by Vella Munn
“The Hopi are slow to take up weapons,” he said, “but I cannot believe they will continue to allow the newcomers to take so much of what their springs offer.”
“Perhaps they are afraid to speak.”
“Perhaps.” For a moment he was distracted by the memory of the sound of the musket that had been fired at him. “But there are hundreds of Hopi, while the soldiers number only a few.” He shrugged. “I do not understand the Hopi. I never will.”
“Nor they us.” Blue Corn Eater wiped an ant off his leg, then did the same to one crawling over Cougar’s instep. “When this day is over, and I have learned how to ride a horse, you and I will race. Your legs may be longer, but I will capture the swifter animal.”
“You think so?” Cougar jabbed playfully at his cousin. “With your poor eyesight, you will probably come away with a sheep.”
“Never, although it would be good to have sheep. Because your warrior skills are so poor, I have decided I will put you to work guarding my herd and harvesting their wool. Perhaps the women can teach you how to turn it into something useful.”
“Ha! When the sheep see you, their hearts will stop. All you will be left with is rotting carcasses and buzzards.”
The easy banter continued, with the other Navajo men adding their own jokes. More than once Cougar reminded himself to be content to sit and keep insects off him until dark, but he’d always hated inactivity. As a young boy, he’d ranged so far that his parents had feared he’d get lost. While others his age were content to sit and listen to the tales of Coyote the Troublemaker, the Hero Twins, and how the People came to Dinehtah, his restless muscles had insisted on turning the legends into plays, with him acting all the parts. He loved to run and hunt, measuring success not just in a kill, but in matching twists and turns with a rabbit or slipping close enough to an antelope to look into its eyes.
At long last, the setting sun filled the sky with red and orange brilliance that reluctantly faded to deep purple and then black. The warriors sent streams of urine to the ground and, after a quick prayer to the Hero Twins, they left their hiding place. Although comforted by their presence, Cougar concentrated on the task ahead of them, and the danger.
“You are my brother tonight,” he told Blue Corn Eater. “We will walk together like the Hero Twins and if there is trouble, we will know the other is there.”
“Good.” All humor had been stripped from Blue Corn Eater’s voice. “There is none I would rather have beside me.”
When he’d first seen the Spaniards’ dogs, which were much larger than those belonging to the Hopi, Cougar had been concerned they’d warn their masters if anyone tried to get close, but the creatures seemed more interested in filling their bellies, and their barking was sudden and senseless. Hopefully if they howled now, the soldiers wouldn’t take note.
A few Hopi sometimes remained near their gardens at night, but the majority returned to Oraibi, and in any case they were no threat. The soldiers, however, slept on the desert floor and took turns guarding the horses. For reasons that baffled him, they positioned themselves near the gate, which made it easy for him and the others to slip around to the far side and slide under the bottom strand of rope.
Summer’s heat hadn’t yet left the earth, but the soldiers had already lit a fire and all but the single guard were sitting on their blankets around it, their heads bent in what he assumed to be prayer because they spoke in unison. They’d brought two laden wagons with them. One was near the padre’s shelter while the other—leaning brokenly on a shattered wheel—might have carried the soldiers’ belongings.
He saw the wisdom in the Spaniards’ selection of a lifted ridge of land which allowed them a view of much of their surroundings, and yet he wondered why they hadn’t chosen a nearby wash with a fine layer of sand to provide cushioning for their beds. Obviously they didn’t care that their blankets, spare clothing, cooking utensils, weapons, and personal leather chests were exposed to view. They’d made no attempt to build permanent structures, but although he hoped it meant they didn’t plan to remain here, he knew better than to believe that. From where they were, he couldn’t see the leader’s sleeping place.
“Let the horses know you are here,” Cougar whispered once they were all inside the corral. “That way you will not frighten them.”
“They fear us?” Blue Corn Eater asked. “But they are much larger than us.”
