Chief Rolling Thunder knew nothing about the demise of his blood brother. Ever since their one and only meeting, the Indian and Don Pedro had not been in touch again. Whether by accident or by fate, the Indian knew that their meeting had been important; he believed that, if it were meant for them to meet again, the powers that had brought them together in such an unusual way would again arrange it.
Rolling Thunder had much to keep him occupied as the years passed by. He was the chief of a medium-sized tribe of Long Island Indians, trying very hard to live side-by-side with the white man, not coming into conflict with him. He tried to keep his Shinnecock tribe as peaceful as possible, avoiding clashes with other Indians in the general area. He did his best to save what he could of the tribal lands from the encroachment of white settlers. At the same time, he traded with them in order to enhance his tribe’s cultural level and wealth.
Gradually, the memory of Don Pedro and his pirates faded into the background and almost left his memory. Over half a century had passed and Rolling Thunder was well on in years; he spent much of his time thinking about the succession, for he knew his death was near. His own son, Thunder Cloud, was able and strong, and he knew that the tribe would be in good hands if Thunder Cloud took charge.
One night, he could not sleep and tossed restlessly, hour after hour. When he finally drifted off into deep slumber, he had a strange dream. Don Pedro appeared to him as alive as he had ever been, perhaps even more so, for his countenance was rosy and fresh; he looked younger than the Chief remembered him.
“Will you take care of my treasure chest?” the spirit in the dream asked. It was at that moment that the Indian, dreaming, realized that his friend and blood brother, Don Pedro, was no longer in the flesh. Don Pedro then informed him that he had been murdered by some of his own men, and that his body lay buried far away in New Hampshire. When Rolling Thunder offered to go up to his grave-site and bring the body back to wherever Don Pedro wished, the spirit of the pirate thanked him, but said it was of no concern any longer since he was alive and well in the spirit world. What troubled him, however, was that his murderers might get the treasure chest, and this he wanted to prevent.
“What do you want me to do?” Rolling Thunder asked, still in the dream state.
“Go back to where we put the chest,” the spirit of Don Pedro demanded. “Dig it up and move it elsewhere. If you wish, you may take the contents for yourself, but do not touch the accursed opal, for it has destroyed me. Do not touch it, I beseech you, for the love of God.”
Rolling Thunder thanked the spirit, assuring him that he wanted no part of the treasure. He promised to go back to where it lay, and to move it elsewhere.
“Let no one see you do it,” Don Pedro warned him, “or you may suffer death at the hand of a greedy murderer.”
“Have no fear,” Rolling Thunder replied. “At my age life has lost much of its attraction. I will go alone.”
“I don’t really care who finds it, someday in years to come,” Don Pedro continued, “so long as those who have killed me will not benefit from it.”
Again Rolling Thunder promised upon their oath as blood brothers that he would go and fetch the treasure chest from its hiding place and move it elsewhere. When he had done so, he saw Don Pedro’s spirit smile with a face bathed in contentment, and slowly fade from his dream. Immediately thereafter Rolling Thunder woke up with a jolt. He realized that this had not been an ordinary dream. As an Indian he knew that there was another world beyond this one and psychic phenomena were no novelty to him. He took them very seriously. As soon as the sun rose, he readied himself to set out for the spot where he knew the treasure chest lay buried deep in the sand.
He went alone and he went on foot, despite his years. He knew very well that this was not going to be an easy task and he was well-prepared for it. Reaching out to his own god, Manitou, he fortified himself with prayer. When he reached the spot where he knew the pirate’s treasure chest lay beneath the sand, he was ready.
The tree had grown in circumference, for fifty years is a long time, even for an old tree. Nevertheless, he had no trouble locating the spot, for it was the only tree which stood by itself. As soon as he could, he started to dig, making sure that no one could see him. From time to time he would rest, taking a sip of water from a container he had brought with him. The sun already stood high when his shovel struck something hard. He could hardly suppress a cry of satisfaction, for he knew he had found the treasure.
With almost superhuman strength, he managed to budge the heavy chest. It became clear to him that it would indeed take super human strength to get it out of its hole and across the sand to a new place. This, even with the power of his god behind him, he realized he could not do alone. He almost despaired at his task, feeling great anxiety over his inability to keep his promise.
But then an idea hit him: he remembered seeing the white men using certain small carts to carry their goods, and Rolling Thunder decided to use the same method. Hastily concealing the chest, he went back to his tribe.
