A Whisper In The Wind (3 page)

Yellow Spotted Wolf lay on the Morning Star blanket. His warbonnet was on his head, and a necklace of bear claws circled his neck. There was a war club in his right hand, a turkey feather fan in his left. A single streak of black paint adorned his right cheek. He wore a sleeveless buckskin vest, fringed leggings, a doeskin clout, and a pair of exquisitely beaded moccasins that had been made by Michael’s great-grandmother. His old cardboard suitcase lay a few feet away.

Tears burned Michael’s eyes and throat as he gazed at his great-grandfather. The lines of pain were gone from Yellow Spotted Wolf’s face and he looked peaceful, almost happy.

Remorse washed over Michael; remorse and guilt and regret. He could have done so much for the old man, and he had done so little. So damn little! He’d even begrudged the old man the last few days because it had taken him away from his business. Well, he could devote all his time to the Walsh Agency now. Yellow Spotted Wolf would never need him again.

Michael Wolf sat down beside his great-grandfather’s body and knew, for the first time in his life, what it meant to be alone.

Chapter Four

Michael wrapped Yellow Spotted Wolf in the Morning Star blanket, then carried the frail body deep into a stand of heavy timber and placed it in the fork of a tree high off the ground. He hoped that, in this quiet place, his great-grandfather would be allowed to rest peacefully in the land he had loved.

Michael stood beneath the tree for almost an hour, silent tears stinging his eyes and burning his throat. In the old days he would have killed a horse so that Yellow Spotted Wolf’s spirit might ride in comfort to the Afterworld.

With a sigh, he turned his back on his great-grandfather’s final resting place and returned to their campsite. One of the horses whickered softly as Michael approached, and he was suddenly glad for the horse’s company. Scratching the gray’s jaw, he gazed out over the vast, sunlit prairie spread below. It was a beautiful place, quiet and serene, with only the faint hum of insects and the soft whisper of a slight spring breeze to mar the stillness of the moment.

The sense of being alone in the world was strong within him again. Only now did he realize how much he had relied on the knowledge that Yellow Spotted Wolf was there for him, waiting to welcome him back to the reservation if he ever decided to return.

Blinking back his tears, he saddled the horses and rolled the sleeping bags. He was about to mount his horse when he noticed his great-grandfather’s old cardboard valise lying on the ground.

As if guided by some phantom spirit, Michael knelt beside the suitcase and ran his hands over the battered top and sides, and then, releasing a deep sigh of resignation, he lifted the lid.

Nestled inside he found a breechclout of fine black wolfskin, a pair of leggings, heavily fringed along the outer seam, and a pair of moccasins that had belonged to Yellow Spotted Wolf. A small bag of tobacco rested in one corner of the suitcase.

Michael stared at the contents of the suitcase for a long time, and in the back of his mind he could hear the voice of Yellow Spotted Wolf,
A man needs a vision to guide him through life.

Slowly, hesitantly, Michael removed the wolfskin clout from the suitcase. He examined it carefully, as though he had never seen one before, and then he laid it aside and reached for the leggings. Whom had they belonged to? Even as the question formed in the back of his mind, he knew the leggings had belonged to his father. He ran his hand over the leggings, noting the fine workmanship of his grandmother’s hand, the quality of the needlework. The moccasins were of the everyday variety, unadorned with beadwork or quills; the soles were of heavy rawhide for durability.

He found a long-bladed hunting knife encased in a beaded rawhide sheath beneath the moccasins. Sliding the weapon from its sheath, he ran the edge of his thumb along the blade. It was razor-sharp, freshly honed.

He did not touch the tobacco pouch.

Time lost its meaning as he sat there gazing at his great-grandfather’s legacy, and then, abruptly, he stood up and removed his boots. His shirt came next, then his jeans, and finally his underwear and socks.

For a moment he stood naked, letting the cool spring breeze caress his bare skin. It was a heady feeling, standing naked at the top of the world, and he savored it for a long while, thinking that, unfettered by clothing or convention, he could run like the wind.

