TEHAN’S STORY

I see my father sitting with Satanta. He pauses his conversation and tells me to go gather the livestock. I walk through the tipi village to do as he bids. I study the landscape as I walk. There is nothing here except tall grass, thorns, and sage brush. If I were to climb out the base of the river onto the hill and look out, I would only see two short trees standing (one at an odd angle) against a sea of tall grass. When the wind blows it, it looks like waves on a lake. Only the strong survive in these parts. My people have survived, and we will continue to survive this land and this war. 

I do a count and notice that we are missing some horses. I send word to my father, Maman-ti, as I saddle my horse. I notice some hoofprints leading away from the camp and follow them. I don’t know how long or far I have gone, but by the time I look up to give my stiff neck a break from tracking the sun has climbed high into the sky. It dries the bead of sweat from my brow before it has a chance to fall. My horse has slowed his pace. His dark brown neck appears as black as his mane. I wish I had some water to give him. I tell him we will find the strays and return soon. 

I suck on the pemmican pouch that hangs around my neck and look around. There is nothing but endless grass dancing softly in the wind. I wish I had put on more grease to protect my skin before I left camp, but oh well. I can’t do anything about that now. The sun climbs higher into the sky as I continue searching the ground for signs of the strays. I wonder if I miscounted. Maybe this is all in my imagination. I think I see some prints in the dirt. It’s hard to tell with the grass being so tall. I get off my horse and begin to follow them on foot. My eyes are trained to the ground. In addition to tracking, I am also avoiding grass burs and other prickly plants. I stop every few minutes and pull the burrs from my clothes. I pull on one too hard and it sticks in my thumb. I wince as I pull it out and suck on it. I hate those things. I decide to get back on my horse when I am suddenly covered in shadow. 

Several blue coated white men circle around with their guns trained on me. If my heart could jump out of my chest and run, it would. These men look angry. I can see in their eyes they want to kill me. They would view it as an honor to kill one more rebel Indian. They would most likely be welcomed at home with a feast or some sort of special military name bestowed on them for not just killing an Indian, but for killing the son of Maman-ti, the Great Owl Prophet, the great rebel leader they know nothing about.

Seconds seem to stretch into minutes. One false move and my body will be riddled with holes, if I’m lucky. At worst they might enjoy dragging my death out. I have only one hand to play. Luckily, I have prepared for this. It is my only chance to survive. 

I raise my hands in the air in surrender and flash the blue coats my biggest smile. “Me good Comanche. Me good Comanche.” The foreign words feel strange on my tongue, even though it is the first language I ever spoke. I do not like the way it feels. As a matter of fact, I feel a revulsion. But this is about survival.  

The blue coats talk amongst themselves atop their horses. One of them dismounts and tells me to get on his horse. The guns move with me as I make slow deliberate motions and mount the horse. The man whose horse I am riding is in charge. He roughly ties my hands and I wince at the last pull of the rope. He sits behind me, and they urge their horses on. 

I learn through conversation the man I am riding with is called Baldwin. He is the leader of this small group. He is a rather large man with a moustache that sticks out on either side of his face. I can hear his labored breathing, his mumbling about Indians, and smell the heat, sweat, and dirt that has caked his body and created a stench that forces me to turn my head this way and that to get a breath of fresh air.

Time seems suspended as the sun screams at us. I raise my bound hands to wipe the sweat from my head and my fist comes back black. Seeing this, Baldwin suddenly grabs my hand and studies it. He halts the company and directs me to clean my neck. I wipe away some of the grease as best as I can with bound hands. His gasp at my white skin is audible. Baldwin talks to his men, but I can’t understand the whole situation, so I take this opportunity to further my plan. 

“I white man,” I say gesturing to my red hair and white skin. “Indians take me little.” I give Baldwin another smile as I do a gesture to indicate I was a small child when taken, but he seems unconvinced of my act. It’s not a total act. I was taken when I was little. Maman-ti and my mother raised me as their own. They love me. I am their family and they are mine. 

