I Set Before You This Day

He tossed the heavy sack of grain into the back of the wagon – and his legs disappeared. He felt no pain, only numbness. He grabbed at the sack, trying to stop his slide into obscurity. He did not hear the shots – it felt as if he’d been kicked in the back by a mule. Only he remembered seeing no mule. The center of his back – near his left kidney – the numbness radiated from there. He should have felt pain, shouldn’t he? He lost his grip on the sack and felt his chin smack the edge of the tailgate. His head slammed into the earth. A loud whistling noise sounded in his ears, growing louder with each breath he took. It roared. Like tornado-force winds, it drove the breath from his body. He gasped, trying to recapture the escaping air, trying to pull his spirit back into his body. A bright light consumed everything around him, surrounded him. The tornado sucked him into its vortex, turning him, twisting him, the sound deafening him as the bright light blinded him. A rock slipped under the pressure of his moccasin-clad foot. He slid, grasping at a branch. The desert oak stopped his motion and he scrambled up the bank. He looked. Before him, a mesa rose. Not just any mesa, he realized. Nine months before, he climbed this same mesa. . . .

From a ridge along the mesa he surveyed the scene before him – mesquite, creosote, and rolling desert as far as the eye could see. A mountain rose majestically to the south. At the northern end of the mountain, smoke rose from an Army camp. He couldn’t see movement in the camp to verify his definition – too far away – but Apache wouldn’t have a camp so low on the mountain in summer or allow so much smoke. The Apache still hid from, and ambushed, Army troops. Not only that, but the amount of smoke spoke of a substantial camp – the Apache didn’t allow anything to indicate their strength. The savagery of the Apache war kept white settlers to a few brave souls. No, it had to be an Army camp. He would have to skirt it.

He made his way down the ridge to the mesquite to which he had tied his horse. He patted her neck then readjusted the stolen Cavalry saddle, repositioning the trade blanket that covered it. If a soldier saw him, he could expect no mercy, not an Indian, alone, in this war torn piece of desert. He mounted and spoke his mother’s tongue to the horse, "She says to keep going. To follow that line of mountain. We’ll have to stay clear of that Army camp, though." He urged the horse forward. "I wonder what she wants me to find."

His Spirit Guide sometimes spoke strongly, like now, leading him forward. She would not permit him to turn back, no matter how much he worried about his sister. He had no choice but to leave her at Fort Dodge. She passed for white and the soldiers wouldn’t allow him to see her. And his Spirit Guide wouldn’t give him another day to attempt it. He lived by hunting, fishing when he could, and going forward. His only companion for over a year had been this horse, stolen from the chief who held him slave and reclaimed when he fled Fort Dodge – adding the Cavalry saddle to the growing list of stolen items, items that included the old musket slung across his body. The musket, the gun powder, and the balls he had taken from some trapper’s camp. He used the musket sparingly, saving it for a battle rather than hunting, preferring his skill with the bow he carried tied to the saddle with the quiver of arrows. He could replenish the arrows – gun powder he would be reduced to stealing. While proud of his skill, he hated stealing.

He rode straight south, crossed the trickle of a river, and stopped. The horse required rest. The sun blazed relentless. If he knew the desert, he would have attempted to travel at night; but, he needed to see. The horse rested. He traveled on, passing the camp without being sighted.

Well past the sun’s zenith he saw a ranch to the east of him. He had ridden into the mountain, among the oaks, and the ranch – a little town, actually – clustered below him. A large house with barns and sheds and outbuildings – and other houses – beckoned a welcome.

His Spirit Guide spoke, "There."

For the first time since beginning this trek, he argued, "No."

"There."

"No." He could not believe his Spirit Guide would lead him into a white man’s presence again! She had led him to Fort Dodge, where he’d been beaten, enslaved for the second time in his life, and separated from the only person he loved. She led him from there into this desert. He would not return to the white man’s world any more than he would return to the Kaw world. She had to have known that. And why? Why would he venture into an unknown ranch compound? Would they not think him an Apache? Would they not shoot him on sight?