Later, hopefully, they’d have the opportunity to discuss the ways of horses, but now all that mattered was taking them. Letting his silence speak for him, Cougar began inching toward the nearest animal. A few stars were already out, making it possible for him to see shapes and shadows. His heart pounded and he had trouble controlling his breathing, wondered why he felt this way when he’d spiritually prepared himself for what he was doing. Death wasn’t a fearful thing.
A nearby horse stomped the ground, startling him. He sensed alarm from the rest of the herd and vowed to remain calm and show no fear. Humming the Door Path song, he slowly stood and touched the horse’s shoulder with gentle fingers, wincing when its flesh danced. He wasn’t sure his companions could see what he was doing, but their senses were tuned to his, so hopefully their hearts would know.
“I have come to you,” he whispered to the horse. “Come because I am Navajo. You will go with me, you and others of your kind, and you will learn what it is to become Navajo.”
When the animal stopped sucking in noisy breaths and extended its neck to sniff him, he shook out the rope over his arm and slipped it into the horse’s mouth before looping it around the lower jaw. Another Navajo—he couldn’t be sure who it was—had taken his lead and now stood beside the horse he’d just secured. He had tried to convince his companions to each mount a horse and then to lead as many away as possible, but only Blue Corn Eater had thought he could do that. The rest pointed out that someone who has never ridden can’t be expected to handle more than a single animal. Cougar, however, had worked with Four Legs daily and hoped he could follow the soldiers’ example of controlling a number of horses at once.
Intent on placing ropes around the necks of as many as he thought he could handle, he could only pray that his companions would be ready to leave when he was. He’d secured three in addition to the one he intended to ride when he sensed a presence behind him. He whirled, then let out a sigh of relief when he realized it was Blue Corn Eater.
“We have been here too long,” his cousin whispered. “My ears and eyes and heart tell me this is not a safe place.”
“I agree.” To give weight to his words, he clutched the ropes in his left hand, grabbed the nearest horse’s mane with his right, and vaulted onto its back. Then he glanced around, relieved because he could make out the forms of his fellow warriors, each standing near a horse.
“Now!” he whispered harshly. “Now we ride!”
Digging his heels into his mount’s flank, he urged it on. At the same time, he yanked on the lead ropes. His plan, formulated last night when he couldn’t sleep, had been to gallop at the flimsy-looking gate instead of trying to clear it. In daylight, the horse would probably see the barrier and stop before hitting it, but now hopefully they’d focus on his orders, not where they were going.
“Ride!” he yelled. A couple of horses squealed, half burying his cry under theirs.
He loved the power and speed, muscles under his legs! Most of all he loved what he and his fellow warriors were doing to the Spanish. He couldn’t die tonight! No Navajo could!
The corral was so small that the horses could barely move about in it. As a result, he reached the gate before his mount reached a full gallop. Seeing the rope obstacle, he ground his heels and knees into the horse and prayed for forgiveness.
For an instant the ropes held, forcing the horse to shift its weight to its rear legs. Then, as despair surged through Cougar, the resistance was gone and his mount half ran, half stumbled to freedom. Although it was impossible to tell how many others were following his lead, he felt as if he’
d become part of a river of horses. The arm holding on to the lead ropes was nearly wrenched from its socket, but he refused to let go.
The soldiers were all on their feet now, two running into each other, the others reaching for their weapons. Blood red glinted off the muskets. Letting instinct take over, Cougar stretched low along the length of his horse’s back so he would present as small a target as possible. He wished he knew how long it took the soldiers to load and how accurate they were.
Most of all, he prayed for First Man to ride with him.
Someone bellowed, snagging his attention. A man was running toward him, his musket aimed at his chest. Almost without thinking, he jerked his mount’s head toward his enemy, using the animal as a shield. The galloping horse snorted and tried to avoid the soldier, but it was too late. Screaming, the man fell backward, defenseless against sharp hooves.