We continue riding through the tall grass and rough country.  I believe the men hope to go unnoticed by any nearby Indians. This is no doubt the only reason they kept me alive. The sound of a gunshot to kill me would be a death sentence for them. Without warning, the sky opens and rain begins to pour. It falls fast, hard, and heavy. The fat wet drops are welcomed as a nice reprieve from the dryness and heat, but the thunder and cracks of lightning send bolts of dread through me. I want nothing more than to ride as fast as I can back into the heat of the sun. We dip down into the riverbank and find a spot that offers partial relief from the rain and stop to rest. Baldwin sends two of his men ahead to scout the area. He orders the remaining man to get me blue coat clothes to put on. I receive them happily and put them on. I make a little show of acting like a brave blue coat soldier. I pretend to pull my rifle out and shoot the “savages” on the ridges above. If they are amused, they do not show it. I take the time to wash the buffalo grease from my hair and re-braid it. I scrub more of my face and neck so that it looks whiter. The men regard me with curiosity and a hint of satisfaction. Good. My plan is working, albeit slowly. 

The scouts return and report there is an Indian camp a little way up the ravine. They confer amongst themselves about what to do. I sit quietly and pretend to regard them with awe. I smile when any one of them glances my way. These men would be fools to believe that it is completely safe to go through the camp. I know it is mainly deserted, but I can’t tell them because they would either become more suspicious of me or not believe me. Most likely both. Besides, I don’t want to tell them. I am hoping the opposite is true. 

I take a blanket and cover my face with it. I walk over to the soldiers, who in a surprising gesture of trust, do not immediately jump to their feet and point a gun at me. Or maybe they realize like I do, there is no way I can escape and live to tell the tale. I try to tell them to cover their faces with blankets and ride slowly through the camp as a disguise.  I am pushed to the ground, kicked in the ribs, and told to be quiet.

Later, I hide my smile as the men don themselves in blankets and mount their horses. I am made to cover myself in a blanket as well and when Baldwin sits behind me, I feel his steel reminder that he is in control. 

Amazingly we ride through the camp without incident and continue down the sandy path. The rain has stopped but up ahead is a spot that has flooded with the recent rain.  We dismount to make preparations to cross when a beautiful black mare, ridden by the man they call Wing, collapses. We gather around her and I immediately see this horse is on a long journey to death. Her black mane is matted to her neck with sweat. White slimy foam begins to form at her mouth, but the most telling are her eyes. They are sunken and broken. They can’t decide which relief to ask for: rest or death. I put my bound hands on her head and scratch behind her ears. I almost whisper her a song my mother used to sing me, but I keep my lips tightly pressed. I can’t speak the language of my people if I want to convince the blue coats that I am one of them. While the men talk amongst themselves, I spare the mare a single tear and whisper of thanks in English so that she will understand it. 

The men turn back to me and unbind my hands. I look at them in disbelief. Baldwin looks at me, his face is dirty and grim. “Name?” I don’t say anything. He spits on the ground and kicks the sand in annoyance. “What. They. Call. You?” He says it slowly with a mean edge.  

“Tehan.”

He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his gray hair and places the hat back firmly on his head. “Well, Tehan. We cannot shoot her because it will alert the Indians to us.” He pauses and looks at the ground for a moment before reconnecting his eyes to mine. A soldier brings him a hatchet and he hands it to me. “You need to kill her. Do it quickly and in a way she won’t fuss too much.” I stand still and stare at the hatchet in my hand. For a moment, I imagine throwing it into his chest, but that is a foolish thought. He takes my silence as ignorance to what he told me. He curses and points to the hatchet and then to the horse. He turns away and focuses on the river. I wonder when was the last time he had to do the dirty work. The work of an Indian.

