EXCERPT

Stares at the Moon sat, huddled in his blankets, glaring at the small fire that was fighting to warm his makeshift shelter. The smoke wasn’t dissipating through the hole at the top like it should and the interior was filling up with smoke. He had no buffalo robes to make a proper teepee and had been forced to make a place to get in out of the storm, from whatever pieces of wood and brush he could find.

He was seized with rage. His chattering teeth could hardly get out the words, “The White man must die. I will see him skinned alive—a little at a time—then I will bury him up to his neck near an ant hill, and cover his head with honey.”

The thought of the punishment he would inflict on the White man calmed him somewhat and he pulled back the covering of the doorway to let out some of the smoke, then added more wood to the fire and bundled up in his blankets, again, the bruises on his body making it difficult for him to get comfortable.

He eased his body down close to the fire to get as much warmth as he could, and tried to sleep. But sleep was not to be had. He was cold, but that was not what was keeping him awake. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Crying Dove in his mind—and she was laughing at him.

Outside, the winter storm, high in the Colorado mountains, continued to rage, covering the ground with large snowflakes. The wind tore its way through every opening it could find in the makeshift hut. The only redeeming factor was that the depth of the snow was closing a good many of the hut’s cracks. He looked at the opening doorway and saw the snow was already covering half of the opening. He could only hope the weight of the snow wouldn’t cause the flimsy hut to cave in.

He knew if the storm continued, by morning, he would be completely snowed in and would have to dig a hole to the surface so he would have air to breathe. He laughed. The smoke imprisoned inside the hut would probably suffocate him first.

His stomach began to growl and he sat up. He hadn’t eaten in two days and his stomach was not happy about it. Stares at the Moon filled a hollow gourd with snow, then held it over the small fire and allowed it to melt. At least he would have water to drink.

As he sipped the melted snow, he wondered where the White man and Crying Dove were. Were they warm and dry in some cabin built by the White man—eating food and laughing at him? Just the thought of them together caused his anger to rise once more.

This was Stares at the Moon’s 24th winter and as he looked back, he realized the mistakes he had made.

He had been born on the plains, many miles south of where he now was. As a young boy, the mountains had always looked mysterious and beautiful, had always looked so appealing, but they were deceiving. While there were rivers and trees and animals of many descriptions, the weather was much harsher and the land unforgiving. There were gullies so steep and hills so rugged, a man struggled to go on foot. Taking a horse was out of the question. A man must learn to go around to find his destination. On the plains, a man could ride his horse forever, and there were buffalo as far as the eye could see—whose hide made warm teepees, and the meat filled the bellies of his people.

As a boy he had played war games with his brethren and later, when he was older—invited to hunt the buffalo! Oh, the joy of riding at full speed—racing next to those monstrous animals—the sound of their hooves pounding on the ground, filling the sky with the sound of their running. And the young girls smiling at him shyly, giggling, and talking about him because he had brought down the largest of the kill.