This was Cortez’s second night in the lodge of his shaman-host. He was treated well, but he felt uneasy about something—like there was something left undone. His days with little sleep forced him into sleep, but it was a restless sleep—the kind he had when a disturbing dream or vision was about to visit him.

Squeaking/squalling noises brought the Ni-mi-pu shaman out of sleep—grating on his mind until he reached consciousness. The noises were not from this camp area. They were from his dreams. Cortez tried to make himself more comfortable inside his blankets and robes, hoping for happier dreams. While he did fall asleep, the squeaking/squalling noises returned, bringing him to a half-awake dream. Through closed eyes, Cortez tried to find the source of the annoying noises, but he couldn’t. He saw only the black inside of his eyelids before drifting back into sleep. The grating sound returned, this time intensified, as if trying to get his attention.

Finally, through the blackness of his closed eyes, a deep red color gradually outlined large round objects, which were rotating and making the squeak/squall sounds with each turn. Cortez kept his eyes closed to let more of this dream vision develop in the darkness. As the squeaking/squalling noises became louder and more annoying, the turning objects that made the noise gained more distinct outlines. Then he realized that the objects were wheels—great wheels turning and making the squeaking/squalling noise with each rotation.

Realization of the source of the disturbing noise brought Cortez totally out of sleep with a start. What was the dream vision telling him? The shaman’s heart was pounding in his ears as he tried to understand its significance.

Making his mind take him to a quiet place, Cortez slowed his pulse as he searched for logic in his consciousness. Finding none, he drifted back to sleep, and also to his dream. This time he realized that the great wheels were on the big Red River carts, like those belonging to the Cree people. The two-wheeled carts were being pulled by oxen. Then he heard a new sound—clearly that of children crying. As the dream vision grew lighter, he could see that the great carts were traveling. They were carrying the crying children somewhere. People were walking alongside the high wheels of the Red River carts. Cortez couldn’t see their faces, but he knew them to be Ni-mi-pu. The vision was telling the Ni-mi-pu shaman that the Cree were hauling the children—Ni-mi-pu people were being taken somewhere.

With the realization of what the dream vision was about, Cortez came fully awake and looked around the lodge. It was still fairly dark, but when he looked across the nearly dead lodge fire, he saw that his shaman-host was studying him. Cortez sat up and signed to him that he had a bad dream vision. The Ni-mi-pu shaman nodded, acknowledging that he understood. Cortez realized that he must have cried out or made noises in his disturbed sleep and awakened the Sioux shaman.

The Ni-mi-pu shaman thought hard, trying to decipher the meaning of the dream vision. What was it telling him? Cortez concluded that the frail and injured people and younger children left behind at the Cree village were being moved somewhere, and it appeared that they might be in danger. “Why are the Cree hauling the children away? Where are they going?” Cortez got up as he asked himself these questions and then went outside. It was dark, and the people were still sleeping in the Sioux lodges. Cortez knew that he must tell White Bird of the dream vision, for it must be a warning.

The time was near dawn, but there wasn’t enough light for him see around the camp. Heavy clouds were delaying daylight. Shivering with the damp cold, Cortez felt dread flood through him. There was nothing he could do until daybreak, so he went back into the shaman’s lodge to wait.

The lodge fire was low, so Cortez stirred it up and added a few branches. The brighter firelight was reflected in several pairs of eyes, including the strange pink eyes of the young man, whose place was farthest from the fire. Cortez signed to those eyes that watched him, “I have had a dream vision, and it won’t let me sleep.”

The Sioux shaman then signed that visions must be honored. The young albino man crawled forward to better understand. He seemed fascinated by the talk of visions. Cortez realized that the albino was probably the shaman’s apprentice. His uniqueness was probably seen as the reason he had been chosen by the spirits to be a shaman/healer, just as the boy Cortez had been.

