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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Brothers
By Shaun Ryan
The elongated shadow cast by horse and rider seemed to dance across the long grass, an eerie caricature stretched by the rising sun. The rider’s weary gaze twitched from its impossible shape to the ridges on either side of the valley, searching for any threat. The new day’s peachy glow warmed Nate Loorde’s back as he rode west. It was a welcome sensation. His aching muscles soaked in the warmth, protesting the long ride a little less as he stretched in the saddle. He was bone tired, having ridden through the night.
He nibbled a piece of hardtack as he rode, chewing slowly, thoughtful as he searched for the trail he sought. The wind began to increase from the northwest, stinging his eyes. A dark line of cloud crept above the far horizon, a grim reminder of the harshness and unpredictability of the weather on the northern plains. One day the hot sun would pound a man like a hammer striking an anvil, the next bitter winds and chill rain might soak him to the bone. The nights were always chilly it seemed, even during the height of summer, and the one just past had been no exception. Nate welcomed the warmth of the new day, even while gloomily contemplating the baking it would give him in a few hours. He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. It would rain sometime that day, he was sure. Perhaps it would come before the day grew too hot.
The big-hearted paint that had been with him for five years now and had gotten him out of more than one scrape, tossed his head and snorted, uneasy. Nate’s attention snapped back to the land ahead. The horse’s ears were flicking back and forth nervously. He had scented something on the breeze and whatever it was, he did not like it.
Nate squinted into the vastness ahead, searching the timber along the river and the surrounding hills for any sign of whatever had caused his mount to fidget, finding none. He sighed and leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck.
“Easy boy,” he said, “It ain’t far now.”
He glanced down at the pouch of dispatches Buffalo Bill Cody had entrusted to him, making sure it was firmly secured to the saddle horn. It was. He nodded in satisfaction. He liked and admired General Crook’s flamboyant head scout and did not want to disappoint him in any way. The plains had been a hornet’s nest of activity since the ill-fated campaign on the Little Bighorn. All of the cavalry regiments on the plains had been reinforced and the hunt for the last of the free ranging Sioux and Cheyenne was hotter than ever, though their success at finding the hostiles had so far been sketchy at best.
He would be glad when he found Crook and handed over the dispatches. He would rest himself and his mount for a day, ride to Fort Ellis, and then on to his home in the mountains above Bozeman. The snug little cabin he had built there beckoned him on, visions of days spent fishing and hunting and just relaxing after a long summer of scouting for the army dancing in his weary head.
He was tired of fighting Indians. His mother’s blood burned with shame inside him. He missed her sometimes, her long shining hair and smiling eyes now only a memory, as were the sunny days spent hunting and riding with the other young bucks of the village. Those days were gone now, not only for him, but for all of the plains tribes. Whether they knew it or not, resistance to the flood of white men and their way of life was futile. It was only a matter of time before their ways were only a memory lingering on the summer breeze, whispering of buffalo hunts and wars with traditional enemies and former glories.
A horse whinnied from somewhere ahead and his own mount answered with a toss of his noble head. Nate’s eyes snapped forward, even as his heart began to pound in his chest. On the ridge to his right, perhaps a half-mile distant, a line of riders sat watching him. There were six of them, their silhouettes against the brightening sky marking them as a Sioux war party. He sighed in resignation as they began to descend into the valley, angling to head him off.
He held to a steady walk, despite the sudden fear in his heart. The paint snorted and tossed his head impatiently, as if to ask why Nate wasn’t riding hell for leather to escape the war party. Nate Loorde only shook his head. He and his mount were both done in. Running would only serve to prolong the inevitable and most likely kill the paint in the process. Whatever happened to him, Nate refused to run his horse to death trying to escape. If he held his ground and showed no fear, at least his old friend would come to no harm. No Sioux alive would purposely kill such a fine animal, horses being a valuable commodity on the plains and the measure of a warriors wealth.
He kept to his original pace as the braves rode up to him, circling and hooting and calling insults. Staring straight ahead as though they were not there, Nate scrutinized them from the corner of his eye. Five were young bucks, eager to count coup on an enemy to show their bravery. The last however, caused his heart to sink. The man was older than the rest, older than Nate himself. Though he had not laid eyes upon him in ten years, Nate recognized his half-brother Hides in the Grass.
He thought again of their mother, who he had not seen in as long, as the first coup stick thumped into his back. He did not flinch or acknowledge the blow in any way, but stared straight ahead and continued on his way. The five bucks circled and jeered, but Hides in the Grass held himself apart, too proud and experienced to count coup on a solitary white man. He left the glory to his followers.
