It was a two-day journey to Wounded Elk’s village on the Wind River, two days that Little Wolf thoroughly enjoyed. It was good to get out in the open again after the confines of the cramped hovel that Squint called his camp. The wind whispered softly through the pines as they made their way leisurely along the slopes and down through streams swollen with melting snow and ice, climbing again through cottonwood and aspen on the lower slopes. Little Wolf could feel his senses regaining their sharpness. Long dulled by the smoke-filled cave he had shared with Squint, they seemed to return now that the cold mountain air flushed out his lungs. The sweet, almost spicy aroma of the fir trees lay heavy on the wind and he breathed it in deeply. The forest was so fresh and clean, purified by the long months of snow, that he could almost taste it. High above them, he heard the cry of a hawk piercing the soft murmur of the wind in the trees. It was good to be alive on this morning and he felt himself to be a part of the mountains and forests.
As they rode in silence, he wondered if Squint felt this same oneness with the mountains or if the sensation was strictly Indian. Spotted Pony had taught him to be one with the land as every Arapaho father taught his son. Looking at the solid bulk of Squint ahead of him, hunched over against the chilling spring air, he decided it was unlikely his friend had anything on his mind but Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law.
Upon arriving in the Shoshone village, Squint and Little Wolf were greeted cordially. Old Wounded Elk came out of his lodge to welcome them himself. Squint was obviously regarded as a friend and, since the Shoshone were not enemies of the Arapaho or the Cheyenne, Little Wolf felt he would be treated courteously as well. Squint wasn’t worried about it from the first because, although his hair was long and he still wore the buckskin shirt and leggings of his tribe, Little Wolf looked like just another trapper to the Indians. Besides, the winter months, as well as his recovery from his wound, had left him pale and looking very much like a white man again. These facts irritated Little Wolf, and he immediately spoke to Wounded Elk in the Cheyenne tongue, letting him know in no uncertain tones that he was an Arapaho brave, respected in his tribe. He had taken the power of the grizzly with his own hands, he had killed a Pawnee army scout with his war axe and a soldier with his knife. He was not to be regarded as a white trapper. Wounded Elk was impressed and invited Little Wolf to sit down and smoke the pipe with him, explaining that it was a natural mistake since he had come with Squint. He also explained, with some amusement, that it was somewhat unexpected to encounter an Arapaho brave with a face full of stubby whiskers. Squint couldn’t help but chuckle at this. Little Wolf’s hand immediately went up to rub his chin. It was obvious that, until the remark, he hadn’t even considered the fact that he had a growth on his face. He was far from flustered, however, and replied at once that the mighty Cheyenne measured a warrior by his heart and deeds, not by the hair on his face. Squint knew enough Cheyenne to piece the conversation together. He learned something about his young friend that day. Little Wolf was not to be taken for a boy. There was a sense of self-confidence and pride that had not surfaced during the long months in Squint’s camp. He made a mental note that he had best be careful how he stepped on his friend’s toes in the future, now that the lad seemed to have regained his health.
It was a large village and, from all appearances, a permanent settlement. Squint told him these people were different from most of the plains tribes. They didn’t break up into smaller bands in the winter and come together in one big tribe in the summer. The valley in which they had settled offered ample water and the surrounding mountains provided plenty of game. The men formed hunting parties in the summer and went to hunt buffalo but they were seldom away for more than a week at a time. Like their brothers, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Utes and the Arapaho, they went on raiding parties to steal horses or war parties to avenge some wrong. But they operated out of the one central village.
On this day there were but a few of the men in the village, only enough to defend it in the unlikely event of an attack by an enemy. Only crazy men made war in the winter snows. Even the Blackfeet were relatively peaceful in the winter. Most of the men of the village were gone on a hunting party. Wounded Elk explained that game was still pretty hard to find in the mountains, but soon the great herds of elk and antelope would return from their winter ranges. Then there would be much dancing and feasting. Little Wolf waited until the common courtesies had been observed and the pipe had been offered to the four corners of the earth. Then, after the three men had all taken the pipe and drawn deeply from it, he pressed Wounded Elk for the information he was most interested in.