I slap a mosquito on my cheek. I bring my hand to my face and inspect it. I cannot tell which is the blood of the mosquito or the blood of the horse. My heart feels heavy. Tears threaten to rise, but I shove them back. I cannot cry in front of white men. They sit and watch the rushing water. They didn’t have the stomach to witness what I did. I can’t blame them. I barely had the stomach to do it. I walk past them to the water. Wing jumps up and quickly aims his gun at me, but lowers it when he sees me kneel at the shore and wash the blood from my hands and face. I clean the hatchet and hand it back to Baldwin. He nods at me and holds my gaze for a moment. I think he is beginning to trust me, but as soon as I think the thought, it flees. He puts a rope around my neck and tightens it like a collar. He and his men mount their horses and guide them into the water. I stand in disbelief as the rope tightens around my throat pulling me forward into the churning water, gasping for air. The water pushes me down, but the rope pulls me up by the neck. I loosen the rope and cry out “Me good Comanche!” I hear the men laugh and the slack of the rope tightens, pulling me in such a jolt that I lose my footing and fall into the water. I fear I will either drown in the river or I will die from strangulation. 

 I don’t know how long we travel down the river like this. The men show more humanity to the horses than they do to me. They help them swim and cross this way and that. They stop and take breaks on beaches where they can before resuming the trail. n. Meanwhile, I am pulled, choked, and laughed at. Never have I experienced such humiliation.

Finally, we emerge from the river. We do not stop and rest very long. Baldwin is either eager to find someone or kill me. It is a hot night. I walk next to the soldier that carries my rope and do my best to keep time with the footsteps of his horse. He is a pretty horse with a white coat and gray mane. If he were mine, he would have more freedom to revel in his beauty. He would be a horse fit for a warrior with colorful feathers and beads, not some beast that dies by the axe or the bullet. 

I occupy my mind with these thoughts as we stumble through the night. I keep an eye on the stars, checking their movements. The moon is hidden from sight, so the darkness of night is thick and overwhelming. I am exhausted. I am humiliated. I am scared. I can see the very first streaks of light when we find a wagon train. My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach as we tread closer and closer. 

Baldwin sends one of his men ahead to meet the wagon train. When he returns, he is smiling and we are ushered to it. I stumble and immediately sit down when my leash has enough slack. Anger replaces fear as I silently recall the events that led me here. Wing tosses my leash to another soldier in the camp and kicks dirt in my face. It takes all the patience and self-control to not lash out at him. To show him the kind of savage I can be. To make him grateful the leash. To make him understand it is the only thing keeping him alive at this moment.  Instead, I duck my head and wipe the dirt from my eyes. Baldwin does not stay long. He confers with the man in charge of the wagon train, they call Lyman, eats and leaves. He takes all of his men except for one called Schmalsle. His name is strange and I can’t quite understand how to pronounce it, so I call him Scar because of the scar that runs from his left ear to his mouth. It is a deep and nasty looking scar. I hope an Indian gave it to him. Maybe I can give him a matching one of the other side of his face. 

I don’t rest long before I am roused to get up by a swift kick to the ribs. I don’t cry out in pain, but I rub my throbbing ribs and stand. We begin walking and I realize that the rope has been taken from around my neck and my hands are free. This is a surprise and a relief. I run through my options of escape, but it doesn’t require much thought because there are none. I will have to start my original plan of befriending the whites over with these new men. It is very exhausting pretending to like them. I fear I don’t have the energy to be as convincing as I need to be. But soon luck finds me. 

I spot a band of Kiowa on the ridge above us. I hear the boom boom boom of rifles and the whizzing of arrows. I fight to suppress a smile. A few warriors run down the ridge on their horses yelling. The commander, Lyman, yells orders at his men and several of them run at my brothers, firing their guns to chase them away. We continue as fast as we can down the trail, while my kin follow and harass the whites from the ridges. I know they have seen me. Hope blooms in my chest. 

