Michael Blake: The Holy Road

His far-seeing nature isolated the former medicine man. He alone could speak the white man tongue, and he was the only one with the knowledge and influence to assure that the walk down the holy road was safe and sound.

But Kicking Bird had not been long on the reservation before he realized that the holy road was not a point of confusion for Indian people only. The whites seemed confused too. After only a few dry, of official dealings he was forced to conclude that for nearly every white there was a different perception of the holy road, and it came to him, in a queasy, haunting recognition, that the whites did not know how to operate the system they had invented. Few of them obeyed its tenets, and it was Kicking Bird's fate to engage in a long, lonely struggle against these puzzling powers.

Only half of the promised cows arrived on the first ration day, and instead of fat beeves, the hungry Indians saw a collection of half-dead animals of skin and bone. Kicking Bird complained immediately, but no one could tell him what had gone wrong. The cows could neither be rejected nor replaced. The people would have to make do, and in the end Kicking Bird was forced into the unenviable position of making certain that everyone got a fair share of nothing.

The crazy water was finding its way into lodges at an alarming rate, and Kicking Bird objected vociferously to the military and civilian authorities. The colonel in command of Fort Sill told him he had no authority to ban the sale of liquor and that the issue would have to be taken up with General Mackenzie, who, as he knew, was in the field.

The civilian who owned the store that sold the whiskey had transferred ownership to another who lived far away, and when Kicking Bird took the matter up with the head clerk, he, too, replied that he was not authorized to suspend the sale of spirits.

Lawrie Tatum shared Kicking Bird's outrage, but as commodities failed repeatedly to arrive as promised, and as the whiskey continued to flow without interruption, Kicking Bird was soon forced to alter his regard for the little Quaker. The man who had offered himself as protector, facilitator, and guardian did not have the power to carry out his avowed duties.

There were a few qualified successes, however. The Quaker agent's school began to fill up, not with children eager to learn about the modern world but with children eager for the food their attendance provided. An edict forbidding reservation-wide religious ceremonies, dancing, singing, and mass celebrations of any kind was rescinded after Kicking Bird absolved himself of all responsibility for the bloodshed to come from such a foolish command. The refugees streaming in from Comanche and Kiowa country needed protection from overzealous soldiers, and after pestering, cajoling, and browbeating the colonel, Kicking Bird was able to put in place a system of safe conduct for those who had chosen not to combat the government.

Important as they were to basic survival, these triumphs amounted to little else, and each night when Kicking Bird slipped under the covers in his lodge, he craved only the rest his body and his mind needed desperately. But the day to come would be fraught with a new tangle of events, and, invariably, he lay awake trying to anticipate all that he have to do.

Though he tried hard to keep his thoughts from drifting in a direction he dreaded, sleep never came before an agonizing contemplation those who were still out fighting the soldiers. Judging from the bands disheartened who were appearing in greater and greater numbers on edge of the reservation, the time when hostilities would be settled was fast approaching but, as much as he wanted the fighting to end, Kicking Bird felt a new river of heartache spreading across his chest each night. He loved his people, and a part of him especially loved those who were defying the white man's army.

Every grueling day of his reservation life he asked nothing. But every night, on the threshold of sleep, he cried out mutely for the Mystery to deliver from destruction the ones who still fought.

Two afternoons after the massive storm swept over them, the remnants of Ten Bears' village stumbled, hungry and half-frozen, down a well-worn buffalo trail and into the great canyon. With the last of their energy, the exhausted hostiles threw together shelters and fell asleep, relieved at finally reaching a place they regarded as impregnable.

The most pressing need was for food and next morning a large group of the most able-bodied warriors, including Dances With Wolves, Smiles A Lot, and Blue Turtle, went hunting. Sixty miles long and several miles wide, the canyon had been a favorite winter sanctuary for the buffalo and, two hours after they started out, the hunters found a small herd of several hundred in a side canyon. They killed a dozen of the animals, and the makeshift village spent the rest of the day feasting on meat. Sated, the people retired early to their lodges for the restorative of another long sleep.

Just before dawn a single, distant shot stirred the Dances With Wolves lodge, but thinking a hunter must be out early, the family turned in their robes and slept on.

Minutes later however, Dances With Wolves and Stands With A Fist were standing outside in the chill, listening to the sound of more gunfire. Peering through the half-light, they could see a disturbance at the front of the village. Dances With Wolves jumped onto the back of the nearest pony, and as Stands with A Fist rushed out of the lodge to thrust a rifle into his hands, Blue Turtle rode up.

"White soldiers in the canyon!” he screamed.

Dances With Wolves stared down at his wife and children.

"Run!" he commanded. “Where is Snake In Hands?”

“He's with the ponies,” Stands With A Fist answered, terrified.

“Run," he repeated. “Run now!”

People were scrambling past them as he and Blue Turtle galloped toward the front of the village. Dances With Wolves could see the silhouettes of warriors already firing from perches on the sides of the canyon, and, as the fleeing people began to thin around him, warriors on foot and on horseback sprang into view firing desperately at an oncoming enemy that seemed to be everywhere.

Hundreds of blue-coated men were advancing on the village. Half a mile away a large column of hair-mouth cavalry was disappearing into a side canyon, but Dances With Wolves had no time to think. He and Blue Turtle had been joined by many other mounted warriors in their dash, and just as they reached the village's perimeter, the soldiers made a charge.

Firing as fast as they could, the warriors blunted the charge, but they could not stop the forward movement of the soldiers. Fighting only for time, the Comanche horsemen kept shooting as they fell back through the village, constantly checking the progress of the women and children, who were now clambering up the sides of the canyon. In a running council of screams and shouts, the warriors on the canyon floor concluded that they would have to seek cover if they were to continue fighting and began to peel back.

But as Dances With Wolves wheeled his pony toward escape, he heard his own name float through the din of gunfire. Turning back, he saw Blue Turtle standing alone, one arm upraised. On the ground next to him a pony was kicking.

Enemy bullets were splashing the ground around Blue Turtle, and as he began to run, Dances With Wolves kicked his pony forward.

He was just reaching for the stranded warrior when a bullet slammed into his chest and passed out his back.

As Dances With Wolves slumped forward Blue Turtle managed to climb up behind him. Slipping his arms around his wounded friend's waist, the young man grasped the reins, turned the pony, and gave him his head.

They had just cleared the village and Blue Turtle was frantically searching out a good spot for hiding when Smiles A Lot appeared alongside and, motioning for him to follow, galloped ahead.