“I am seeking word of my friend Black Feather and a small number of Cheyenne warriors. They should have made a winter camp somewhere near the Wind River. My people were camped under a flag of peace near the soldier fort on Sand Creek. My chief, Black Kettle, wanted only peace with the soldiers but they attacked the village without warning, killing women and children. My own father and mother were killed. These friends I seek came to the mountains after the cowardly attack on Red Shirt’s camp.”
Wounded Elk responded, “I have heard of the cowardly attack on Black Kettle’s camp. It was a bad thing. I am sorry for your loss. Our scouting parties have not reported any contact with your Cheyenne friends but there was talk among a band of Utes visiting our village during the last full moon. They told of a band of Cheyenne warriors wintering in the Absaroka territory. But that is all I have heard.”
This was welcome news to Little Wolf. Who else could it be but Black Feather and his comrades? This meant that at least they were still in the high mountains. Now he had to make the decision about which path his future was to lie in—Black Feather’s or Squint’s. It was not a simple decision to make. He would have to fast and seek spiritual guidance.
“My friends have vowed to make war on the soldiers,” Little Wolf stated. “What will the mighty Shoshone do? Will you go to war with the army?”
Wounded Elk took a long, slow pull from the pipe before answering his young guest. The heavy smoke curled up around his face, framing the deep lines that furrowed his mouth and forehead, lines formed and deepened by many moons of war and harsh winters. He was accustomed to the impetuous prodding of young braves. His own young men were impatient for the answer to the same question. Even now, a few of the more aggressive braves questioned the old chief’s wisdom in his decision to wait. To the east the great Oglala chief, Red Cloud, was warring with the white soldiers. He had sent an invitation to most of the important chiefs to join him in his battle with the army. Wounded Elk looked deep into Little Wolf’s eyes. There was no blind impatience burning there, merely a desire for the answer to a simple question. So he was patient in his reply.
“Many of our young men want to join the Sioux in their battle with the soldiers. Red Cloud has many warriors but there is no end to the soldiers. Where one is cut down, two spring up in his place. Every soldier has a gun—some, the new gun that shoots many times. We have no guns. The Dakota have but a few old rifles. They will be useless against the soldiers. It is my feeling that we should stay in the mountains and let the Sioux fight the army if that is what Red Cloud wants.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “His war is nothing more than raids on the small camps of workers building the trail for the iron horse”—he paused—“and on the settlers.” He looked at Squint, seeking agreement from someone older than the boy and, presumably, wiser. “This is the land of the Shoshone. The soldiers will not come here in the mountains. I say, let us stay here and hunt and care for our people and defend what is ours.”
Squint said nothing but in his heart he felt the old chief was more than a shade nearsighted in his reasoning. He knew what Wounded Elk was referring to. The army was trying to build a railroad up to the Montana territory and, if his memory served him, it was going to run smack-dab through the middle of Sioux hunting grounds—little wonder Red Cloud was upset. There were more Sioux than there were prairie dogs in the Big Horn country and Red Cloud ought to be able to raise a whole lot of hell. But what the Sioux didn’t understand was the inexhaustible supply of blue coats the army could send against him. In the end, the Indian had to lose. It wasn’t necessarily right, but it was the way it was gonna be. Wounded Elk figured the army wouldn’t bother with him way off up in the mountains. But he was dead wrong. Before this thing was finished, the army would have every last Injun on a reservation somewhere. He also knew something else. His days of solitary trapping in these mountains were damn near at an end. It was going to get a trifle too hot for one lone white man in these parts when the real wars got heated up.