Cortez signed directly to the apprentice that he was chosen by the spirits to learn healing from the great Ni-mi-pu shaman, Culculshensah because he was a white-skinned orphan. His skin color and blue eyes made him different from the Indian boys. This information seemed to please the young albino. Cortez hoped that the others in the lodge would treat him with a little more respect and understanding.

Cortez saw through the teepee smoke hole that dawn was filtering through the clouds. He would be able to find White Bird, so he left his host’s lodge.

Standing outside the opening to the lodge where the chief was staying, Cortez called out softly in Sahaptin, “White Bird, we must talk.” He repeated this several times before the gray head of the old man appeared in the opening. The aging chief was still very tired, and his eyes grew sharp with anger when he saw that it was his shaman calling him.

“White Bird, I have had a dream vision that signifies danger to our people who stayed behind at the Cree village.”

White Bird then came out of the lodge. He thought about Cortez’s words for a moment and then said, “Simahichen Tim, you have a strong pony. You go to the Cree village and find our people. You bring them to this place. Do not leave them alone. If something bad is happening to them, send word to me.”

Cortez could see that the exhausted chief was dismayed by the news, but he had enough credence in dream visions to send the shaman to investigate. “I will leave as soon as I catch my pony,” Cortez told him and started for the pony herd.

Silu Silu was easy to see in the growing light by his light color. Cortez’s whistle caused his head to pop up from grazing. A repeated whistle brought him trotting over.

Cortez led Silu Silu to the lodge of the Sioux shaman, where he saddled him and tied on his parfleche and a few other possessions. The shaman and his apprentice had some hot food ready for him and prepared more in a bundle to take along. Eating the food, he signed to his host his appreciation for the kindness of the shaman’s lodge.

At the edge of the Sioux campground, Silu Silu broke into his ground-eating lope. The great horse must have sensed Cortez’s urgency.

At mid-day, Cortez found a place of rich grazing and water for Silu Silu, and he chewed on some dried meat for his meal as he climbed to the crest of the coulee bank. From there he could see the faint outline of the Milk River Valley off to the south. The gray scene had the feeling of foreboding, which made Cortez anxious to move on, but he only stroked Silu Silu while he continued to graze. After a short while, Silu Silu lifted his head and nodded, as if telling Cortez that he had grazed enough.

As Cortez rode into the Cree Village, he searched for the high-wheeled carts that he had seen in his dream/vision. There were only three, whereas he had seen maybe ten before. This gave him a sinking feeling. Those carts must be hauling the rest of the non-treaty band somewhere.

Father Genin came out of his lodge to greet Cortez. “I’m not surprised to see you, Cortez. You are a good shaman, and you would be concerned about your people.”

“What has happened? I had a strong dream vision telling me that children were in the Red River carts, and that they cried as they were being hauled somewhere.”

“That is exactly what has happened. The soldiers came the day after you left with White Bird. They insisted that all the Nez Perce surrendered when Chief Joseph did. Because the people who had stayed here were mostly frail or wounded, the soldiers insisted that the Cree hire out their carts to haul those who couldn’t walk. They insisted that your people should be taken to join Joseph’s people. I tried to explain to the officers that these people were from White Bird’s band and that they were not prisoners of war. The officers claimed that White Bird had broken the truce when he left the battle field after Chief Joseph had laid down his rifle.”

“In my dream/vision, the children were crying.”

“They probably are. They have little clothing. They are surely cold and frightened in those carts.”

A great sadness came over Cortez as he said, “The children are always the ones who suffer the most.”

Father Genin grimaced as he nodded in agreement.

Anger then welled up in the shaman. “Those people are innocent non-combatants who surrendered to no one. The soldiers should have left them alone. Their only wrong is that of being Nez Perce at the wrong time and place.”

Father Genin again nodded agreement, and then added, as if in apology, “I couldn’t speak too strongly to the soldiers. The Cree and I are not Americans. As guests on this side of the border, we could have made the army angry by refusing to hire out the carts.”

The good little priest studied Cortez’s reaction before adding, “Come my friend, join me for supper and a good sleep. You can’t go farther tonight, and your pony needs rest and food even more than you.”