The rawhide leggings were cool against his skin, the clout like rough velvet against his bare buttocks. The moccasins fit as if they had been made for him. The knife was a comfortable weight at his side.

But he did not touch the tobacco pouch.

For a fleeting moment he wished he had a mirror. Did he look like a Cheyenne warrior? His skin was the right color, his hair and eyes were black, he was tall and broad-shouldered like the rest of the men in his family, but he knew it took more than heredity to make a warrior. It took a deep, abiding belief in a certain way of life…a way of living and thinking and behaving.

It was not for him.

A man needs a vision to guide him through life.

The words rang loud and clear in his ears and he whirled around, his heart pounding like a drum.

But there was no one there and he laughed softly, self-consciously. Had he really expected to find Yellow Spotted Wolf standing behind him?

Michael swore under his breath, feeling a trifle foolish as he stood there in the trappings of a warrior, and more than a little uneasy as his great-grandfather’s words echoed in the back of his mind.

“I don’t need a vision,” he muttered. “What I need is to get back to L.A., the sooner the better.”

But he made no move to leave.

He dropped down on his haunches beside the suitcase and watched his hand reach for the small drawstring bag of tobacco. It felt warm in his palm.

Rising, he opened the pouch and took a pinch of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger; then, almost as if he had done it before, he offered the tobacco to
Heammawihio,
the Creator, the Wise One Above. A second pinch was offered to
Ahktuno’wihio,
the beneficent god who lived underground. Next he made offerings to
Notum,
the god of the North, to
Num’haisto,
the god of the South, to
Ish’i tsis-iss-i-mi’is
and
Ish’i tsis-ta-kit-a’es,
the gods of the East and the West.

“Hear me,
Heammawihio,”
he called, his tone flat and disbelieving, “grant me a vision that I may know the path to follow through life.”

What would Gerald Walsh think of his star salesman if he could see him now, Michael wondered as he tucked the tobacco pouch into his belt and then raised his hands toward heaven, palms upward.

I
feel ridiculous,
he thought, and yet, standing there, his arms raised in supplication, he began to feel a oneness with the earth and the sky.

He was not a man given to prayer, yet the words formed on his lips, words as ancient as the blood of the
Tsis’tsistas,
the Cheyenne. They rose toward the vast blue vault of the sky, beseeching a kind Creator to send a vision to one of his red children, to a man who realized, too late, that he had cut out his own heart and soul when he turned his back on the Morning Star people.

“Hear me,
Heammawihio,”
he cried in a voice that was now strong and fervent with desire. “I am a poor man in need of your help. Hear me,
Ahktuno’wihio,
he who makes the grass grow and the water flow, who gives life to all the earth, bless me with a vision that my spirit might grow as tall as the mountain on which I stand.”

He stood there all that day and into the night, unmindful of the sun’s heat or the cold breath of the moon. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his arms and shoulders, his mouth was as dry as the dust at his feet, his stomach as empty as his heart.

As the moon climbed high above Eagle Mountain, his legs grew numb and he dropped to his knees, groaning softly. And still he prayed, his need for a vision suddenly stronger than his body’s need for food or sleep.

He rose slowly to his feet as the sun gave birth to a new day. His voice was a whisper now, his arms a painful extension of his weary body. He forgot that he had felt foolish only hours before, forgot that he did not believe in visions and dreams. A stubbornness, an inner strength he had not known he possessed, refused to let him give up.

“Heammawihio,”
he cried hoarsely, “grant me a vision that I might fulfill my greatgrandfather’s dying wish. Show me the way to go. Help me to understand…”

Ese-he,
the sun, climbed higher in the sky, filling the earth with warmth and light. For Michael swallowing became painful, his tongue felt swollen, his throat ached. Sweat dampened his skin and trickled down his back, his vision blurred, his voice was like a whisper in the wind.

Stoically he ignored the discomforts of the flesh and concentrated on what he hoped to gain. Swaying unsteadily on legs that felt like lead, he gazed up into the sun, his heart crying the words he could no longer speak.

