He found a spring and drank and rested briefly. When Father Sun was high in the blue void, Owl started up the last, steepest wall of rock, and by dusk he stood near the topmost ridge of the mountains. The valley ahead was hidden by ridge after ridge, but even so, the trail of justice would take him downslope. He found a spring on the downslope just as dark loomed, watered there, and settled into a red-rock hollow out of the cold wind. It was his first rest since he had fled the agency, and now hunger gnawed at him. It was hard to quiet himself with his body howling for food.
He subdued himself through the night, and somehow felt his spirit floating away from his miserable body, above himself, looking down upon the boy lying on a gravel shelf, his owl heart larger than the whole universe. Much time had passed since he fled the agency.
He greeted first light by rising and lifting his arms to the glow in the east. He scarcely noticed his body; it was as if he was disconnected from it. As the light quickened, he seemed almost to float, to be free of his body. He would continue toward the valley ahead, which lay shadowed beneath the Big Horn Mountains to the east.
There on the wall of this cavity he discovered images painted by the ancient ones. Thousands of images, and most of all, images of the Owl, with big eyes, small horn-ears, a curved beak, and a square body. Owl marveled. Here was the very home of the Owl, celebrated by the ancients. Here were hundreds of images, all with big eyes, all waiting for him. He knew at once that he was destined to come to this place, and destined to receive this vision, destined to rise out of his body and float above it because it was all part of his vision, the vision he had cried for, the vision he had told the Dreamers about. He stood dizzily, scarcely aware of the body that contained life, for now he was melded into the Owl. It was as if the Owl and Owl had merged into a great spirit that he could only feel and not describe.
He sat suddenly and waited, and felt the silence and felt the truth and felt that his life had only just begun.
twenty-eight
Dirk had six students that morning, all boys. These were drawn from the surrounding countryside, and ranged from adolescents to small children. They showed up now and then, all according to whim, or maybe for reasons he didn’t fathom.
The erratic attendance made instruction difficult. He could scarcely remember where each child left off, nor had he any idea what had been absorbed and what would have to be taught again. Still, he was delighted to see them file in.
Had Horse Whipper learned some English? Did Biting Bear master some arithmetic? And where was Yan Maow, Big Nose, in learning the alphabet? Dirk kept careful attendance records, but they did little good. So this morning, he resorted to telling stories in the Shoshone tongue, but stories about the white world and the people in it. He didn’t know if it amounted to a schooling, but it might prepare these boys for the changes in their lives that would be forced on them.
It seemed a strange morning. There were armed soldiers scattered around the agency, most of them wearing sidearms. The sight of all those blue-shirts disturbed the boys. They stared out the schoolhouse windows, and didn’t listen as Dirk told them about how he had been schooled in a great city of the white men called St. Louis. He sprinkled English words liberally through his teaching, knowing that at least the boys would gradually become English speakers, which is what the government wanted. Still, until there could be regular classes and a boardinghouse for the students, not much would be achieved.
He stared at Otter Beard, and his friend Tindooh, and then at the earnest lad Tissidimit, and wondered what good he was doing. Was he helping them or leading them to perdition?
Halfway through the bright fall morning, he had a visitor, Pan-sook-a-motse, who was Major Van Horne’s factotum.
The graying man smiled, and motioned. “Chief, he want see you quick quick.”
“I’ll be along, thank you.”
The Shoshone left, closing the door carefully against the sharp breezes.
“I’m going to give you a recess. I’ll be back after I talk to the agent,” he said.
The boys would head for the schoolyard and play one of their games with a ball or some sticks, or just sit in the pale sun and take the air.
Dirk threw on his woolen coat and headed for the whitewashed agency, once again aware that there were a dozen soldiers lounging here and there, to no apparent purpose.
He passed two soldiers at the door of the agency, and found the Indian agent and several other people, including Thaddeus Partridge and Lieutenant Keefer, the newest shavetail at the post.