My spirit renewed, I begin talking to the soldier next to me. I tell him how happy I am to be in the company of whites again. I tell him about my capture, my time as an Indian. I exaggerate to make it seem terrible to him. I tell him that I could only eat raw liver and they painted me in grease. He doesn’t speak much and when he does his English is broken and the other language is one I don’t recognize. But I do recognize one thing in this man: sympathy. I can see in his eyes that he understands what it feels like to be separated from family, how it never quite loses its sting.  

A canteen of water is passed to me. I know the expectation is that I pass it to the soldier. If I attempt a drink from it, I will incur a beating. But I am playing a game of manipulation. Sometimes you have to get hurt to play the game right. I bring the canteen close to my lips and look out of the corner of my eye at the soldier who handed it to me. He raises the butt of his gun as if he means to hit me with it, but before he can I hand the canteen over to the soldier next to me.  He looks at me with surprise. His brown eyes round at the gesture of a savage. He takes a drink and hands it back to me with a barely there smile. I shake my head and smile back. I take this opportunity to jog up to the solider in front of me and offer him a drink. He drinks from the canteen greedily and tosses the empty bottle back to me. I fall back in step with the original soldier and find that he is named Smith. 

It is hard to keep my eyes from darting to the ridges above where I know Satanta is and possibly my father, Maman-ti. We tread many miles in this fashion. The soldiers are nervous. I can feel the tension emanating from their bodies. I can see the fear in their eyes. Their fear is my salvation. All I have to do is be patient. Smith and I exchange a few words here and there until he is overly occupied watching the Kiowa and Comanche. I walk in silence, pretending not to notice their challenges and feats of horsemanship. I secretly wish I was on the ridge with them instead of down here walking in the heat and stench of white men. I see a creek ahead, when suddenly I hear sounds like a coyote. The sound is so loud and powerful it reverberates through my bones and sends chills down my spine. I look up and see hundreds of Kiowa and Comanche! I hear them yell and howl as they charge down the ridge! It is the most beautiful and terrifying sight I have ever seen. White, brown, and red feathers fill my vision and I almost run towards them with my arms outstretched and a smile so wide I fear it may run off the sides of my face, when I feel a hand on my shoulder that steals my movements. Smith grabs my shoulder in a panic and drags me behind him to the safety of the wagons. He pushes me down on the ground behind a wagon that has been flipped up on it’s end. He gestures for me to stay down as he runs to help the others flip the wagons on their sides.

 It’s a cacophony of shouts, barks, and whoops from my tribe. I turn my head trying to take it all in. I see the braves running towards the wagons shooting only to be driven back by the firing of the blue coats. I see some fall in their charges. Their horses wild without a master, run about in panic. I turn my attention back to inside of the wagon corral and see the men scrambling to and fro carrying ammunition, guns, and medical supplies. I see a dark-haired man make a mad dash across the corral carrying boxes of ammunition when he suddenly falls with a scream. He clutches his leg as blood pours from it. Men run to him and rip his pant leg with a long knife. They turn and shout in all directions, panic rising in their voices as bullets whizz overhead and chants and calls of the Kiowas grow louder. The hoofbeats of the horses thunder around us. It sounds like the end of the world is upon us. The chaos is maddening. No, not maddening. I peek over the top of the tightly pulled wagon cover and watch my brethren again. Their painted faces and chests gleam in the sunlight in a magnificent and glorious sight. Their cries bring forth a swell of longing in my heart that fear has greedily kept tamped down the past few days. 

I miss my family. 

I turn back around and survey the scene once again. Everyone seems busy. I think I can slip out unnoticed in all the chaos. I take a deep breath and begin to crawl along the inside perimeter of the wagons looking for a place to slip out unnoticed. I’m about to go for it, when a soldier yanks my braid. I yelp as I fall on my back. Whatever softness the rain brought to the earth had was swallowed up quickly. The soldier yells and motions for others to come over. I see the murder in his eyes. He will kill me now and toss my body over the wagon corral. 