“Heammawihio,
grant me a vision lest I perish…”

Time lost all meaning. Pain and hunger and thirst were forgotten as he stared, unblinking, into the sun, until he was gradually engulfed in a hazy white light that enfolded him like loving arms, soothing his aching limbs, healing the hurt in his heart, filling the void left by the death of Yellow Spotted Wolf.

The light grew brighter, stronger, blinding him to the rest of the world.

You shall have the desires of your heart,
the light whispered softly, and Michael Wolf felt himself falling, falling, into the sun…

PART TWO

Chapter Five

The scent of wildflowers and earth tickled
Michael’s nostrils and he opened his eyes to discover he was lying face down on the ground. For a moment he could not recall where he was, and then it all came back to him, the hours of fasting and prayer, of hunger and thirst.

He frowned as he sat up. He must have fainted from lack of food and water, and from the heat, he thought with some surprise, and then grinned. Well, so much for a vision. No doubt medicine dreams and visions had gone the way of the buffalo and the warrior.

Rising, he looked around for his clothing. It was time to stop playing Indian and get back to L.A.

Only his clothes weren’t where he had left them.

“What the hell,” he muttered. Not only were his clothes gone, but so were the horses.

He swore softly, wondering if he had walked in his sleep. This looked like the place where he had spent the night, yet there was no sign that he’d camped there, no ashes where the fire had been.

Bewildered, he walked down the hill toward the stand of timber where he’d left his great-grandfather’s body. But he couldn’t find the towering pine that had held the old man’s remains. He saw trees, but none looked familiar.

“What the hell’s going on?” he wondered aloud.

He spent the next hour quartering back and forth on the hillside looking for some sign of his great-grandfather’s body, for the horses or his clothing, but there was no sign that anyone had camped there recently.

Michael frowned. The sleeping bags were gone. So were the saddlebags and Yellow Spotted Wolf’s battered old suitcase. Even their trash was missing.

Perhaps he’d been robbed while unconscious. It seemed the most logical explanation, and he started down the hill, his footsteps fueled by his anger. He’d had three hundred dollars in his wallet, not to mention his driver’s license and his plane ticket home.

He was quietly cursing the thief and dreading the long walk back to Johnson Siding when he rounded a bend in the trail and came face to face with a half-dozen Indians mounted on paint ponies.

It was a toss-up as to who was more surprised, the six warriors, or Michael. For long seconds they stared at each other.

“Hou, tahunsa,”
one of the warriors said at last.

They were Lakota, Michael thought, and frowned as he tried to recall their language.
“Hou, tahunsa,”
he replied as the words came back to him. “Hello, cousin.”

The warrior spoke to him again, but Michael hadn’t heard the Lakota language in years and he didn’t understand most of what the warrior said.

“My Lakota is not good,” Michael said with a shrug. “Do you speak English?”

“Hin,”
the warrior answered with a nod. “I speak the white man’s tongue.”

“Good. I lost my horses. Have you seen them?”

The warrior shook his head. “Do you think some
wasicun
stole them?”

“I don’t know. Are you camped nearby? Perhaps you could lend me a horse, or give me a ride back to Johnson Siding?”

The warrior frowned. “Johnson Siding?” he repeated. “What means Johnson Siding?”

“Don’t you work here, in the park? I thought you might be a ranger of some kind.”

“Your words make no sense,” the warrior replied. “The Lakota come here every year during the Moon of Ripe Berries to celebrate
Wiwanyank Wacipi
with their brothers, the
Shyela.”

Michael stared at the scars on the warrior’s chest.
Wiwanyank Wacipi?
Was it possible the Sioux still came here to practice the Sun Dance? Hadn’t it been outlawed by the government years ago?

“Come,” the warrior said, offering Michael his hand. “I will take you to Tatanka lyotake. Perhaps he will understand your words.”

Tatanka lyotake? Speechless, Michael grasped the warrior’s forearm and swung up behind him.
Sitting Bull,
he thought.
They’re going to take me to see Sitting Bull.