“Well”—Squint stretched and rubbed his belly—“I need to feed this old coyote inside me. I can hear him growling and getting riled already.” The conversation about war had gone on long enough to suit him. If the old chief was going to get too occupied to remember his manners, then Squint would just have to remind him.
“Forgive me, my friend.” Wounded Elk smiled. “Let us share some food and then you must go into my lodge to rest.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he added, “Perhaps Broken Wing will lie down with you to see that you are not disturbed.”
Squint grinned. This was what he had really come for in the first place. Wounded Elk proposed the same hospitality for Little Wolf but Little Wolf declined. He had more serious thoughts on his mind. The talk of war with the whites troubled him. He told Wounded Elk that he must find what was in his heart and he was going to fast and seek a vision, hoping Man Above would show him what he must do. Wounded Elk understood and suggested that he purify himself in the sweat lodge. He would have one of the women assist him in his preparation. When asked when he would like to start his fast, Little Wolf replied that he was ready then.
“Good,” the old man responded. He knew the seeking of a vision was a good and necessary thing for a young man to do and he was eager to help Little Wolf get in touch with the spirits.
Squint, perplexed by the sudden request of his young friend, stepped aside as Little Wolf was led from the lodge by an old aunt of the chief’s. “Well,” he stammered, “I reckon I’ll see you in a few days then.”
Little Wolf only nodded in reply, already focused on the ordeal ahead. Unlike some of the other tribes, Arapahos never sought visions until they were adults; consequently this was to be his first experience with this highly important and religious ceremony. Leaving Squint to satisfy his sexual needs, he followed the old woman to a small sweat lodge on the edge of a rocky stream. It was constructed of willow branches bent into a dome and covered with hides. The lodge was barely high enough for him to stand if he stooped over. A fire pit was dug in the middle of the lodge and large rocks were arranged within it. After a hot fire was built, using a stack of hardwood piled on one side of the small structure, the stones were rolled into place. Once they were heated enough, Little Wolf removed his clothes and the old woman poured icy water from the stream over the rocks to make steam. She seemed oblivious to his nakedness, apparently more interested in keeping the fire hot and continuing to bring water to make sure the small lodge was filled with steam.
Little Wolf crouched before the fire. Soon the heat brought little droplets of sweat to the surface of his skin. In a matter of minutes, rivulets of perspiration ran down the insides of his arms and legs. His breath became labored as he breathed the hot damp air into his lungs. When he could stand it no longer, he went outside and plunged into the icy waters of the stream. The sensation caused his head to spin and every nerve in his body came alive. At the coaxing of the old woman, he repeated the ritual several more times until he felt so weak he had difficulty standing. Satisfied that his body was purified, the old woman wrapped a blanket around him and helped him to Wounded Elk’s lodge. After giving him a bowl of tea made with special herbs and purifiers, she directed him to lie down and rest. Tomorrow he would begin his fast.
* * *
With the first golden splinters of sunlight that filtered through the mountain pass above the Shoshone camp, Little Wolf emerged from Wounded Elk’s tipi. Pausing only to note the direction of the rising sun, he began his journey into the mountains, a journey that would last at least three days, maybe four, depending upon what he might learn from within himself. He took nothing with him but his knife, a heavy buffalo robe and a small pouch of dried elk meat which was to be eaten only after he had attained his vision. He would be weak from hunger then and food would be scarce in the mountains this time of year. The robe would serve as his coat and his bed.
He was surprised that he had slept so soundly the night before. Perhaps it was the potion the old woman had given him. Whatever the reason, he felt rested and stong, considering he had not eaten since the previous afternoon. Passing silently among the sleeping tipis, he left the village at a trot, a pace he could keep up indefinitely. This journey was to be made solely on foot, the destination unknown to him, as was the direction he was to start in. Each brave had his own medicine, known only to him, and Little Wolf was confident his medicine would be revealed to him and guide him on the right path and he would know when to stop and wait for his vision.