The next day he returned, driving a small cart which he had bargained for with one of the white traders at a nearby post. The horse was old, gentle and willing and Rolling Thunder knew he would have no difficulty reaching the spot quickly and returning. As soon as he could, he dug up the chest again. This time, he managed to drag it up onto the cart. The job took several hours, and the effort exhausted him. But something stronger than himself made him get up and get on the cart and move. He already knew where he was headed for: not far away from the dunes was the tribe’s sacred burial ground. No one would dare disturb the treasure chest there. The horse was slowed down by the weight of the heavy chest and it took longer than he had anticipated.
About an hour after he had left the dunes, he arrived at the burial ground, where he made sure that he was alone. He quickly found a spot that had been left vacant for a very important reason. This was the place reserved to receive his own body in time, but now he decided to use it for a different purpose. Digging as far down as he could, he placed the heavy chest into the grave, covered it up again and left. He knew that he had placed the chest deep enough for it to remain hidden, even when his own body was interred in the grave. Being a Chief, he knew that he would be buried in an upright position, but he had made allowance for that and there was still a thick layer of earth between the chest and the area in which his body would be placed at some future date.
Once again time went on and Rolling Thunder went about the business of being Chief, giving very little thought to Don Pedro’s pirate chest. He was pleased that he had been able to carry out the wish of his friend, and having done so, dismissed the matter. Winter came round again and the cold wind from the sea made the Indian peoples’ lives more difficult, as it always had. Only trading with the white man made it possible for them to continue their existence as they had for centuries past, for they no longer had the large land-holdings that had supported them before, and what hunting was left was not enough.
Here, on the edge of the white man’s civilization, an Indian tribe had a difficult time surviving, and even so resourceful and wise a chief as Rolling Thunder realized that perhaps it was time for the tribe to move elsewhere. But he also knew that he would not make that move with them whenever it came. At the same time he noticed a certain restlessness among the young men of the tribe. In particular there was twenty-seven-year-old Standing Bull, a distant cousin of the chief’s, and as arrogant a young man as had ever crossed his path. Standing Bull made no bones about his intentions: he felt he was better equipped to lead the tribe in these difficult times. Ultimately, word of his utterances came to the ears of Rolling Thunder and he could no longer ignore them. He decided to confront the young man and have it out. But he would do it peacefully, if at all possible.
“Look,” Rolling Thunder said as he and Standing Bull faced each other in the Chief’s tent, “look, I understand your needs, I understand your desire to improve our conditions. But we have been on this land for so long that it would be difficult to move elsewhere and start anew.”
“Our land indeed!” the young man replied. “Why don’t we take it back? What was once ours can be ours again.”
Rolling Thunder shook his head. “You preach war, I preach peace,” he said softly. “If they followed you we would all be wiped out.”
Disdain crept across the young man’s face. “You talk like an old man,” he hissed, “and that is exactly what you are—too old to do anything.”
Anger rose in Rolling Thunder’s mind. He jumped to his feet and with a powerful blow he struck the young man across the face. But Standing Bull had a knife in his hand and with one strong movement put it in Rolling Thunder’s heart.
At this moment, attracted by the noise of the discussion, the men of the tribe rushed into the tent where they found their beloved chief near death on the floor.
“Do not hurt him, I forgive him,” Rolling Thunder said, his voice becoming feeble.
But the men of the tribe knew what their law prescribed as the fate of the murderer, and so did Standing Bull. Tomorrow at sunrise he would be tied to a post, and every man in the tribe would shoot an arrow into his body. He would then be buried outside the sacred burial ground, forever barred from entering the Happy Hunting Ground.
Blue Feather, the shaman of the tribe, knelt next to his Chief’s fallen body. He looked up and shook his head. An hour later, Rolling Thunder had himself entered the Happy Hunting Ground.
After the official period of mourning, the tribe gave their Chief the kind of burial a Chief is entitled to. The grave site had been prepared soon after his death and thus Rolling Thunder’s body, anointed and blessed, was put to rest above Don Pedro’s treasure chest, just as he had thought it would be.
The shaman stared down at the gravesite for a long time without speaking, as the men of the tribe watched in silence. Finally he spoke.
“May no man ever touch this grave, for I lay a curse upon those who may dare to. A curse so powerful that no one will survive it. Anyone who disturbs this grave shall be destroyed. I ask Manitou to be my witness to this, as I invoke the powers that have served me well and the powers that I have served all my life. May the powers protect the holy grave of my beloved brother and chief from outsiders who would dare disturb his peace. So be it.”
“So be it,” the men repeated. One by one, they went away, without a backward glance.