Michael Blake: The Holy Road

Exasperated, Ten Bears turned his mind exclusively to landscapes of his homeland but something was still distracting him and, when he opened his eyes, the old man realized that the little fires on the walls were keeping him awake. He swung his feet to the floor, pushed himself off the bed, and went from one fire to another, opening the little grass doors and extinguishing each irritating flame with a puff of his breath.

Back in bed he felt much better. In the darkness his mind began to slow and as he tumbled toward unconsciousness, he saw the prairie in its limitless glory. The grass was waving, the sun was high, the sky was blue, and in the far distance he could see the distinctive dark forms of buffalo grazing. He also saw something coming toward him.

Nothing more than a speck at first, the object came at great speed and suddenly the face of an eagle filled the whole of Ten Bears' vision. Its keen, unblinking eyes were focused solely on Ten Bears but the old man felt no fear.

An instant later Ten Bears realized he was astride the eagle's back. Powered by the great levers of the eagle's wings, they were rising through the mist of earthbound clouds.

Sudden as the turn of a dream, eternal blackness stretched above them. Glittering stars, more stars than could ever be imagined, stood out like particles of dust spinning in a ray of afternoon sun. They covered Ten Bears like falling snow.

Then they went out.

Two days later, Kicking Bird and Lawrie Tatum boarded a westbound train, and, though he had made a full recovery and had not been damaged physically, the Comanche was still shaken when he took his seat.

Having no idea how he had been spared made the entire episode impossible to reconcile. How was it that his nose had found and pressed itself into a crack in the wood that provided enough oxygen to keep his body from succumbing to the gas? How was it that he had been found and pulled from the room with what the whites said were minutes to live?

How could it be that Ten Bears' body lay on the floor of a coach a few behind his own, his remains enclosed in one of the white man's death boxes? How could it be that an old man's humble wish to die on the prairie had not been granted? How could the Mystery let it come to this?

Kicking Bird had never felt more helpless. He could not exist in his present state, yet he was powerless to change it. The past was gone, the future was overwhelming, and his life, as he sat inert and shattered, was being measured out minute by minute.

The train jerked ahead and, with each revolution of its wheels, a healing miracle began as well. Knowing that he was moving west drove Kicking Bird's soul forward, and by the time they crossed the span over the Mississippi River, the far-seeing Comanche realized that he was nearly whole again.

Perhaps he was intact once more because he was also feeling a new, exhilarating sense of purpose. The Comanches, whether they knew it or not, had their greatest protector in the man Kicking Bird. It was Kicking Bird who was best qualified to see them through the struggle of change, and this he was resolved to do even if it meant the sacrifice of all he possessed, even his life.

Now he was ready to lay himself down and let his people cross over to the future with all the security his body and spirit could provide.

The abortive raid on Captain Bradley's column had plunged the hostile camps into chaos, and the news of Ten Bears' death, transmitted by spies filtering in and out of the reservation lands, was marked by a shorter period of mourning than would have been observed in better times. In the frenzy of trying to mount a defense on the run, every day was a desperate struggle, and grief was a luxury that no one could much indulge.

Hunting For Something hacked off her hair, as did Stands With A Fist, and both women gashed their arms and legs. But the cuts were fewer and not as deep as they might have been.

Owl Prophet was vehement in his conviction that the whites had murdered Ten Bears through the use of some magical agent but his ire was quickly shoved aside by demands from the many wounded men who had managed to make it back from the attack. It seemed that every other lodge held someone who needed attention and, in the coming weeks, the prophet was perpetually applying spells, potions, and even surgeries as his family picked the surrounding prairie clean of healing medicines.

Like many others, the Dances With Wolves and Smiles A Lot families had doubled up. It was the only way to meet the increasing demands of cooking and cleaning, hauling food and water, tending to the needs of exhausted husbands, and organizing the lives of Snake In Hands, Always Walking, Stays Quiet, and Rabbit.

In addition to their clearly defined and dangerous roles as providers and protectors, warriors were burdened with a staggering onslaught of decisions, all of which had to be made in the ever-shifting circumstances of evasion and escape. owing to new movements on the part of the white soldiers, camps were erected only to be struck a day or two rater. Keeping every camp supplied with the basic elements of food and fuel was a herculean task that never seemed fully accomplished. In addition, huge expenditures of energy were surrendered in restraining factions of young men, eager for combat, from running amok.

Some people went into the reservation, only to return disillusioned, while a few hardened warriors packed up their families and possessions and took the white man's holy road, never to return.

The one thing the Comanches and their allies did not need was the rain, which made every obstacle that much harder to overcome. It never seemed to stop, and after weeks of inundation, the people native to the land wondered if they hadn't miscalculated in supposing the Mystery had abandoned only them. It seemed the whole world was gradually submerging under the deluge.

Ponies sank past their ankles in the sucking mud that coated the prairie everywhere they traveled. People were never dry and their skin became so sodden that this time of their greatest trial was referred to through succeeding generations as “the wrinkled-hand chase.”

Ceaseless traveling in difficult conditions took its toll on possessions as well as people, and long before the running and fighting ended, people were often forced to sleep in the open. For a time, the comment that it was "cruel to wake a man before his puddle was warm” enjoyed wide popularity. But the joke quickly played out. There was too much struggle for levity. Every day of life was a grand achievement for the grim souls who had committed themselves to defiance.

Yet, if asked, it is certain that the people branded hostile would have agreed that the fierceness of their determination elevated them to a previously unknown spiritual plane. Mourning for the warriors who had fallen in the unsuccessful first attack of the campaign was conducted inwardly, privately. The desperate search for food and forage went on without complaint. Even the coughing sickness many had contracted from the wet and cold was ignored in the set-jawed atmosphere of defense.

Stands With A Fist and Hunting For Something and Wind In His Hair's wife, One Braid Trailing, rose unheralded to positions of leadership in the phalanx of women who kept the village intact and moving. Somehow they managed to nurture children, prepare food, provide shelter, create warmth, and strike or set up camp at a moment's notice in the muck and rain. The women organized and maintained a semblance of life in vague hope that the warriors, already overtaxed by the never-ending search for food, would find a way to defeat the white soldiers.

The fact that Captain Bradley's troops had repelled them so effectively forced Wind In His Hair and his inner circle to suspend plans for further attacks on the invaders. The fast-shooting guns of the whites were too powerful. Sixteen warriors had been lost in a fight that yielded no scalps and caused but a momentary halt in the enemy's advance.