As he climbed higher into the mountains, he felt a sharpening of his senses, as he had on the trip to the Shoshone camp two days before. Only this morning they seemed to be keener still and he thought that he was aware of Spotted Pony’s spirit beside him. He smiled, for the thought pleased him. Could it be possible that his father had returned to guide and protect him on his quest? Little Wolf did not question it for he had listened to similar experiences around the campfire in Spotted Pony’s camp.
“Father, if it is your spirit, I welcome you. We will go on this journey together. Help me to find my medicine and to see the path my soul must travel.”
He was answered by the sudden chatter of a squirrel and he smiled. He took it as a sign that Spotted Pony had heard his prayer. His father’s early lessons returned to his memory and he whispered to himself. “Become one with the forest. Feel the trees and the streams and the earth beneath your moccasins. They will tell you what you want to know, just as they tell the fox and the bear and the hawk. But first you must become one with them.” He thought of the time when he was a young boy, stalking game with Black Feather, and the friendly competition they shared. His heart warmed when he thought of his boyhood friend and he had an urgent longing to see him again. As he made his way around the dark gray boulders, highlighted by the sun’s first brushstrokes, he carefully avoided the scattered patches of snow that would display evidence of his passing.
All that first day he journeyed, never stopping to rest, never thinking about food or water. When the sun disappeared behind the far peaks, turning the valleys into pools of darkness, he stopped and spread his buffalo robe under a giant fir, the low branches his only shelter. A handful of snow was all he permitted himself to take into his mouth. He slept fitfully and with many fragments of dreams but nothing that he would remember the next morning.
The second day brought the first sensation of real hunger. He expected it and ignored it, pressing on deeper into the mountains. As he made his way among the trees and boulders, he searched for a sign. He didn’t know what he was looking to find but he was certain he would recognize it when he saw it. Again, that night, he allowed himself no sustenance other than one handful of snow.
By the time the sun was directly overhead on the third day, the lack of food and water began to take its toll on his body, and the exertion expended in the climb up the steep mountainsides left him light-headed and dizzy. It became necessary to stop periodically to rest. By twilight, he felt his strength drain from his body and he almost staggered as he made his way slowly along a ledge high above a valley floor. Suddenly his feet seemed to take on a weight that strained him to lift and he knew he could go no further. Directly before him a huge boulder jutted out over the mountaintop and he decided that he should rest there that night. With what seemed to be the last few ounces of strength left in him, he pulled himself up the side of the boulder to find a flat grassy patch on the level top side of the rock. For a moment his mind left his body and recalled a day Spotted Pony had taken him to hunt for elk. When it was time to make a camp that night, Spotted Pony had selected a place high on a hillside. Little Wolf pictured his father’s face when he said simply, “This is a good place.” He took the memory as a message from his father, that this spot was where he was to meditate and wait for his vision. He smiled and whispered, “This is a good place.” Then he fell, exhausted, into a deep sleep.
* * *
He was running. His lungs ached as they demanded more air and he longed to stop and rest. But he could not. Something chased him but he could not determine what that something was, only that he could not slow down or it would overtake him. As he ran, he was aware of many images and faces along his path. The faces watched him dispassionately, seeming unconcerned with the urgency he felt. Some of the faces he recognized—Black Feather, Buffalo Woman, Morning Sky. Spotted Pony sat beside a quiet stream, talking with Squint Peterson. They both glanced up at him and smiled as he trudged past. “I wouldn’t slow down if I was you, pardner,” Squint called out to him. The quiet creek bank looked so peaceful and serene that he wanted to stop and sit down beside the two men. But he could not. He had to keep running.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught sight of an animal chasing him. He felt the panic in his heart as he recognized the animal as a cougar. The cat was huge, its coat a golden hue, and it obviously meant to kill him. He tried to run faster but he could not. The beast was gaining on him, close enough now that he could see its gleaming white fangs, dripping with the blood of a prior kill. He felt helpless. Thoughts raced through his head that he did not want to die this way, running from a savage beast. He wanted to die as an Arapaho or a Cheyenne brave should die, in battle. He must stand and fight but his legs would not stop. Suddenly a huge bear stood directly in his path. The bear was as big as a mountain. Reared up on its hind legs, its massive forepaws flashed razor-sharp claws. Its teeth bared, it roared, filling the valley with a wave of thunder that caused icicles to form on his spine. Still he could not stop running, even though he feared the giant bear would send him to the Great Beyond.