Michael stared at the vast Indian village spread across a flat plain thick with buffalo grass, sage, and spiny cactus. Far off in the distance he saw Bear Butte rising twelve hundred feet above the plains, studded with spindly yellow pines and gnarled red cedars. The Indians called it
Paha Mato.
Crazy Horse had seen his vision there…

Michael closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been out in the sun too long, he mused as he gazed at the village. He was seeing things that weren’t there.

But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. Hundreds of hide tipis were still spread across the prairie. Countless horses grazed on the thick grass. Children ran between the lodges, shouting and laughing. Warriors paraded through the camp, magnificent in fringed buckskin leggings and elaborately beaded and quilled shirts and moccasins. Women stood talking together in small groups or sat in the shade tending babes in arms. The smoke from numerous cook-fires spiraled upward.

Michael’s mouth watered and his stomach growled loudly as the scent of freshly roasted meat tickled his nostrils.

The warrior glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Michael. “I will take you to my lodge. My woman will have food prepared.”

“Le mita pila,”
Michael replied. “My thanks.”

Moments later they were seated in the warrior’s lodge eating roasted buffalo hump and boiled vegetables. Michael was ravenous, but he ate slowly so as not to embarrass himself or his host. The meat was blood red on the inside, with a wild, gamy taste, but it was not unpleasant.

He tried not to stare as he gazed around the lodge. There had been tipis on the reservation, but they had been used for sweat lodges or counsel lodges. No one lived in them anymore. A firepit had been dug in the center of the floor, and there were buffalo robes rolled up in the back of the lodge that Michael assumed were used for bedding. Pots and cooking utensils were stacked near the door, together with a couple of jugs and waterskins. Several large
parfleches
took up space against one wall, and he guessed they were filled with clothing and other personal items.

When they had finished eating, the warrior lit his pipe and offered it to the earth and the sky and the four directions before handing it to Michael, who took several long puffs before returning it to his host.

“I am Mato Wamatka, of the Lakota,” the warrior said.

“I am Michael Wolf, of the Northern Cheyenne.”

Mato Wamatka nodded, puzzled by his visitor’s peculiar first name. He would have liked to ask how the Cheyenne warrior had received such an unusual name, but to do so would have been considered impolite. A man’s name was a personal thing, usually bestowed on a warrior as the result of a vision or a brave deed, or it might be based on an outstanding physical characteristic.

Mato Wamatka tried not to stare at his guest, but there was something vaguely familiar about the man. He glanced at Wolf’s short hair curiously. Warriors did not cut their hair except to mourn the loss of a loved one or to express great sorrow or shame.

Mato Wamatka rose smoothly to his feet. He was a simple man, and this new visitor was beyond his comprehension.

“Come,” he said, “I will take you to Tatanka lyotake.”

Michael stood up, his stomach in knots as he followed Mato Wamatka out of the lodge and across the village.
This can’t be real,
he thought, dazed.
It must be some kind of Lakota powwow, a re-creation of life in the old days.

He had almost convinced himself he was in the middle of some kind of tribal get-together where everyone pretended they were living back in 1875 until he saw Sitting Bull. He had seen enough photographs of the Hunkpapa medicine man to recognize the real thing when he saw it.

He closed his eyes. What the hell was going on? He refused to accept the answer that came to mind. It was unthinkable, impossible, ridiculous. But how else to explain the Lakota village where none had been before? How else could he account for his missing clothing and horses, the missing sleeping bags, the trash? How else could he account for the strange white light that had surrounded him, or the man who was standing before him?