“So be it!” Cougar shouted. “Yes, the Dineh are mighty!” He’d barely gotten the words out when an explosion of sound filled his ears. It was immediately followed by another. And then another.
Blue Corn Eater, young, strong, and courageous, jerked upright and then, before Cougar could catch him, fell off his horse and lay still. Cougar’s horse took him racing past his cousin, forcing him to yank on the jaw rope, but even as he struggled to stop his mount, he knew he couldn’t do anything because the soldiers had already surrounded Blue Corn Eater.
Be dead, he prayed. Safe from their cruelty.
• • •
Morning Butterfly was on her way to the mesa to help her mother settle her father in for the night when she heard the commotion. For a frightful moment, she thought the soldiers were shooting at her; then she looked over her shoulder and understood. Her sister, who was ahead of her, spun around. They watched in silence as the horses scattered, many running in all directions but those with riders galloping one after another into the darkness.
She prayed the Navajo—it had to be them—would succeed with their raid, but although most of the soldiers seemed to have no idea what to do, one ran after the fleeing raiders, then stopped and aimed his musket. The horrible sound echoed and echoed, was still alive when a Navajo toppled off his horse and plunged to the ground.
“They shot him!” Singer of Songs gasped. “They have killed him.”
“Maybe he is only wounded.”
“Pray he is dead. Otherwise the Spanish will make him wish he were.”
Her sister was right. Singer of Songs insisted they learn everything they could about the attack—and the soldiers’ reaction—so Morning Butterfly joined the knot of curious, wary Hopi who’d gathered near the corral. The fallen Navajo lay facedown in the dirt, toes pointed in. One soldier and then another kicked him in the side and head, but he remained motionless. It was clear to Morning Butterfly that he was beyond life. Not so the ill-clad soldier who writhed on the ground nearby.
To a man, the soldiers insisted on going after the Navajo, but Captain Lopez angrily pointed out that nothing could be accomplished at night.
“We will have our revenge,” he announced. After glaring at the Navajo’s body, he knelt beside the injured Spaniard. If the captain was aware of his growing Hopi audience, he gave no indication. Instead, he directed his attention to his gathered men. “But I will not risk any of your lives. When we go after them, we will be prepared, and there will be no doubt of the outcome.”
Morning Butterfly had no doubt he wouldn’t let the raid go unpunished.
Although she wasn’t close enough to see the full extent of the fallen soldier’s injuries, others were, and the details quickly spread. The man hadn’t been wounded by a Navajo arrow but had been trampled by the stampeding horses and was possibly dying. Someone spread out a blanket and he was moved onto it. The captain didn’t touch the writhing man. Instead, he spoke to the padre who stood nearby. Morning Butterfly could not hear his words, but the padre’s reply was clear.
“I intend to pray for his soul,” he said. “This child is devout in his devotion to the Lord; certainly I would never refuse him last rites.”
“Last rites?” the injured man bleated. “Captain, I ain’t dying. Oh, God, God . . . please do not let me die!”
The captain’s dark glare was a fearful thing as he straightened, his eyes raking over the audience.
“He needs to be cleaned up,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “Until I can see the extent of his injuries, speculation of any kind is useless.”
He glanced at Morning Butterfly, looked away, then focused on her again. With a shock, she realized she’d isolated herself from her companions. Before she could react, he grabbed her and hauled her roughly to his side, then forced her to look down at the whimpering man.
“How do I make you savages understand?” he demanded. “I want you to do what you can to make him comfortable. That is all. Surely you are capable of that simple thing.”
“Captain, I don’t want her touchin’ me. If she has a knife on her—”
“Good point.”
While gripping her arm so tightly that it began to go numb, the captain ran his hand over her, lingering on her breasts, forcing his fingers between her legs. She’d never been treated like this, and rage and disbelief warred within her. If he fell upon her now, would anyone try to stop him?
“She is clean, Pablo,” he announced. “Probably not clean, because who knows what vile diseases they carry, but at least she will not finish what the Navajo tried to do.”