However, when he approached the beast, the bear moved out of his path and let him pass. He did not look back but he could hear the sounds of mortal combat, and he sensed that the cougar was no longer a threat to his life. He looked down at his feet and was surprised to discover that he had on only one moccasin. His other foot, the left one, was bare but the stones in his path did not cause him any discomfort as he raced on. Then he glanced down again to find that the ground beneath his feet was far below him, as if he was flying. Suddenly, he could see the land below him in a wide vista of mountains and valleys. It was more beautiful than any place he had ever seen before. He passed over a long stretch of rocky mountain ridges until they ended in one great white wall, beyond which a valley appeared with a rushing stream running through the floor of pines and firs. Though he continued running, he was aware that the fatigue had left him. His running was effortless and he felt at peace with himself.
* * *
He awoke. He had slept so soundly that his eyes were swollen and puffy and he was reluctant to open them to the morning light. Although he had been exhausted the night before, and he was aware of the hunger that was now gnawing at his belly, he still felt refreshed and alert. His dreams were still fresh in his mind and he sought to make some sense of them. Although they told him nothing initially, he was sure that it had been more than a mere dream, that it was in fact the vision he sought. He must meditate and search the vision for its meaning. He wasn’t sure why, but something told him that his vision quest was over and it was now up to him to interpret the message sent to him.
Fully awake now, thoughts of food and water demanded his attention but he felt strongly that he must not think of those things until he searched his mind for the message he needed. The time to make his medicine was now, while the vision was fresh in his mind. Only then could he eat and drink. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the small patch of grass that had been his bed, he faced the rising sun and let his thoughts focus on the first rays lighting the tips of the green forest on the horizon. The floor of the valley was covered by a mist that lay over the stream like a great silent blanket. From his vantage point, high above the valley floor, he felt as one with the hawk and the eagle and he knew that he was as much a part of the mountains as the trees and rocks. He closed his eyes and let the vision come to him once more.
The full meaning of his vision did not come to him at once. Sitting there on the rocky outcropping, feeling the first warmth of the sun’s rays on his closed eyelids, he puzzled over the fact that he was running in his dream. Running from what, he wondered. True, he had to run to escape the soldiers at Black Kettle’s camp on Sand Creek. But he was no longer running. He was safe for the time being. He even had the choice of going with Squint, eventually returning to white man’s civilization. No one would know he was Little Wolf if he chose that path. One thing that stuck in his mind, however, was the fact that other than Squint’s, there were only Indian faces in his dream. There were no images of his real mother and father, of his brothers and sisters, or any childhood playmates. This seemed to be important to him because he felt certain it indicated his choice to follow the path of the Arapaho and Cheyenne to be the correct way for him. This in itself was enough to ease his troubled mind, for this was the question he sought most to answer.
But what was the significance of the battle between the cougar and the great bear? And why was he being chased by the cougar? Was there a message there? Or was it merely the nonsensical impulses that penetrate many dreams? In his heart he knew it was part of his vision for the Arapaho felt all dreams were messages from the spirits. He would think on it. Maybe, in time, it would become clearer to him.