The agent turned at once to Dirk. “Well, what have you to say?”
“About what?”
“The murderous assault.”
Dirk realized he was missing something important. “I don’t know what this is about.”
“I’ll tell you what!” the reverend said. “Waiting Wolf is what. He walked straight in while Mrs. Partridge and I were studying, and tried to brain us, is what!”
“Brain you?”
“With a candelabra from the altar. Sacrilege on top of murder!”
Van Horne continued the story: “It’s a good thing that the reverend was alert and in fine shape. He leaped out of his chair straight into the boy, so the blow came over his head and caught his back.”
“Yes, and I tumbled him, and Mrs. Partridge tipped the lamp, and we had a fire and she smothered it with a rug whilst I chased that wretch out of the house. He got away, the miserable cur.”
“And made off with my long johns and a shirt,” Van Horne added.
“Waiting Wolf? Owl?”
“I don’t care what his name is. He can change it ten times if he wants and he’ll still hang. And all the Dreamers are going to hang, too.”
Dirk absorbed all that slowly. “Was he alone?”
“Alone, skulking about here, knowing that Captain Cinnabar’s in the field, hunting down rustlers and Dreamers.”
“A perfect moment to strike!” Partridge said. “But I know my history, Dirk. The Whitmans up in Oregon. Marcus Whitman, Narcissa Whitman, slaughtered by treacherous redskins they’d brought into the fold. Doctor Whitman, who’d given over his life to helping those savages. Oh, I knew my history and didn’t think twice. It was save Amy or perish.”
“I somehow missed it,” Dirk said.
“How could you miss it? The place was in an uproar.”
“I did see the soldiers this morning.”
“You must be a deep sleeper, or else you think you’re not vulnerable,” Van Horne said.
There was something in the observation that Dirk didn’t like, but he let it pass.
“Why me? Why Amy and me and Bobby?” Partridge asked. “Why not a soldier, or the agent, or the schoolteacher, or one of the civilians at the post? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m a priest, and everything I say and believe and preach is a threat to the savages. They know it. That boy knows it. He started up the Dreamers, with a vision of getting rid of us. And it’s clear that he’s after the church. Drive the missionaries out, and the rest will collapse. And it’s true. Belief marches ahead of all else.”
“Well, Thaddeus, I think you’re putting a little too much emphasis on religion,” the lieutenant said. “The army’s here and it’s going to stay here, and it’s going to affect the lives of the savages.”
“Owl attacked the church,” Partridge said. “He attacked God. He knows. He’s bright. He knows that it’s us against the heathen. It’s our beliefs against their superstitions. So he struck where it counted. That’s why I’ll need protection, Lieutenant. He’s decided who’s his enemy, and while I wish it weren’t so, that is how he’s thinking. I ache to lead him toward the light, but he’s committed to preserving the Shoshone animism and hoodoo. Owl, dreaded creature of those people, owns his heart, and as long as the boy’s thinking that way, my family and I need protection.”
“See to it, Lieutenant,” Van Horne said.
“Yes, of course. We’ll post a guard every night, or you can stay at Fort Washakie each
night,” Keefer said.
“I’d like a guard, sir.”
“Where’s the boy?” Dirk asked.
“No one knows. Gone. We’ve sent a dispatch to the captain to hunt him down, but this is a big country, and the boy has friends,” the agent said.
Dirk supposed that Owl probably was close at hand, which was how he had fed himself. Owl lingered near the shattered pine above the agency, and confederates supplied his needs. But Dirk didn’t feel like saying it. For some reason, he still liked Owl, or at least felt some connection with him, and wished that the youth would simply vanish, maybe head west to the farthest Shoshone bands, close to California. He’d be safe there.
“Well, Skye, you know the boy better than anyone else. Where do you think he’d be?” the lieutenant asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How far did he get with his schooling?” Van Horne asked.