Think, Tehan, think! 

I see an empty box of ammunition next to me. A plan forms in my mind. I grab the box and show the man. “You need?” I shake the box and point to their guns. Surprise overtakes the anger in his eyes. The sounds of gunshots whizzing by steals his attention. He gives me a quick nod and drops to the ground as a cluster of Kiowa charge towards us, guns blazing. He points in the opposite direction and tells me to go there and load the box. I bite back my disappointment and crawl in the general direction filled with conflict. I cannot fill the box of ammunition that will be used to kill my tribesmen. I must find a different way to convince the soldier I am his friend. As I am embroiled my mental conflict, I see another dark-haired man fall in front of me. This man is young. He has a clean face. I crawl closer to him to see if he is alive. I do not see any bullet wounds on his chest, so I roll him over and see a pool of blood. I hover my hand over his mouth to see if he is breathing. This man is dead. I do not like to be around the dead. It is the way of our people. We die, we mourn, and then we leave them and everything they own so their spirit does not follow us. It is not natural to hold on to the unliving. But I know the white people are different. They have ceremonies and.... my brain works fast forming a new plan, this might be an opportunity to get me out of providing the soldiers with ammunition. 

I rip a piece of his clothing off and roll the man on his side. I press the cloth to his wound to stop the blood. I turn around and attempt to make eye contact with a soldier, gesturing for their help. Finally, one of them sees me and scrambles over. He looks at the wound and puts his hand over the man’s mouth to check for breathing. This soldier has blonde hair and blue eyes. He can’t be much older than my cousin, Botalye. His skin is smooth and free of scars and blemishes, but I notice that he is missing half of his pinky finger. The solider starts muttering under his breath in a language I don’t understand. At first the mutterings are sharp and angry sounding. He flashes a look of anger in my direction and moves a hand to the knife that hangs at his side in a brown sheath. I gulp down my fear and lower my head in a show of deference. I move my hand back over the wound of the dead man to show that I am still trying to save him, but really I am just trying to save myself. The blue-eyed soldier's features soften at my gesture. He turns his attention back to the dead man and places his hand atop his forehead and mutters again in a language I don’t understand. But this time, I think it is a white man’s prayer or something special because he whispers it softly and I see a fat tear drop fall onto the dead man’s face. 

The day drags on this way. I try to find ways to show the white men that I am on their side without actually helping them. I do a pretty convincing job because by the end of the day, the siege ends and the sun begins her long descent into sleep. By the time darkness has spread the men have tabulated the dead and wounded. Two men have died and one, a Lieutenant Lewis, is badly wounded. They are low on water and medical supplies. The soldiers are exhausted from fighting all day. Morale is low. Good. 

 Smith finds me and settles down. He tells me about his grief and his fears. He tells me about some other things I don’t understand. Something about a God. I nod along and give him short smiles. Every little while, I take the opportunity to pat his leg in comfort. After a while he falls asleep next to me, rifle in hand. I sit in a mixed state of awareness and sleep. Emotion begins to overtake me once again. I think I would really like this Smith man if he weren’t white. I hope I don’t have to kill him by the time this is all over. After a few hours, we are roused by other soldiers. Captain Lyman has decided that all men must dig rifle pits around the outside of the corral.

I don’t know how I do it. In two days I have been drug through a river with a rope around my neck, forced to walk for miles through the night, walked all day today, survived a brutal siege, watched two men die, and now I dig for what feels like an eternity. Sweat pours down my face and mixes with the dirt. By the time dawn arrives I feel as tired as the dead. My arms ache and my hands are covered in blisters and splinters from the wooden handled spade. I can barely form a closed fist, much less continue to dig. I collapse inside the newly dug pit. A few soldiers jeer and kick dirt in my face, but I don’t care. I am too tired to care what happens to me right now. A few minutes later, I feel the presence of another next to me. It is Smith. He hands me a cup of water which I drink greedily. This act of humanity angers the others. They kick more dirt, even at Smith, but save the spitting for me. I hear them yell sharp, poisonous words like “heathen”, “savage”, “devil”, and “dog”. Smith shrugs and says something that quietens the men. They walk away grumbling and no doubt cursing the two of us. Smith takes my hands and inspects them. He manages to pull a few splinters from my palms and then he leaves me to rest. As the sun begins to light the world for another day, Captain Lyman orders all of us to stay down inside the corral. 