He opened his eyes again, convinced that there would be no more explanation of his dream for the moment. One decision had been made for him. He was Arapaho. He would not go with Squint Peterson. Instead, he would seek out his friend Black Feather. In his dream, Squint and Spotted Pony had both smiled at him as he passed them. This indicated that they both approved of his decision. He recalled that, when he had been running and looked down at his feet, he had but one moccasin. It was significant to him that it was a moccasin and not a boot. He knew also that the cougar and the bear held significance for him and he would look for confirmation of this in the future. But for now, it was time to leave this place and return to the village of the Shoshone.
It had been nearly dark the night before when he climbed the rock outcropping. In the morning light, he noticed another ledge beyond and slightly above the one he had slept on. Out of curiosity, he decided to climb atop that ledge to have a look around before making his way back down into the valley. There was a small trail up from the boulder he stood on, used no doubt by the large white goats that abounded in the higher rocky elevations. As he made his way up into the rocks, he spotted an occasional hoofprint to confirm his speculation. At the top of the ledge he discovered a small patch of grass about the same size as the one on the boulder below. He discovered something more that caused his heartbeat to increase in alarm, the unmistakable paw print of a bear. By the size of the paw, it was a monstrous bear, a grizzly probably, and the tracks were recent, as recent as the night before, he guessed.
He was immediately alert. His body coiled in anticipation of danger and he quickly looked all around him. He was in no position to meet with a grizzly, weak from hunger and lack of water, with no weapon except a knife. But there was no living thing on the ledge but himself. When he was sure of that, he relaxed and studied the tracks more thoroughly. They indicated that the animal had paced all around the narrow ledge and, from the looks of the matted grass on one side, it had slept there. What, he wondered, would a grizzly be doing this high up above the tree line? This was too unusual to be coincidence. When he turned back to look in the direction he had come from, he realized that the boulder he had spent the night on was immediately below where he now stood. His spine tingled with the realization that he could have been under observation by a huge grizzly the whole time he slept helplessly below him. From this vantage point, the bear could not help but see him. The fact that he had not been attacked could only be explained by the medicine of the bear power he had carried since he was a boy when he had killed the grizzly. It had even been a part of his vision—the grizzly had protected him from the cougar. The excitement of the thought made his spirits soar. He had spent the night weak and exhausted and the power of the bear had watched over him! A white man could not know of such things. Before descending from the mountain, he scouted around in an effort to find signs of a cougar but there were none.
After descending from the mountain to the stream in the valley floor, he satisfied his thirst and ate the elk meat he had brought with him. Before starting on his return journey to the village of the Shoshone, he looked around him at the valley lying before him. Then he turned and looked back at the mountain from whence he had just come. He wanted to impress this place on his memory for it was an important place to him. It had told him where his heart belonged and that the power of the bear would always be his special medicine. Shielding his eyes from the morning sun with his hand, he searched the ledges high up near the top of the mountain. There! He was sure he could see the very place he had received his vision. As he stared at the dark boulder, protruding from the face of the cliff, he remembered the great white wall he had seen in his dream. It was not this place, of that he was certain. But something told him that if he ever found the white wall, he would recognize it immediately.
* * *
Back in Wounded Elk’s village, Squint Peterson was beginning to worry about his young friend. It had been almost a week since Little Wolf had left the village in search of his vision. When Little Wolf said he was going to fast for four days, Squint expected him to be back in four days, not six. In the meantime, the men of the village had returned from their hunting party and Squint thought he could sense an uneasy atmosphere because of his presence. Some of these braves he knew, and had even hunted with them the year before. Now they were a mite reserved and cool toward him. It was not that they were impolite, for he was a guest of their chief. They were just not really cordial as they normally would be. Squint could see that they didn’t feel too comfortable with him around. He was a little disappointed with their attitude but he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to trust any white man anymore. He made up his mind that he wouldn’t be spending the next winter in these mountains.