Just outside the priest’s lodge, he stopped to tell Cortez, “Another bad thing was told to me by the soldiers. They discovered five dead Nez Perce warriors. The Assiniboine camped nearby said that they had killed your men to show the soldiers that they were not friends of the Nez Perce. The Assiniboine even scalped your warriors.”

Cortez was again shocked. “The Assiniboine were friendly to those warriors the day before the battle started. Fear of the army has turned the other tribes against the non-treaty bands. We have seen this among other tribes, but not to this degree of viciousness.” His voice echoed his frustration. Then he asked, “Did the soldiers bury the warriors?”

“No, they didn’t, so I sent out some men to bury them. They were buried with respect as Christians.”

Cortez shook his head and his eyes filled with tears as he unsaddled Silu Silu and then led him to the stream, where he would have a good night’s graze. “Tomorrow, old friend, we will have a hard ride.” The shaman lingered with his pony—feeling overwhelming sadness and frustration. This last news of treachery seemed to hit harder than most of the other acts committed against the Ni-mi-pu along the tragic trail. “How could those Assiniboine warriors have turned on their brown-skinned brothers—killing and mutilating just to impress the soldiers, who probably were not impressed.”

Entering the priest’s lodge, Cortez noticed the mixture of Indian and white people’s things. Along with the Bible and some other religious books, he saw a good collection of medical volumes and literature. The books made him realize that he had been missing some white people’s things, like books. After this torturous trip from Idaho, Cortez had only his little journals, and he had not kept them up to date. He found himself in envy of the little priest. Father Genin could spend his long winter days immersed in his books. “Maybe I’m still more soyapo than I care to admit,” he said to himself.

Father Genin watched Cortez thumb through the volumes and offered, “Cortez, I see that you miss the pleasure of good books. Please borrow those that you would like to read.”

“That’s very kind of you father, but I couldn’t borrow a book that I probably would never be able to return.”

As the two white men sat by the lodge fire eating the best meal that Cortez had had in months, they were silent. Then, putting aside his plate, the priest startled Cortez with this statement: “Cortez. Do not deny your white heritage. I love these mixed-blood people, but I often long for a good conversation with a white person like you.”

Cortez was slow in responding, “My wife was an educated Nez Perce and a Christian. We had many good conversations and arguments in both Sahaptin and English. This is one of the things that I miss most since she was killed in one of the battles.” This confession brought tears to his eyes, as the memory produced a vision of beloved Rachel. “Rachel was her name. She was beautiful as well as intelligent. She taught children at the Lapwai Agency School. We spent many happy hours, before we were married, talking of our future. Rachel wanted me to leave the Lamtama, White Bird’s band, and move to the reservation where I could be a doctor to all the people. This was a very tempting thing to do, but the outbreak of the non-treaty bands’ troubles made me feel that I should stay with the people who had given me a home and family.”

“Cortez, you must realize that the days of the free-roaming tribes will end soon. For the non-treaty Nez Perce, this has probably now happened. These mixed-breed Cree learned from their French fathers and grandfathers about the life of white people as traders. I’m afraid, however, that even this life will not last many more years. The buffalo hunting tribes, with which they trade, are being forced onto reservations, and the buffalo are fewer. As more white settlers move onto the prairies, they will develop their own trading methods.” The little priest paused for a moment. Then, regaining Cortez’s attention, he said, “What I’m trying to tell you, Cortez, is that you may not have a choice. You may not be able to be a Nez Perce after today.”

“You may be very right, Father. I have been pondering the same things, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I will be Ni-mi-pu.”

Cortez knew that his host would like to talk all night, but his eyes were heavy, and he couldn’t offer very good answers. “Father, you have again been most kind to me, but I must find sleep. Tomorrow, I will leave at dawn. I must catch up with the people in the bull carts.”

“What will you do if you do catch them? They are two days ahead and they will be near the Missouri River by tomorrow night.” The priest’s question was troubling.

