched for gold there and, finding none, had gone. Gray Wolf and his people lived here now, and he intended to stay—living in peace, and on his own terms.
Gray Wolf watched the two men pack up and prepare to leave. Too curious to ignore them, Gray Wolf decided to meet these white people. Perhaps he would hear important news. He slipped away to gather his hunting party.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: MEG
Foothills of Colorado Rockies
A flock of birds burst from the trees in unison and flew away, a warning to Meg that something, or someone, was close. She wished they had the same ability to remove themselves so easily. Win warned her not to run if Indians appeared—something she was prone to do, he reminded her. Just as he was explaining how Indians had an eerie ability to stay invisible, a group of seven Arapaho materialized.
The Arapaho approached with confidence, but not aggression, riding toward them at a pace that suggested peaceful business. All seven wore deerskin breechcloths, fringed leggings, and eagle feathers—or Bee’etei’I, as Win called them—in their hair as recognition of bravery in battle. The feathers floated in the breeze at the back of their heads. A few men held spears, also with eagle feathers tied to the ends indicating warrior status, as did the marks on the spear shaft from counting coup, a tally of battle success. Five were bare-chested; the two oldest men wore deerskin shirts. One wore the claw of a hawk around his neck and the other, the obvious leader, wore a wolf pelt on his head, the snout of the wolf coming down over his forehead. His leggings were decorated with beads. They looked as magnificent as the scenery from which they emerged.
The leader rode up to them and raised his hand, a gesture Win returned.
“Heebe,” Win said. “Teeteeseihnoo ceiteihiiho’.”
The Arapaho reacted with surprise when they heard Win speak their language. A few of the men behind the leader talked to each other. The leader stared.
“What did you say?” Jeb asked Win.
“I hope I said hello, and that we are just passing through,” Win said. He didn’t sound completely sure of himself, and didn’t take his eyes off the leader.
“Maybe you should introduce us,” Meg whispered.
“Good idea,” Win said quietly, almost to himself. “Nenee’eesih’inoo Win Avery.” Win touched his chest. He pointed to Jeb and Meg and stated their names.
Again, the leader stared. Meg got the feeling his silence was due to thinking hard, rather than anger, fear, or intimidation. His brow wrinkled into a deep furrow.
“Did Clint Sanders teach you something like ‘we’re good people’ or ‘we don’t mean to trespass’?” Jeb asked. “Did Clint teach you the word for ‘friendly’?” The Arapaho leader looked sharply at Jeb.
“Jeez, Jeb, give me a second . . . um . . . Niico’ouuteenebeen,” Win said. “I think I just said ‘I respect you highly’ . . . I think.”
Instead of responding to Win, the Arapaho leader squinted at Jeb. “Clint Sanders?”
Jeb nodded. “Win, how do you say Clint Sanders is your friend?”
“Ah . . . um . . . Clint Sanders neiteh’ei.”
The hard lines on the Arapaho leader’s face softened and the furrow in his brow disappeared.
“This is incredible.” Win looked as shocked as the Arapaho leader. “Are you Gray Wolf?”
The Arapaho leader nodded his head slightly.
“Unbelievable,” Jeb whispered.
“Neheicoo’,” Gray Wolf said to Win.
“He wants us to follow him.” Win turned to Meg. “You all right with that?”
She really didn’t have a choice, did she? But Jeb’s reassuring words from the day before, that they would figure out together whatever came their way, rang in her ears. She didn’t feel afraid. She nodded.
Win, Jeb, and Meg followed the Arapaho party down a path to their camp. Gray Wolf and the other older man sat down and indicated that they should join them. The leader introduced his second in command as Sharp Eye. Standing Horse and One Who Waits were introduced after they tended to the ponies and joined the group. Gray Wolf did not introduce the three youngest braves, who left to hunt for dinner.
Gray Wolf spoke slowly and deliberately. Meg assumed he was trying to recall English words. He was pretty good at it. Gray Wolf asked if Clint Sanders sent them to find him in the mountains. Win said no, they were on their way to Denver to find Clint. He told Gray Wolf he knew the story of how Gray Wolf saved Clint’s life in the desert, and Clint had taught him the few Arapaho words he knew.
“Why do you ride here, and not on the roads the white people built?” Gray Wolf asked.
Win tried to use as many Arapaho words as he could—out of respect, Meg suspected. First he spoke in Arapaho, then in English: “Flatland is dusty, the hills are green and beautiful.”
“A white woman who rides like Arapaho is new to my eyes.” Gray Wolf glanced at Meg.