The visit had not been a total loss, however. Old Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law, Broken Wing, had proved to be more than enough woman to catch Squint up on his sexual urges. The truth of the matter was she had just about worn him out. She had been without a husband for more than a year and she had some catching up to do herself. She would not have been a bad-looking woman had it not been for her nose. It had been broken by a Crow war club, the same club in fact that had done in her husband. She had been left for dead but she was tougher than they thought. The result was a flattened nose that restricted her breathing considerably, causing her to make a whistling noise when her passion was high and her heart was pumping hard. In the darkness of the tipi, it was not that noticeable at first. Toward the end of the third day, Squint began to notice it a little more, to the point of distraction.
When they made love, Squint wanted her to face him, like the whores back East. Broken Wing had never done it that way before, having always been mounted from behind by her husband, just like the horses and the dogs did it. But she wanted to please Squint so she lay on her back for him. The first time it was all right because Squint was so desperate for biological relief he could have gotten satisfaction from a knothole in a pine log. Broken Wing, on the other hand, thought it a rather strange way to mate and she couldn’t help but stare in wide-eyed amazement at Squint’s frantic fumbling and struggling. Pretty soon Squint began to notice her staring and it started to bother his concentration. Finally, he turned her around and mounted his assault from the rear. Now she was in a position with which she was familiar and she heated to the occasion. Squint found it less disturbing to his concentration anyway. He no longer had to avoid her wide-eyed stare and he didn’t have to look at her flattened nose. He found, in fact, that he was in for a wild ride because, when Broken Wing’s blood got overheated, she backed up to meet his thrusts, her nose whistling in rhythm, often backing him all the way across the floor of the tipi. He enjoyed the ride but his knees were getting sore from scraping the earthen floor. After a few days of love Injun style, he was glad to see Little Wolf stride back into camp one afternoon.
Squint welcomed his friend back. “Dang, pardner, you look like you been wrung out and hung up to dry.”
Little Wolf smiled at him but made no reply. Wounded Elk, who was visibly curious to know the success of this white Arapaho’s vision quest, stood silently by Squint. Most white men he had met did not have the intelligence to ask the spirits for guidance. They thought they knew everything already while it was plain to the Indian that they knew very little. He was pleased when Little Wolf looked first at him and requested food and rest so that he might complete his meditation. Wounded Elk looked deep into Little Wolf’s eyes and he was pleased to discover no sign of confusion there. He knew without being told that Little Wolf had found the answers he had sought. He sent for the old squaw who had assisted the young man with the purification of his body. Little Wolf smiled briefly at Squint once again and followed the old woman to Wounded Elk’s tipi.
Squint was confounded by his friend’s demeanor. “You rest up, pardner,” he offered as he watched Little Wolf walk away. “We’ll head on out as soon as you’re ready.” Even then he was not at all sure he would have company on his return trip. It was apparent to him that it was a different Little Wolf who had returned to the Shoshone village. Maybe he was just weak and dazed from lack of food and water. He hoped so, but there was a different look in the young man’s eye, like he had aged some in the few days he had been away. Something had happened to him up in those mountains and it looked to Squint like he might have lost his partner. All winter Squint thought Little Wolf would eventually go back to his real people. Now he was not so sure.
Squint did not see Little Wolf again until the following morning and, when he did, he was taken aback somewhat by the young man’s appearance. His hair had been freshly oiled and parted in the middle, in the style of the Cheyenne. This in itself was not so surprising. The sight that startled Squint was the appearance of his face. He had hacked away his whiskers with a hunting knife in an attempt to shave the stubble off smooth. The result was a face that sported patches of stubble of uneven length, interrupted by areas of raw skin where the blade had nicked him. Squint would have laughed out loud at the sight had it not been for the seriousness of the occasion. Little Wolf’s decision seemed to have been made.
“You done a lot for me and I appreciate it,” Little Wolf started, obviously searching for the words to tell Squint what Squint had already surmised. “I reckon I might have died if you hadn’t done for me.” Squint said nothing, just shrugged it off. Little Wolf continued, “I reckon I don’t have to tell you I’m going back to my people.”