He opened his eyes, his gaze searching the face of the Hunkpapa warrior. It really was Sitting Bull, he was sure of it. He thought back to what he knew of the medicine man’s life. Sitting Bull had been born in the spring of 1831 on the Grand River. He had gone to war at the age of fourteen and counted coup on the enemy. The counting of coup was the bravest act an Indian could perform. Anyone could kill an enemy from a distance with a well-placed arrow, but to get close enough to strike a living enemy, that was bravery indeed. No warrior could sit in counsel who had not counted coup. At the age of twenty-six, Sitting Bull had been made the leader of the Midnight Strong Hearts. It was one of the highest honors a man could receive. Bravery, fortitude, wisdom, and generosity were the virtues the Lakota held dear, and Sitting Bull exemplified them all. Yellow Spotted Wolf had once told Michael that Tatanka lyotake believed
Wakán Tanka
had given him the job of protecting the People from the white-eyes.

It was a strange feeling, Michael thought, to be standing beside a man who had died forty years before you were born, to know the full history of another man’s life before the man himself had lived it. He wondered what Sitting Bull would say if he told him he had come from the future, that he, Michael Wolf, knew it was foolish for the Indians to oppose the whites, that no matter how many small victories the People might win, they were destined to lose in the end.

Sitting Bull’s dark eyes settled on Michael’s face as Mato Wamatka explained who Michael was. An eerie feeling crept over Michael as he met the older man’s probing gaze; it was almost as though Sitting Bull were reading his mind, gauging the depths of his soul.

“Hau, sunkaku,”
Sitting Bull said graciously. “Welcome, brother. Mato Wamatka tells me someone has stolen your horses.”

“Yes,” Michael replied, though he realized now that his horses hadn’t been stolen at all. They were waiting for him at the top of Eagle Mountain, right where he had left them. In 1955.

“Come,” Sitting Bull said. “Walk with me. We will see if we can find the horses you seek.”

“Le mita pila,”
Michael murmured. He nodded to Mato Wamatka, then followed Sitting Bull toward the river.

Men, women, and children turned to stare at the stranger walking with Sitting Bull. Many of the people smiled at Michael, their faces friendly, their dark eyes filled with curiousity.

“You have come to us from a great distance,” Sitting Bull remarked as they walked toward the river where the vast Lakota horse herd grazed. “You have seen things we have not seen.”

A chill started at the base of Michael’s spine and crept slowly upward. Was the older man clairvoyant?

“You are one of us,” Sitting Bull went on, his voice low and hypnotic. “The same heart, the same blood, and yet you are a stranger.”

It was as though the sun had suddenly lost its warmth. Michael felt himself shivering under the medicine man’s prolonged gaze.

“Who are you, Michael Wolf? Who are your people? Why are you here?”

“I mean you no harm,” Michael answered.

Sitting Bull nodded. “There is trouble coming,” he remarked. They were standing on the edge of the horse herd now, and Sitting Bull’s gaze traveled over the Lakota ponies.

“Trouble?” Michael repeated.

“The Grandfather in Washington wants to buy the
Paha Sapa,
but we will not sell our beloved hills. We will not trade away the land where our ancestors sleep. I sent word to the Grandfather and told him the
Paha Sapa
belongs to me. If the whites try to take them, I will fight.”

Sitting Bull nodded to himself. “This is my land,” he said again. “I will fight for it, I will die for it, but I will never leave it.”

Michael remained silent. Sitting Bull
would
leave this land, he knew, but that was not important now.

He felt a chill pass along his spine as the warrior’s dark eyes bored into him.

“I ask you again, Michael Wolf, who are you?” Sitting Bull leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “Are you flesh or spirit?”

“A man, like yourself.”

“We speak in riddles. Tell me, Wolf, why have you come here?”

Why indeed, Michael thought. And then, out of the blue, he knew why he was there.

“I have come to find my people,” he said with conviction. “I have come to find out who and what I am, that I may find my own path through life.”

Sitting Bull nodded. “Who are your people?”

Michael did some quick mental arithmetic. Sitting Bull must be in his forties, which would put the year around 1874 or ‘75. His great-great-grandfather, Mo’ohta-vo’nehe, would have been a man in his prime then, and Yellow Spotted Wolf would have been a teenager.

“I’m looking for the family of Mo’ohta-vo’nehe of the Northern Cheyenne,” Michael said, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. It was all so impossible. He couldn’t be here, talking to a man who’d been dead for sixty-five years.