The Quest

Sitting silently in the darkness, White Wolf listened to the muffled hoof-beats of the approaching ponies being led in single file by the savages. Peeking over the ridge, he spotted them. He was right; there were five of them. He continued watching them deploying, remaining true to their normal, cowardly pattern. It was obvious by now, even to the five of them, that they were trailing one man…just one man…and he was an old man at that.

Spotting his horse just inside the canyon, they un-hobbled her and led her away. Consistent with their tactics, one of them guided her out of the small canyon to where their horses were attended by the youngest warrior. Retying the stolen pony, the young savage resumed his assigned post. The four other braves quietly slithered into the camp. Once past the mouth of the canyon, a second savage dropped off as rear guard to protect his companions. White Wolf sat motionless, patiently watching the three warriors doing their best to silently sneak up on their lone victim.

“It will not be long now,” he thought. He was poised, ready to strike the instant they shouted their battle cries, signaling the commencement of their cowardly attack on the sleeping shaman. “Brave warriors, indeed,” he scoffed.

The leader let loose a blood-chilling scream, his battle cry signaling the attack. Rushing toward the sleeping old man, the leader was promptly joined by the other two savages. They sped headlong past the campfire, charging their victim. Whooping and hollering as they came, they hoped to intensify the fear and immobilize their overwhelmed opponent.

Stepping to the edge of the ridge, White Wolf quickly inserted an arrow into his bow and let it fly. Making a low-pitched whistling sound, the arrow cut through the quiet night air, directly on course toward the guard standing watch outside the camp. It made a soft, thumping sound as it ripped its way into the young savage’s chest. White Wolf watched him standing immobilized, a stunned look on his face, grasping at the shaft in his chest. His legs gave way as he slowly went slumping to his knees, his frantic eyes staring wildly into space. Then, like a limp doll made of rags, he fell face-down into the stream next to the tethered ponies.

Scooting as fast as he could, White Wolf ran back over the ridge to a vantage point where he could oversee the entire small canyon. The second brave, standing guard just inside the canyon, appeared to be slightly distracted. He might have heard something; but, with all of the shouting, it was impossible for him to determine exactly what had attracted his attention. As the guard moved toward the entrance, a second arrow came winging its way through the darkness, finding its home slightly below the guard’s right shoulder blade. The force threw his shoulders back into an arch, as the momentum of the impacting arrow sent him sprawling into the narrow entryway.

Still unaware of the loss of their two rear guards, the advancing three savages attacked the sleeping old man with all the savagery of a pack of starving wolves about to devour its prey. First shooting arrows into the blanket, they then bludgeoned the hide-covered sagebrush with their tomahawks. When there was no resistance to the force of their blows, they finally realized something was very wrong. Enraged, the leader threw back the cover, exposing White Wolf’s treachery. They were angry, and they were embarrassed at having been outwitted by a solitary old man. In their fury, they tore the camp apart searching for him.

At that moment, forgetting how well they were lighted by the campfire, they presented themselves as clear targets. White Wolf launched a third arrow in their direction. The projectile appeared suddenly out of the darkness. Stunned as they were, they could only watch the arrow burrowing deeply into the stomach of the lead scout. He slumped to the ground with a look of agony on his face, still alive, but aware he was a dead man. It would take a long time for the gut wound to kill him; but, eventually, it would. A fiery pain was burning in his intestines, as if he had been pierced with a hot metal lance. His lower abdomen was bloating from his own body waste, which was poisoning him. There was nothing he could do except lie on the ground, doubled up in pain, waiting for the slow, lingering end to come.

The two remaining savages dashed for refuge behind the boulder just beyond the campfire. They did not know exactly where White Wolf was hiding, but they were sure he was somewhere in the darkness above them. Crouching behind the rocks, they were hoping to avoid any more of the old man’s death missiles.

White Wolf was aware their eyes would soon readjust to the shadowy darkness. After that, it would be just a matter of time before they discovered the narrow pathway leading to the ridge. Once they found the path, White Wolf would become vulnerable to their counter attack. It was imperative for him to make his way back to the boulders as fast as he could, if he was going to cut the savages off before they worked their way up the ledge to attacked his flank.

Running in a crouched position, making himself as small a target as possible, he headed toward the path. Carrying his bow and his last arrow in one hand, while using the other to help maintain his balance, he went running along the ridge. Suddenly, sniffing a stench in the air, he came to a stop. The enemy had found the path and they were making their way toward him; he smelled them moving in his direction. Scanning the area quickly, White Wolf saw there were no hiding places to shelter him. If he allowed himself to be caught out in the open like this, outnumbered two-to-one, his chances of survival were nil.