“Her father, a good man, gave her the horse when she was a little girl.” Win put his hand over his heart. “Riding makes her happy.” Meg liked Win’s explanation and was pleased that no one made fun of her, although Standing Horse and One Who Waits talked spiritedly between themselves. One Who Waits extended his arms out wide and tilted his head back just as Meg had done the day before.
“What are they saying?” Meg asked Win.
Gray Wolf answered. “You are neséihit.”
Win thought for a moment and then said, “There isn’t an equivalent word for it in English, but Gray Wolf gave you a compliment. He says you are wild, but in the best sense of the word. He says you . . . fit, or belong here. He means—”
“How do you say ‘thank you’?” Meg asked.
“Hohou,” Gray Wolf said.
“Hohou,” Meg repeated. She liked Gray Wolf. His eyes were kind.
Gray Wolf nodded to Meg and then turned to Win. “I meet a stranger and he tells my own story to me. I meet a white woman who rides like an Arapaho. These are signs that spirits are at work. Our meeting is for a purpose.”
A shiver traveled down Meg’s spine, but not from fear. She trembled with excitement.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WIN
Gray Wolf’s camp
Cool air from higher elevations cascaded down the mountain to mix with the sun-warmed pines and send a fragrant breeze wafting through Gray Wolf’s camp. It swirled around Win and Gray Wolf as they sat across from each other, both searching their memories for words in the other’s language. Jeb and Meg sat with them, joined by Sharp Eye, the other elder Arapaho, and Standing Horse and One Who Waits. Win floated on a cloud of exhilaration.
Communicating with the Arapaho took time, but Sharp Eye spoke some English, and Jeb and Meg helped guess at words, too, so the conversation proved productive. Gray Wolf confirmed what Clint had said about his Arapaho friend; he was a spiritual, mystical man, deeply concerned for his people. He also had difficult questions.
Why did the white government tell them to stop hunting and promise to provide food, when they could feed themselves if left alone to hunt? Why were white hunters so wasteful to kill large numbers of buffalo and scatter the herds? The Arapaho could no longer hunt buffalo together, Gray Wolf said, and their traditions and ceremonies surrounding the annual buffalo hunt were disappearing. Losing their traditions bothered him; he worried the Arapaho were becoming shadows. He asked why lines were drawn on paper to show where the Indians could not go. Gray Wolf said the white government made promises they did not honor. He would never sign a treaty with the government, nor move his family to a reservation. Sickness, hunger, and death lived at the reservations. Here in the mountains, he could protect and provide for his family. He would live here with his family and any Arapaho who also wanted to live in freedom.
Gray Wolf paused then. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully at Win, Jeb, and Meg. “Do you know the coyote and the badger? They both eat . . .” He turned to Sharp Eye and asked if he knew the English word for honi’. Sharp Eye shook his head.
“Oh, I know what you mean.” Win turned to Meg and Jeb. “Hon
i’ is a small burrowing animal, like a ground squirrel, or a prairie dog.”
Gray Wolf nodded and continued. “You would think the coyote and the badger would fight over the honi’, but each has a different gift, so, instead of fighting, they give their gift to each other. If the honi’ is above the ground, the coyote chases it. If he catches it, it is his. But if the honi’ is too fast and escapes underground, the badger, with his sharp claws, digs it out of its burrow and it is his. If it escapes out of its burrow, the coyote is waiting to pounce. When the coyote and the badger hunt together like this, they are well fed. It is . . .” Gray Wolf paused to find the word, “. . . unexpected . . . for two kinds of animals to eat their fill when both are after the same meal, but I have seen it. It is a good partnership.”
Gray Wolf invited them to camp with his hunting party for the night. Win lay awake long after he heard the steady breathing of sleep. Too energized to close his eyes, he reflected on their extraordinary day. And the story of the badger and coyote.
Spirits seemed to whisper the story over and over in his ear. Perhaps spirits had brought them together, as Gray Wolf said. One of the Arapaho snored loudly, but where Gray Wolf lay, it was silent. Win wondered if the Arapaho leader was awake as well, unable to sleep.
Win stared at the stars in the inky sky. No thunderstorms, but Win felt electricity in the air. When he finally drifted into sleep, the dark-haired girl who often visited Win in his dreams asked him the name for the blue light at the tips of the pines, glowing like St. Elmo’s fire on a ship’s mast at sea. “Foxfire,” he told her.
“No,” she said, “the Arapaho name.”
He didn’t know.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: JEB
Gray Wolf’s camp
Win finished a private conversation with Gray Wolf and signaled to Jeb and Meg that he was ready to leave. Jeb tipped his hat to Gray Wolf and Sharp Eye. Meg waved to the Arapaho men. “Hohou.”
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