Winter Rain

“He was an earth-scratcher?”

“Yes. Like these settlers who are moving into our buffalo ground,” he answered. “And just this morning before the camp awoke, I lay in my blanket thinking on those memories. Trying for more. And I did have a new one come to me: remembering the feel of his strong hands wrapped around mine as he taught me to shoot his rifle.”

Antelope wagged his head, looking into his brother’s face. “I never learned to shoot a rifle.” Then his eyes brightened. “But I can use the lance, throw the tomahawk, use my knife, and shoot the bow as well as any.”

He touched his younger brother on the shoulder. “Yes, you are as good as any Kwahadi warrior. But don’t you see? It was not the learning of the rifle that I remembered most, Antelope. It was the safe, secure feel I had when that man took my hands in his and wrapped them around the gun, or the handle of a hoe, or held me in front of him in the saddle, or even let me handle the two horses hitched to our wagon.”

A sudden wave of excitement was heard washing its way across the camp that morning. Antelope turned to see what caused the noise, then looked back at Tall One.

“I don’t know what to think, my brother—except that maybe these memories are not so good to have so often. Better that you think of the Kwahadi. These are our people now. Try as I might, I cannot remember being anything else but Kwahadi.”

“You want me to forget? Forget all that is good in my memories?”

Antelope nodded as they noticed some other young warriors hurrying their way. “You are strong enough to keep yourself from remembering. The tai-bos we lived among long ago are now our enemies. We belong to The People. You must tell yourself that the white people we once were are our enemies now.”

“You mean our own white selves are now our enemies?”

“Perhaps, I do not know for sure. But what I am certain of is that your memories of that life are as evil as anything can be to our way of life with the Kwahadi.”

“Antelope!” cried one of the arriving warriors rushing up in a swirl of noise and excitement.

Tall One’s younger brother turned away, but not without whispering, “You are a Kwahadi warrior now.”

“Tall One! Our war chief has given the word!” said Burns Red.

“Yes,” cheered Old Owl Man. “We are to paint ourselves and make ready.”

“For what?” Antelope asked.

“The white men,” Burns Red replied. “They are not far behind us, say the scouts.”

“Won’t we pack up our belongings and move the village this morning?” Tall One inquired.

“No. The war council says we will wait right here for the three-times-ten to put their foot into the trap.”

“What trap?” Antelope asked.

Old Owl Man chuckled, then said, “Not a real trap. Just that we are not running, not going anywhere. We know there are only a few tai-bos behind us—and their scalps will look good on our weapons, to decorate our war ponies.”

“I want one of those big horses for my own,” said Burns Red.

Antelope agreed. “My brother needs a horse.”

Old Owl Man laughed. “I know—but Tall One has been pulling a travois and acting like a horse for so long, I am afraid he won’t remember how to ride a horse!”

“I remember how to ride a horse—”

“Can you still fight from horseback?” demanded Burns Red.

His blood was warming. There was something about this friend of Antelope’s that Tall One did not like. Never had. He was a cocky one. “I fight on a horse. I can fight on my own two feet. Would you like to fight me here and now, Burns Red?” Tall One growled.

The youth laughed, throwing his chin back and puffing up his chest. “No, Tall One. I want you to join us when we go fight these tai-bos.”

“How close are they?” Antelope asked.

“If we wait for them right here, the scouts believe the white men will arrive by the time the sun reaches the top of its climb today.”

“I must make ready,” Antelope said, stepping away toward his friends.

“Aren’t you going to make ready to fight the tai-bos, Tall One?” asked Burns Red.

How he wanted to pound the smirk from the young man’s face. “Yes. I will go to my lodge now and ask Bridge for some of his paints and grease.”

“You can use some of mine, Tall One,” Antelope offered.

He shook his head, never taking his eyes off Old Owl Man and Burns Red. “Thank you, brother. But I will ask Bridge for some of his.”

“It is good!” Burns Red mocked. “Dragging a travois is work worthy of only an old pony … work done only by a tai-bo who tries to be a Kwahadi. Will Tall One be a warrior today? Or will he fail and still be a tai-bo pony dragging a travois?”

Antelope tried to protest, saying, “He helped move the village each day like many of the others—”

Tall One put his hand out against his young brother’s chest to interrupt him. “I did then what my people needed of me. And this morning I will make ready to fight these tai-bos. Because that is what my people need of me. Then—when we have killed these white men, and their scalps hang from our belts—I will call for you, Burns Red.”