“Lord, I beseech—you are certain?”
“You question me?” Captain Lopez showed his teeth. “Do you think I chose her at random? No. My thought is that if you respond to her as a man responds to a woman, we will both know you are going to live.” He chuckled. “In fact, I encourage you to put all your energy into getting well because if you succeed, she is your reward.”
Horrified, Morning Butterfly renewed her efforts to free herself, but although the captain cursed when she tried to scratch him, he refused to let go. Most of the Hopi had drawn back, but Singer of Songs remained where she was, her hands clamped into fists. Taking note of her, the captain ordered another of his soldiers to seize her as well.
“Do you understand now?” Lopez demanded of Morning Butterfly as the soldier snaked a rope over Singer of Songs, trapping her arms at her sides. “Do as I order or she will suffer the consequences.”
“Captain, I protest.” The padre cleared his throat and his voice shook, not with fear but determination. “The Church’s dictates on such matters are inflexible. There will be no taking advantage of the native women within the shadows of a church.”
“Your church is not yet built, Padre. Besides, this is a military matter, not a religious one, and the lives and productivity of each of my men is my priority.” He glanced at the dead Navajo. “Burn his body. Burn it so there will be no misunderstanding my contempt for the savages.”
• • •
The man called Pablo had at least one broken rib and the flesh around it had been torn open, probably by a hoof. Despite the poor lighting, Morning Butterfly located sore places all over his body. He groaned and prayed every time she touched him, so she did that as little as possible. Still, focusing on him helped distract her, at least a little, from the stench of burning flesh.
She and Pablo had been left alone, the other Hopi having been forced back at sword point, the padre disappearing into the night once he’d finished praying over the injured man. His repeated words about the son of god, salvation, ascending to the heavens, the holy spirit, and judging the living and dead had made little sense to her, but they’d obviously comforted the man called Pablo.
The captain, after assuring himself there was enough of a fire to consume a human body, had hauled Singer of Songs off with him, and until Morning Butterfly knew whether her sister was all right, she’d do as she had been ordered. She left Pablo only long enough to get some water, which she used to clean his bleeding wounds. She didn’t know whether the heat pulsing through her was due to what remained
of the sun’s gift, the captain’s cruelty, her distaste of what she was doing, or fear for her sister.
Pablo felt warm to the touch, yet he shivered.
“You will live,” she whispered in Hopi. “But your body does not know and that is why you shake. Be calm. Calm. There is nothing to fear.”
Pablo stopped praying and stared up at her. Although she didn’t want to feel anything for him, didn’t want to think of him as a human being, she could not help herself—could not keep from offering comfort.
“Hear not my words,” she continued, “but the truth in their sound. I speak to you as a mother does to a crying child. An infant may not understand what is being said to him, but he is comforted by the sound.”
He took a long deep breath, held it, then let it out in a sigh. “Mary, Mother of God, ever Virgin,” he whispered.
“Listen to your body,” she continued once he was finished, her face close to his. “If you heed it, it will tell you the truth. Muscles and bone speak to the head and blood carries those messages from one part to another.”
“I do not understand,” he said in Spanish.
“It does not matter.” It amused her that she could answer him without his knowing. “Perhaps if you spend your life here, the time will come when you see into the heart of a Hopi. Perhaps.”
The night creatures had found their voices; uncounted numbers and varieties of insects now sang their endless songs. The child she’d once been used to fall asleep to their lullabies, but although she longed to lay down and rest, she didn’t dare. She didn’t want to think about what might be taking place between the captain and her sister. Singer of Songs, whose woman’s bleeding time had begun just this spring, still cared little that the men of their tribe smiled at her, but if the Spanish could chop the hands off helpless prisoners, they were capable of raping a maiden.
“Sister,” she whispered. “Please, make little of yourself. Remain silent and still so you will not touch his mind. Please.”