The angry sun beats down on us all day. There are no clouds in sight. There is no wind. I don’t even see any birds. The only other sign of life are the tiny ants that slowly crawl through the camp searching for any scraps of food we might have dropped. Poor ants. We have nothing to spare. 

The Kiowa continue the siege in small bursts. Small clusters of braves run towards the corral, but are chased away by the mounted cavalrymen. Some of the braves ride to the corral in a show of horsemanship. I sneak peeks when I can, marveling at them. I can do some of those tricks and I am eager to become an expert horseman and brave. I wish I was riding with them now. I wish I wasn’t stuck like a helpless child.

But I am making progress with the men. A few more will come sit with me and talk if Smith or other blue-eyed soldier is with me. A lot of what they say to me is demeaning, but I don’t care. They talk to each other a lot and I have learned much. They are out of water. They are almost out of food and ammunition.  They are out of medical supplies and the Lieutenant is in danger of dying from infection. If I can make it out of here and up to the ridge, this will be useful information. Some of the men grumble about the watering hold that lies ahead. Captain Lyman has forbidden anyone for attempting to bring water back. The sun continues to blaze in all her fury. No rain clouds in sight. No clouds at all.

By the end of the day heat exhaustion has set in. I figure the white men won’t last much longer. They are not built for this type of life. They are not built to live off the land as we are. They are doomed no matter which course they choose.  Captain Lyman will send a messenger out under the cover of darkness for help. I laugh to myself when I hear it. I know the messenger will never reach his destination. When I hear the messenger is Schmalsle, I pray for his painful demise. 

It is a black night when Schmalsle prepares for his dangerous quest. The soldiers say their farewells to him and Schmalsle and Lyman walk away together talking in  hushed tones. One of the soldiers who sits with us, scoots closer and whispers. “Let’s go now. The captain is busy. If we leave now for the water hole, he will never know.” The silence is broken only by sound of crickets. Finally, the voice of blue-eyed soldier voices everyone's concern of breaking the rule of their commander. The rebel soldier laughs and replies, “The captain’s anger will quell if we return with water for everyone.” He is met with more silence before continuing, “What chance do we have to survive if we have no water? We will dead in three days time if we don’t act. How long will it take Schmalsle to reach Fort Supply? If he even makes it all? I am not going to die of thirst, that’s for damn sure.” He rises to his knees and attempts to make eye contact with the small cluster as best as he can in the dark. “If you’re with me, we must go now.” 

A few moments of silence stretch into what feels like an eternity. I hold my breath. I need the blue-eyed soldier or Smith to go on this mad dash to the water hole. This is my chance to escape. This is my chance to help my people. I will not fail them.  Finally, I hear Smith affirm he will go along with the blue-eyed soldier. I touch Smith’s shoulder and nod my head at him. “I go, too.” 

I am met with silence, whispers, and the sound of feet shuffling the dirt. Finally, a gentle touch on my arm helps me stand and I am gently tugged along with the escaping party. My heart surges in joy. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I can barely contain my excitement as we sneak through an opening in the wagon circle. I walk with the men in silence for a while. When they start whispering, I take the opportunity to slowly fall farther and farther behind until I am the last one bringing up the group. I stop walking and stand as still as I ever have in my life. I wait for their footsteps and voices to fade into the night. I turn to the east and begin to walk up the ridge. It is so steep that I dig my hands into the earth and climb up it like an animal. I wince as stickers, dirt, and rocks scrape and wedge themselves into my blistered palms.   Each strike into the ground sends a shock of pain coursing through my body. I bite back my groans. I am over halfway up the ridge when I remember that I am wearing the blue coat uniform. I wonder if my people will recognize me or if they will mistake me for a solider. I huff out a breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. 