“I don’t know what I will do, but if the children are suffering and crying, I must know, and then do whatever I can. I have another favor to request, Father.” The little priest nodded that he was listening. “Should I not return here tomorrow night, please send a scout to White Bird to tell him what has happened to his people.”

Father Genin responded that he would do that. Then, to Cortez’s surprise, he invited the shaman to return and possibly spend the winter with him and his Cree people. “The prairies are very lonely in the winter, Cortez, and you seem to need a home and a people.”

The suggestion sounded very appealing to Cortez, as he lay down on a pallet and drifted off to sleep.

The early morning air was cold and damp when Cortez stepped out of Father Genin’s lodge. He shivered, both from the chill and from the thought of what he might find on this day.

Silu Silu smelled Cortez and nickered his greeting. “You will have a hard ride today, old friend. Forgive me if I treat you badly,” the shaman responded.

Back at the priest’s lodge, he found that his friend had prepared a bowl of food for breakfast and a sack of dried meat and roots to carry on his ride.

With a few parting words, Cortez mounted his pony and trotted him out onto a trail heading southeastward. The deep wheel ruts made it easy to follow the road taken by the Red River carts.

About mid-day Cortez come upon the site of the first night camp of the Red River carts and their human cargo. Silu Silu rested and grazed while the shaman walked about the site. Off to the east, he could see carrion eaters circling, so he walked out to investigate. Several buffalo had been killed and skinned. The hunters took the hides but little meat. Why was this, he wondered.

Anxiety weighed heavily on Cortez, so he didn’t let Silu Silu graze as much as he should before pointing him back on the trail.

Darkness was making the trail hard to follow when Cortez came to the Cree wagons’ second camp. He made this place his night stop. The army could have scouts on the back trail, so Cortez didn’t make a campfire. The dried food that Father Genin gave him was supper. It was going to be a long, lonely night. He didn’t have the pleasure of the little priest’s company and the warmth of his lodge. The memory of their conversations reminded him of the situation that continued to nag him, so he just spit it out as if someone were there to hear him. “What will my future be? Continuing to live as a Ni-mi-pu shaman may simply no longer be a choice I can make, and living as a soyapo in a white man’s community feels repulsive.”

Still thinking about this dilemma, Cortez sat on a little rise of ground and watched the night sky become clear of clouds. Stars were showing and giving faint light to the darkened prairie. Tomorrow would give him the opportunity to catch up with the big wheeled carts and the small remnant of his people. But what would he do when he reached them? What could he to relieve their plight? How could he, one man, save them from the army and a life of containment? Looking at the night sky, he mused on the situation. The stars and the clouds are free to move around according to their natures. Why then must God’s people be confined—be it on a reservation or in a town? As a boy, I found the freedom of the prairie healing. Now, as a man, should I confine myself? If I join the captive people and give up my freedom to be controlled by the army, am I truly helping my people, or would I be ,giving up the freedom they long for? Cortez didn’t try to answer these questions—just continued with his thoughts. I wonder if the army will decide to imprison me, or even hang me, as a traitor and a member of the band that first attacked the settlers in the Salmon Valley. Making an example of me might be justified in the eyes of the army and the soyapo population.

As sleep pushed away conscious thoughts, dreams seemed to continue the themes of frustration, loneliness, and homelessness. It was still hours before dawn, but Cortez tried to stay awake to escape the dreams. He finally succumbed to the need for sleep, but it didn’t seem long before he felt Silu Silu nuzzling him. Light was apparent through his closed eyelids. His pony might have sensed urgency, or perhaps he just needed water. There was no stream at this campsite, so Cortez give Silu Silu a little water from the water bag while he chewed on a piece of dried meat.

The shaman talked to Silu Silu as he saddled the pony and retied his baggage. “This day, we should reach the north wall of the Missouri River Breaks. Where will the people be? Old friend, help me find them.”