“I reckon,” Squint answered. He studied the young man standing before him, his stance and manner already projecting the confident air of a Cheyenne warrior. There was no mistaking the look in his steady gaze, the look of a man who was sure of himself. Squint knew then that it would be a waste of time to try to change the boy’s mind. Still he made the effort. “Well, I reckon a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, but you know you would sure be welcome to throw in with me if you change your mind.”
Little Wolf smiled. “I know.”
Squint hesitated a few moments, then continued, “Son, I know you like the wild life with the Cheyenne. Don’t blame you—I might like it myself. But it ain’t gonna be the same around these parts for much longer. You sure you’re gonna feel the same way six months or a year from now, when the real trouble gets stirred up? You might think you can stay clear of it up in these mountains but any fool can see there’s gonna be a helluva war with the Cheyenne and the Sioux. Hell, it’s already started. And ain’t no place gonna be safe.” He paused to see if his words had any effect on the boy. “And I wouldn’t consider myself any kind of friend if’n I didn’t warn you.”
Little Wolf shrugged. “These are my people.”
“What about when the soldiers come? What about then? You gonna be able to fight agin your own blood?”
“I will fight beside my people. I will fight my father’s enemies; the soldiers who killed Spotted Pony and Buffalo Woman could never be of my blood.” Little Wolf’s face took on a hardened look, his eyes narrowed as the memory of his parents’ slaughter returned to his mind. “I will live and fight with the Cheyenne, as my father did.”
“Robert,” Squint implored, using the boy’s Christian name, “you can’t win. There ain’t no way the Injuns is ever gonna win against the army. Why don’t you come on back with me? Hell, we’ll head up to the north country, go to Oregon territory, do some trappin’, lay around and get fat in the winter. Whaddaya say? Forget about the damn soldiers.”
Little Wolf stared deep into Squint’s eyes for a moment. Then his expression relaxed and he smiled as if he was patiently explaining to a child. “You have been a good friend to me. But I must go where my medicine tells me to go. I am Arapaho, no matter what I started out. My place is in the mountains with my Cheyenne brothers. If the army comes, then so be it. If they are too many, then it is better to die as a warrior than to sit around a campfire when I am so old I have no teeth to chew the pemmican.”
There was a long silence that seemed to put the final punctuation on the young warrior’s words. Finally Squint shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Well, so be it then. I wish you well, son. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” His face broke into a quick smile and he added, “I can at least leave you my razor and strop so you don’t have to torment your face no more.”
Little Wolf laughed and ran a hand gingerly over his chin. “I’ll take you up on that and be damn grateful. Cheyenne generally pull their whiskers out by the roots but I ain’t too fond of that. I got too many of them.”
This would be the last time they would see each other for a long time. Little Wolf had made his decision and would leave early the following morning to scout the north ridges in search of his Cheyenne friends. Squint, after one final stampede across the tipi floor with Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law, would set out in the opposite direction for his camp two days east. He would be minus one horse on the trip back since he had insisted that Little Wolf take the little mare. He left with the definite feeling that things were not going to be the same in the Wind River country, and even though old Wounded Elk told him he was welcome to visit anytime, the sullen stares from the other men in the village told him differently. As he kicked Joe into a canter across the frosty meadow fronting the outside ring of lodges, he was already considering the wisdom in sticking to his secret camp the last two seasons. He sighed as he thought about it. It might be the last time he visited old Wounded Elk. It’s a damn shame, he thought, that the soldiers and the gold miners and the settlers had to mess things up for mountain men like himself. In a way he couldn’t blame Little Wolf for deciding to be Injun instead of going back to civilization. As for Squint, he preferred to line up on the winning side in most any scrap. And he had little doubt that the white man would win out over the Injun in the end.
“It ain’t gonna come cheap though,” he muttered aloud. “There’s gonna be a helluva lot of dead soldier boys before they build the first church on the Wind River.”