At last, I crest the ridge and begin walking along its edge. I look at the night sky and see the clouds have fled to reveal a quarter moon. I smile at it and send a quick thank you her way. This will make it easier for me to find my tribe. I don’t walk long before I hear rustling footsteps. I duck behind a sagebrush for cover. I see him before he sees me. My cousin, Botalye. I smile as I step out of the cover of the sagebrush, and I walk towards him. 

He turns around in a fright and points his gun at me. I smile at him and shove my hands in my pockets. “Is this how you greet a cousin?” Botalye yells a joyous sound, drops his gun and runs to me. He embraces me in such a tight hug that I feel he might squeeze out whatever life is left in me. He releases me and pushes me to the ground. I laugh and jump up and return the shove. We wrestle and laugh and before we know it, other braves have found us and join in the celebration. All of sudden, the noise dies and I see a giant silhouette standing in front of me. 

“Father,” my voice cracks. Emotions deep and powerful wash over me and threaten to bubble up to the surface. The longing, the fear, the humiliation, the love, all of the things I can’t put into words. “I am alive and well,” I manage to say with steadier voice as he approaches. He looks me up and down as if he inspecting me for wounds. I prepare to apologize, to tell him the information I learned from the white men when he folds me into a hug so strong and warm and loving. The likes of which he has not given me since I was a little boy. It’s enough for a single sob to escape as I embrace him as tightly as I can. I can feel him shudder underneath my arms, as if his fear and grief and worry were finally able to leave his body now that I am in his arms. I am not sure how long our hug lasts, but no one utters a word, not even the crickets or the howling wind dare break this silence, tarnish this moment.  

When father breaks our hug, cries from our family rise into the air. He takes me by the arm and walks away with me to a private place on the mesa. We find a bare spot and sit down. I tell him the story of how I was captured, how they treated me, and my escape plan. Poor Buffalo and Satanta join us and I tell my tale again. 

“The white men have no water, food, ammunition, or medical supplies. If you need to buy more time, guard the creek. A few of them ventured down tonight to get water. That is how I escaped.” Satanta raises an eyebrow and asks why they let me go with them. “I convinced them I was their friend. So, they let me go.” My father regards me for a while before asking the question I can see has plagued him for some time. “Do you wish to live with them? They are your blood. You may go back if you wish.”

I am flabbergasted. I can’t believe what I heard. Go back to the white men! I laugh at my father who prickles in response. I take his old tan hands in mine. “I am Kiowa. Son of Maman-ti  The Great.” A smile tugs at his old lips and he tightens his grip on my hand. “Besides,” I add, “I like to eat raw liver too much.” This elicits a hearty laugh from everyone. My father squeezes my hand a last time before escorting me back to my mother. When she sees me, she cries and presses my head to her chest like a babe. I laugh as she fusses over my blue coat clothes and my hair. She takes me inside the tipi and gives me new clothes and fixes me something to eat. I feast and gulp down the water greedily before collapsing onto my bed and I fall into a sleep so deep I don’t think I will ever wake. 

When I do finally wake, the sun is shining and I hear my mother moving around. I sit up and tell her good morning. She smiles at me. Even though she is missing a few teeth, it is the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. She comes and sits next to me and wraps me up in a hug again. She kisses my head and tells me she loves me, but that she will kill me if I ever do anything like that again. I laugh and playfully push her off me. She tosses me some dried jerky and orders me to pack up. We are moving on to the canyons today. 

I stand up and stretch. I take a bite of jerky and breathe in the familiar smells of my mother and the tanned hides of our tipi. I flash her my most mischievous grin and ask, “Do you want me to go check on the horses?”