The tracks of the Red River carts and the mounted soldiers led down a little valley through the north rim of the breaks. Cortez chose to find a high place where he could scout the situation without being seen, so he left the rutted trail and rode out to a point of rocks jutting into the gorge.

Below, he saw the big Missouri River stretching east-west with another smaller river flowing in from the south. Cortez thought that this was probably the Musselshell. The army was camped near this junction, on the south bank. With the army, he saw a camp of Ni-mi-pu. Many camp fires showed that the people were cooking their evening meal.

Looking back to the Missouri, Cortez saw the train of Red River carts fording the river in single file. His heart fell. The people would all be across before he could reach them. The little group from White Bird’s band would be made part of Joseph’s surrendered band, and there would be nothing he could do about it. “I’m too late!” he shouted. He turned toward the north and shouted again, “We are too late!” Cortez was heard only by Silu Silu. He was heartsick, even though he didn’t know what he could have done to stop the army contingent if he had caught up with the caravan.

Cortez took Silu Silu to a hidden patch of grass where a little spring emerged from the shale. He then walked back out onto the point of rocks where he could watch the big camp of soldiers throughout the night.

The night was going to be dry, so Cortez smoothed a place just below the rim rock where he could eat, sleep and watch. He found some dry biscuits to have with his dry meat in the sack of food that Father Genin had sent with him. Those and water from the bag filled his stomach for the night. “I hope that my captive people will eat better than I do tonight,” he said to no one. Then again, the army should take the responsibility of feeding children and elderly.

As the sun set low along the Missouri River, the sight was familiar. Cortez remembered the lonely nights when he had sat on the south side of this same river, watching it flow by. That was twelve years ago—and a different lifetime. He was still more boy than man, and he had just buried both parents by a big rock below that perch. He cried unashamedly at that time, isolated by prejudice, a terrible disease, and brutal murder. Now he was a man, but again he felt isolated. These thoughts reminded him of the feelings of nearness to his parents at that place of the quarantine camp and how their spirits had gently urged him not to feel sorry for himself, but to busy himself with useful activities. “I’ll go to that place of the quarantine camp and my little cave after I have done what I can here,” Cortez whispered to himself. “Kneeling at the graves of my parents, I might, again, hear their gentle urgings.”

Cortez dozed most of the night. As the first glimmer of dawn reached his rocky point, he got up, feeling very stiff. During the night, he had developed a plan. I will ride Silu Silu across the river just upstream from the camps before full light. I will tie my pony in a clump of trees and walk unseen into the Ni-mi-pu camp and look for Joseph. The soldiers will probably think that I’m from one of the bands that surrendered their rifles. If Joseph has any instructions or information, I can carry his words back to his people in Grandmother’s Land.

The plan seemed satisfactory. Cortez left his blanket coat with Silu Silu and tried to make himself look as Nez Perce as he could. Samuel’s father, long ago, had taught him to move silently through wooded areas. The soldiers who guarded the outer perimeter of Joseph’s camp were drowsy and probably wouldn’t suspect that an Indian might be trying to enter the camp.

Daylight filled the valley as the shaman walked quietly between the campfires. Many of the people were sleeping in tents, but he found a few of those brought in by the Crees. Though they were probably still confused by what had happened to them, at least they were being cared for. He found that some of the children had been wrapped in fresh buffalo hides by the soldiers to give them protection from the snow and cold. That explained the buffalo carcasses that Cortez had found at their first campsite. So far, no one seemed to think it strange to see the shaman walking among the people. He found some of the wounded people from the band and was pleased that the army doctor had treated them.

At last Cortez found Joseph. His campsite was more heavily guarded more than the others, so while Joseph was surprised to see the shaman, he was careful not to alert his guards. We talked in Sahaptin. “Why are you here, Simahichen Tim? You left White Bird?”

“Some of our people were captured by the soldiers at a village of Cree mixed-breeds. The army brought them here in big-wheeled carts last night. White Bird sent me to follow them and see what I could do for them.”