Dirk didn’t mince words. “He was the brightest one I’ve taught. He blotted up everything, asked questions, challenged me, and had an amazing curiosity about the world of white people. I’d say, even at age fifteen, he knows more about Europeans and white civilization than any other Shoshone, including the chief.”
“Well, I didn’t mean that. Could he do arithmetic? Could he read and write? Does he know English?”
“All of those things.”
“Then he knows we’ll hang him.”
“For what?”
“Rebellion, mutiny, attempted murder.”
“He hasn’t killed anyone and he’s only trying to preserve his nation,” Dirk replied.
They stared at him, and he knew the stare all too well.
“He’s a boy of fifteen,” Dirk added.
“What did you teach him, Skye?” the lieutenant asked.
There it was again, a little more open this time. “I taught him that the Shoshones are a fine people, a nation led by a fine chief.”
“Well, yes, but didn’t you tell them that they needed to abandon their old ways?”
“Yes, I told them that there won’t be more buffalo, and the old ways won’t work.”
“Well, Dirk, you didn’t get it across to Owl,” Van Horne said.
“I’m here to gather intelligence, Skye. You know the boy better than anyone else. What’s he going to do next?” the lieutenant asked.
“I haven’t any idea, sir.”
“Those Dreamers, dreaming of driving us out. Is he going to summon them? Has the time come that they’re dreaming about? Is that why he tried to murder the Partridges?”
“His dream, as I understand it, is that the whites will leave peacefully. That’s what the Dreamers are waiting for. The army will go; the agency will shut down. The private citizens will pack up.”
“Why?”
“Because their God failed them. Because they will lose heart and go away.”
“But no rational person would believe that,” the lieutenant insisted. “That’s propaganda, but what’s real is the boy’s little army, the Dreamers.”
“They are poorly armed, starving, and know they haven’t a chance, Lieutenant,” Dirk said. “This is a spiritual matter. They walk a circle, beat a drum, and sing a song of hope.”
Keefer stared sourly, and smiled. “Well, I suppose you would know all about that,” he said.
Dirk felt their distrust and condescension again. “Yes, sir, I do,” he replied.
“This reservation’s in a state of anarchy. There’s a rebellion brewing. The boy’s out there, calling the Dreamers to arms, and then this place will be knee-deep in blood,” the lieutenant said.
“I think not, sir. This is about belief.”
“I don’t understand this rubbish and don’t need to,” Keefer said. “This is a military matter. I’ve sent a dispatch to Captain Cinnabar, and he’ll contact the other columns in the field, and we’ll put a lid on this reservation. If the savages want a fight, we’ll give them a fight. If they try sneaking up in the night, we’ll be ready. If they try to flee, we’ll box them in. They have no place to go. They’ll be spotted and reported. They haven’t any food, and if they try to take some, they’ll find every militia man in the area armed and waiting.”
Dirk absorbed that bleakly. “He’s a boy with a vision, sir. It’ll all die away.”
“No, Skye, Owl is a public enemy, a menace to civilization, a murderer, an organizer of sedition and rebellion. And we’re going to snare him one way or another, and we’re going to make a public example of him before the entire Eastern Shoshone nation.”
“You’ll find the people living quietly in their villages, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, for the moment. Until they get the word. And then they’ll take up the weapons they’ve hidden from us, and burn and rape and kill until no white man is left alive.”
“That won’t happen, sir.”
Keefer stared. “How would you know, eh? How would you know?”
“I understand their religion, sir. I learned it from my mother and my kin.”
“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you?” the lieutenant said. “Major Van Horne, we’ll need to make some plans to prevent an insurrection. We’ll need the utmost privacy. I’m thinking perhaps your teacher should return to his schoolhouse and teach his minions about the world of science and civilization.”
“Why, yes, of course. Thanks for coming over, Dirk. We’ll take it from here.”
“Have you talked this over with Chief Washakie?” Dirk asked.
“No, this isn’t his business, Skye,” the lieutenant said.
