by Anita Mills
“Yes, Evy.” She looked out at the scaffold on which Wild Horse lay. “I don’t think Wise Owl Woman or the others would mind if you took them down there and laid them where Wild Horse sleeps. His spirit will keep you safe in the sacred burial grounds. Why don’t you take the flowers to Wild Horse? He can give them to his own little girl.”
Evy smiled and ran down the hill. Edward and Margaret watched her lay the flowers under the scaffold, and she blew a kiss to Wild Horse. Somewhere nearby an Indian man began playing his flute, a mystic, touching song that floated on the soft afternoon breeze and on upward to another place, another time when the grass was green and plentiful, and many buffalo grazed across a beautiful land. Where Cheyenne warriors rode free and wild to hunt and make war and came home to their women to celebrate victory and life.
Margaret took hold of Edward’s hand, and Evy ran to join them, taking hold of her father’s other hand.
“Can we go on a picnic by the pond, Daddy? I’ll catch you some tadpoles.”
Edward grinned, looking at Margaret. “Yes, we can go on a picnic.” He stopped to kiss his wife, something he had never done in broad daylight before. “I love you, Maggie. Right now that’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
“And it’s all I need to hear,” she answered.
They continued walking, and in the distance Margaret saw several horses running. The lead horse was white, its mane and tail flying in the wind, its shiny coat glistening in the sun, its muscles rippling with every movement. The beautiful animal reminded her of Wild Horse.
“The spirit of the wild horse will decide what happens to me,” he had told her once. Now the answer had come. He was as free as the spirit of the horse that had lived in his soul. The white horse seemed a symbol of that freedom, as though to tell her Wild Horse still lived.
Run, Wild Horse! Run, and never look back!
She left the burial grounds with Edward and Evy, never noticing a small girl with long, black hair and dressed in a deerskin tunic, run to pick up the flowers Evy had left under Wild Horse’s scaffold. She smelled them and she smiled, little dimples showing in her cheeks. She held up the flowers, as though to hand them to someone. A handsome Indian man appeared from nowhere and took the flowers, then took the little girl into his arms. They both laughed when he whirled her around, then suddenly vanished.
Connect with Diversion Books
Connect with us for information on new titles and authors from Diversion Books, free excerpts, special promotions, contests, and more:
@DiversionBooks
www.Facebook.com/DiversionBooks
Diversion Books eNewsletter