“I saw your people last night. They are welcome to be with us. The army officers tell us that they will take us to a place in the Yellowstone River Valley, where we will spend the winter with shelter and food. They promised that they would take us back to Idaho and the reservation in the spring. I trust them to keep their word. You are welcome to stay with us.” Joseph paused before telling Cortez, “Howard is angry that White Bird left and went on to Grandmother’s Land. He says that when I handed my rifle to the army in truce, all the non-treaty bands should have followed. Howard chooses to think that I speak for all the bands. This I cannot help. So White Bird has made his choice, and I have made mine. Most of the Wallowas still living are here with me. Most of the Lamtama are in Grandmother’s Land with White Bird. A few of your people chose to be here. A few of my people chose to be with White Bird. There is nothing more that can be done. I know that White Bird feared he would be hanged. General Howard promised me that no one would be hanged, but I’m not sure that the soyapo in Idaho will honor this promise. The warriors who started all the trouble are dead, but they were of the Lamtama band. The Idaho settlers may still want to hang someone—White Bird or even you, Simahichen Tim.”

Cortez knew that going home to his Wallowa Valley was all that Joseph ever wanted. However, the promise to be returned to somewhere in Idaho, if not in Oregon and the Wallowa, was appealing enough to Joseph and his people. The prairies of Montana and British North America were frightening to Joseph and his Wallowas. White Bird and some of the other chiefs had hunted buffalo on the prairies. They didn’t mind being on this side of the mountains.

“Joseph. Is there anything that I can do to help you or your people?”

“No, Simahichen Tim. You can’t change the mind of the one-armed general, and I have made the choice for my people. I can’t change my words. You go. The soldiers will be telling us that we must start for the Yellowstone country today. If you are recognized, they will make you a prisoner.”

Cortez shook Joseph’s hand, saying, “Nami Piep will be with you and your people, Joseph.”

This good chief responded, “Nami Piep will be with you and the Lamtama, Simahichen Tim.”

Cortez started working his way back toward the western edge of the encampment. It would not be as easy to leave the guarded area as it was to get in. Full daylight brightened the valley, and the soldiers were up and alert.

Trying to look casual as just another one of the captives, the shaman passed one of the guard tents. He was near the woods when the voice of a young soldier came from behind. “Stop. You stop!”

Cortez halted and waited for the soldier to come up, but he kept his back to him and tried to use his worst English. “Just want to shit,” he said and then shuffled on toward the woods.

“No. No. You people are supposed to use the latrine. You understand?”

The shaman shuffled on into the brush, hunkered down and made like he was going to pull down his pants.

The soldier came around to face Cortez. He was obviously nervous. “No. No. You don’t understand. You must shit in the latrine pit.”

There was now a bush between the two and the rest of the camp, so Cortez used his best wrestling moves to pop up, make a sweeping move with his hand to grab the muzzle of the young soldier’s rifle, and twist it up and out of his hands.

“Now, private, if I throw your rifle into the river, will you have to pay for it?” The shaman now spoke perfect English.

Astonishment spread over the soldier’s face. “You! You aren’t a redskin. You’re white.”

“I’m as white as you, but I needed to see if my Nez Perce brothers were being treated fairly. I sneaked in past you earlier, while you were dozing. If I let you capture me, the officers will find that out, and if I throw this rifle into the river, you will have no pay for months. Right? If you call to your sergeant, bad things will happen to you, and I’ll still get away. Your comrades will laugh at you. Right?”

The young private was fully intimidated when Cortez trotted toward the river and started to swing the rifle over his head.

“No! No!” the soldier pleaded. “You can go. You aren’t a Nez Perce anyway. You can go.”

“OK,” Cortez told him, as he lowered the rifle. “There is an old cottonwood log about a hundred yards up the river. I’ll leave your rifle there. You can come for it in five minutes.”

Cortez turned and trotted up through the woods to where he tied his pony. He laid the soldier’s rifle on the log and jumped on Silu Silu.