A second stick hit him in the shoulder, followed closely by a third and fourth blow as the bucks grew bolder. The fifth clipped the side of his head, knocking his hat off and causing a slight ring in his ears. He rode on, holding to his stately pace, proud in his own right.
A tremendous blow, not from any coup stick, but a war club, smashed into his head, sending a burst of white light through his brain and nearly causing him to fall from the saddle. He righted himself slowly, reeling from the blow, but still refused to stop or acknowledge the Sioux. This angered them and another war club slammed into his back. He could feel blood trickling down his face from the first, even as another struck his shoulder. He ignored the pain, clenching his teeth against it, riding on.
“Enough!” Hides in the Grass barked, holding up a hand to his followers.
They left off reluctantly, offering insults as they lined up alongside their leader. The music of the Lakota language was sweet to his ears, despite the meaning of the words. His fluency in it was one of the things that had made him so valuable to Cody.
“What do you do in this country Walks with White Men?” His brother demanded.
Nate finally halted, turning his bleeding his head slowly to face Hides in the Grass.
“Riding on the plains brother, is that not obvious to all with eyes to see?”
The look of consternation on his brother’s face nearly brought a smile to Nate’s lips, but he checked it. Such pertinence would only serve to enrage Hides in the Grass.
“Why? Do you ride for the camp of the Blue Coats?”
“I carry the words of Cody to General Crook. What do you care, who cast me out so many moons ago? Do I have no right to ride here? Was I not born in this country? Did we not share a mother and a lodge once brother?”
Hides in the Grass did not respond for a long time, scrutinizing Nate through narrowed eyes. Nate met his gaze unflinchingly. Finally, his brother spoke.
“These things are true. Have you heard of our great victory over Long Hair at Greasy Grass?”
Nate nodded.
“And still you ride for the whites?”
“I ride for Cody. Who he serves is not my concern.”
“Bah, it is the same thing. You ride for the Blue Coats against your own people.”
“I have no people brother. I am not Lakota, as you pointed out long ago. I am not wasicu, they do not want me and I do not care to be one of them. I have only myself and my horse.”
A long silence followed as Hides in the Grass digested his words.
“You did not flee.” He said at last.
“I ride in my own country and my horse is tired. I will not sell his life to save my own. He is my brother.”
Hides in the Grass was thoughtful.
“You are brave. You knew when you saw us that we would kill you, but you did not run. Your brother is a proud horse and he is also brave.”
“He is.” Nate said. “I will not walk upon his corpse to draw more breath. If I am to die this day, I will meet my death proudly, not running like a frightened dog. My people taught me this, as they taught you. My white father taught me this as well, after he came for me. He rode with Bridger, as I did after him. They are not like other whites. They understand the Lakota and their ways and respect them, even if they fight them. I am proud to call myself their brother. I have no shame. Today is a good a day to die and I will kill more than one of you before I leave this world.”
A derisive chorus came from the braves at this statement, but it was a nervous disdain. They knew his words were true.
Hides in the Grass nodded.
“Your medicine is strong.”
He paused to look hard at the brother he had once known as Shoots True, who had taken his father’s white name when the frontiersman came for him a decade ago. He felt shame in his heart for the way he had treated his brother then, in his ignorance. He had seen only a wasicu interloper, competing for their mother’s affection as well as standing among the other young braves. He was glad that his brother had shown such bravery this day.
“Go now Shoots True, ride with the wind in your hair and the sun on your face. I will call you Walks with White Men no more.”
With that he wheeled his pony and rode away, his braves following. They were soon out of sight, leaving Nate alone with the whispering wind. The paint tossed his head once more, eager to be moving again. Nate chuckled and patted the sturdy little pony’s neck with affection. He owed yet another debt to his old friend. If it had not been for his concern over his mount’s well being, he would have run from the war party. Instead, his love for the horse had forever altered the way his Lakota brother regarded him. After a moment he realized that it had changed the way he regarded himself as well. Perhaps he would ride to visit his mother soon.
He touched his heels to the paint’s flanks and rode on, aware of the vastness around him, part of it in a way he had not been before. The sun shone down upon the land of his fathers, warming it as it warmed his spirit. The wind whispered in the long grass, sending undulating waves through its golden ranks. The leaves on the cottonwoods along the river danced beneath the gentle hand of the Great Spirit, their rustling joining the chorus of the plains. The river sparkled in the sun.
He squinted against the glare. It was a good day to be alive.
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