“Not his business? He has the authority to prevent armed conflict. He’s their chief. His word is law. He’s also one of the most persuasive men in the Shoshone nation. They’ll hear him.”
“Well, young man, this is for the Indian Bureau and the army to deal with,” Keefer said.
Thaddeus Partridge looked relieved. “Dirk, my boy, you just teach them the religious fundamentals, the Sermon on the Mount, Ten Commandments, the ways of redemption, and you’ll be worth your weight in gold. Once these Shoshones see the light, things will go a lot more smoothly. You can help us here.”
“I’ll leave that instruction to you, sir. That’s your mission, I believe?”
Partridge stared long. “It’s my mission; I’d hoped it was yours, too, my young friend.”
They stood around Van Horne’s desk, waiting.
Dirk saw something in their faces, something in the waiting, that excluded him.
“Good day,” he said.
They nodded silently. Whatever they were planning, they would not include Dirk Skye, the two-blood teacher, in on it.
twenty-nine
Owl scarcely noticed his hunger for a while. His spirit was detached from his body. He floated above the starving boy and didn’t feel the faintness that stole through a body no longer his. He tumbled down the mountains, finding little to eat. The birds had devoured the last berries, and all the earth was brown and silent as it waited for the cold.
Still, he was one with his spirit guide, and didn’t need his own flesh. So he walked down gulches toward the Big Horn River, where the white men had vast ranches and thousands of the four-foots they raised and slaughtered. He discovered knots of the four-foots in the groves along the river, where there was still an occasional patch of green grass.
All that day he walked along the river bottom, seeing the arid mountains to the west, and the misty Big Horns jutting high on the east. He passed cattle but had no weapon, not even a knife, nor the means of making a fire, so the meat meant nothing to him. Here in the bottoms he did find cattails, and borrowed the wisdom of his mother. He pulled the cattails from the swampy ground, collected a heap of roots, ground them to a pulp with rocks, and began masticating them. They were thick and white and starchy, and made an emergency food. They should be boiled, turned to a paste, but he had no fire and no pot and no knife. Still, the pulverized roots were ambrosia for his belly.
All that day he saw signs of the white men and their herds, but
he saw no one, and slid quietly along the river, scarcely knowing where he was going. Twilight found him far north of the reservation, in country he had never seen. Then, just before dusk, he spotted light, and discovered a log building with men inside, sometimes visible through windows. And in the pen nearby were half a dozen horses, and several saddles perched on the top rail of the pen over their blankets, along with some tack, including bridles and one saddlebag.
Ah! He settled in a copse of cottonwoods to watch. He would be patient. Sometimes the men moved about. Sometimes they came out to piss near the river. One came out and went to a bin, opened the lid, and took a bucket of grain, oats perhaps, to the mangers and fed the grain to the horses.
Ah! This was all just fine. Dusk came slowly, but it came, and then darkness, and the tired men blew out their lamp and fell into silence. Still Owl waited. It would take them a good while to slip into a deep sleep. He studied the sky, anxious that no bright moon appear, but none rose, and he remembered that Grandfather Moon would be only a sliver this night.
He studied the horses. One had spotted him, and stared at the copse where he sat in blackness. That would be tricky. He decided to move about, let them see him and smell him for a while, so he padded near the corral until they all saw him, their ears pricked forward. But they did nothing. He slipped closer, walked around the corral while they eyed him, taking time to examine the saddles. Most of them were empty, without so much as a bedroll, but one had a sheath for a weapon, and he saw the butt of a gun poking from it.
Ah! He didn’t disturb the horses at all, though he was choosing which one he would take, and settled on a buckskin mule that seemed almost friendly. Mules were his brothers, and he had always wanted one. He slipped over to the bin and opened it, discovering half a burlap bag of oats. Ah! Food for man and animal. He could grind the oats between smooth rocks, let it soak, and eat the oats. He filled the saddlebags with oats, and decided he wanted the scoop, too. So he took it and gently lowered the lid.
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