He got away. He felt a little like a bully for the way that he had treated the young soldier, but he got away. Cortez gave the soldier a wave as he nudged Silu Silu into a gallop.

The Missouri River bottom land was difficult for fast travel, but Cortez wanted to be able to use its many clumps of trees and side canyons in case he needed to hide. He let Silu Silu slow to a walk and pick his own route for a couple of miles. Then Cortez turned him into a little side canyon where he could watch the back trail. He decided to go no farther until the army and the captives had started to move south.

The private was good to his word. No one seemed to be following. But Silu Silu needed a good day’s rest and grazing. The shaman felt that his duties to the Ni-mi-pu were done, and there was nothing that he could do to change anything.

It was late afternoon and there was no travel in the bottom land of the Missouri, so Cortez decided to scout on foot the prairie above the Breaks. Leaving Silu Silu to graze, he walked up the little canyon to the rim. The prairie was empty and looked like it did when the boy, Cortez, first saw it. The grass had cured out for the season, so the prairie didn’t remind him of the sea, as it did then. He found himself looking about for a great grizzly, though knowing that he wouldn’t see one. El Oso may have been the last hohots in the Breaks.

A gray line about two miles away indicated the Musselshell River Valley. Cortez headed in that direction at a trot to see what was happening.

A point of rocks gave him an overlook where he couldn’t be spotted. The main force of the army was moving up the Musselshell Valley, taking the Nez Perce captives with them. The army was using their wagons for transporting the people. The Ni-mi-pu horse herd was gone, probably taken by the Cheyenne scouts as the prizes of war. Cortez could see blanket-covered forms in the wagon beds and faceless figures walking alongside the wagons. There were no proud warriors on dancing ponies—no noble chiefs wearing long headdresses. The “real people” that the shaman knew were no more. “I’m free, but where are my people? Where are the Ni-mi-pu?” he asked the prairie. “Where are my people?” Cortez cried out as a great pain surged through him, and tears streamed down his face.

The cry became a Sahaptin keen, which overwhelmed the shaman’s spirit as he stood at the edge of the rocky point. The keen carried into the canyon where the people traveled in great melancholy. The shaman cried his keen again, and it echoed off the stony cliffs. The people heard the keen, and the shaman saw them stand in the wagon beds, stop walking, and look toward the rocky point. Again, he cried his keen, but only heard its echoes.

“I have no people and I’m no longer Ni-mi-pu.” Cortez took his knife from its sheath, raised it toward the retreating people, and cut his long braids from his head. He shook his head to allow the proud forelocks to fall across his face, and waved the braided hair over his head so the people could see. A bald eagle soaring over the rim rock saw the waving object and dove straight for it—talons extended. The majestic bird snatched the braids from the shaman’s hand and climbed with powerful wings back over the valley, wheeling in circles to show off its prize above the Ni-mi-pu people. Then it loosened its grip, allowing the braids to drop before swooping down to catch them again. As the talons opened a second time, the hair fell loose—spreading as it floated above the people, seemingly a shamanic sign.

“I am no longer a Nez Perce shaman,” Cortez shouted. “I am no longer a Dreamer. I can no longer say to a soyapo that I’m a Ni-mi-pu, for my Ni-mi-pu are no more.” Cortez fell to his knees on that rocky point and cried a final keen to the remnant of the “Real People.”

Walking back to Silu Silu, Cortez felt an intense loneliness. The people who had taken him in as an orphan were now divided. His wife was dead. His Nez Perce brother was dead. On this coming night, he would be alone. No one would know where he was, but there was no one to care where he was. Welweyas would be caring for his adopted children. Cortez Modrables would have no warm lodge tonight.

Cortez built a little fire near where Silu Silu grazed. He watched, but wasn’t bothered by Cortez’s mood. The pony must have sensed that there was no danger, as did Cortez, who munched on the food Father Genin had provided. The next day he would have to provide for their needs and future in a different way.