Drum Up The Dead: Eye of the Eagle - Book One

By Douglas B. Wright

Eote, a modern half-Indian reared in the white man's world, is transported to another dimension where he experiences some of the early trials and injustices of several different American Indian tribes. Will these experiences and his perspective from both white and Indian cultures be enough to qualify him for a decision that effects the entire modern world? Writer Douglas B. Wright weaves his lifetime of experience with American Indians and ancient American prophecy to tell a story of heartache and love, betrayal and triumph.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas B. Wright
• Release date: Apr 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310289330

Douglas B. Wright

Douglas Boyd Wright (1934-2009) was born and died in a small Utah town called Clawson. During his life he worked as an oil rigger, a heavy equipment and truck operator, a warehouseman, a nursing home administrator, a security guard, a trading post manager, an ore buster-upper, a newspaper editor, and a farmer, among other things. He finally retired from the workforce after having taught speech and English to junior highs kids. Though reluctant to admit it, he might say his greatest contribution in life was having ten children with his wife Carolyn, spanning 1954 through 1976. Doug loved American Indians. His years working on the Navajo reservation among a people he loved, were probably among his happiest.

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Drum Up The Dead: Eye of the Eagle 1

By Douglas B. Wright

Published by Nathan K. Wright at Smashwords

© 2016 Nathan K. Wright

Table of Contents

Chapter 1. Grandfather

Chapter 2. The Man with the Black Hair

Chapter 3. Through the Darkness

Chapter 4. The Forces of Dark

Chapter 5. Cliff Hanger

Chapter 6. Watch for Falling Jacks

Chapter 7. Ashkee

Chapter 8. The Camp

Chapter 9. Mourning Dove

Chapter 10. The Land of Our Ancestors

Chapter 11. Ahyoka

Chapter 12. The Council

Chapter 13. Nuptials and Expulsion

Chapter 14. Packing the Wagons

Chapter 15. Ross’s Landing

Chapter 16. Chief George

Chapter 17. The Little People

Chapter 18. Roars-Like-Bear

Chapter 19. The Fiercest Warriors

Chapter 20. Nanook of the Inuit

Chapter 21. Retribution

Chapter 22. Little Fawn

Chapter 23. The Command

Acknowledgements

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

Grandfather

What was that noise? It began as a small thump, as though I had just completed a battery of exercises that increased my heart rate. Instinctively I lifted my arm and rested my hand over my left breast. There was nothing unusual about the heartbeat.

But, even as I discounted the sound as being a heartbeat, it continued, growing louder and more intense. Now somewhat alarmed, I shifted my eyes all around, at the same time turning my head to correspond where my eyes were searching, for a possible source of the sound. Still, there was nothing.

And yet, the sound continued…in volume and intensity. With the increase came the awareness I was hearing a drumbeat. And with that understanding, the sound—the drumbeat—suddenly swelled until it filled my head with sharp, stabbing pains. With the pain came the sudden realization that the drumbeat was coming from inside my head, not outside.

Then, as though triggered by this bit of knowledge, the drumbeat made a surging crescendo, the intense pain driving me to my knees. The world seemed to reel and shake. I reached out in hopes of softening the inevitable fall; and as if sinking into an immense, black chasm, I was drawn into a state of clairvoyance, which carried me away to another realm of being.

~ ~ ~

The drumming had stopped. I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled on the edge of a high hill, overlooking a huge valley. With the drums gone, it was totally silent. Leaning up, I was able to take in the panoramic, peaceful scene below. It looked like a painting—a perfect painting, with nothing out of place.

I sat up still trying to shake the effect of the drumbeat out of my head and the confusion of what was happening out of my mind. A dream? An incredibly lucid dream? Subconsciously, almost automatically, I crossed my legs Indian-style and folded my arms across my chest, still attempting to make sense of everything as I surveyed the scene below.

Just as I concluded it would be great to spend all day studying the beautiful vista, a small dust cloud arose from the opposite end of the valley. It came as an intrusion within the serenity I was enjoying. The dust cloud continued to move in my direction, growing larger with each moment. It was especially fascinating to watch the advancing cloud because it was impossible to determine what was causing the disturbance.

The dust cloud grew.

As the billowing shape loomed closer I began to see the outline of a huge form emerging slightly ahead of the cloud. If it was possible in this ethereal setting, I was mildly surprised to recognize the forefront of…a tank? It was. It was a tank. And now it was near enough to see the camouflage markings of a military vehicle.

If appearing in this strange, beautiful place was not enough, I now had to ask the question: What is a tank doing out here, obviously in the middle of nowhere? Then I realized something else. The tank was not alone. It led what appeared to be an entire battalion of tanks. Column after column followed it. The dust swirled and rose like an Arizona dust storm, billowing around the line as other forms began to emerge: troop transport trucks, artillery, jeeps, and others difficult to describe, all moving in my direction.

It’s time to leave, I told myself, and started to get to my feet. A voice startled me from behind.

Where are you going, my son?

I whirled around, still attempting to stand, to see who had spoken. Even more than the voice, I was shocked to see the person who had spoken. There, only a few feet away was a man…an old Indian…who looked like he had just stepped out the 15th century. He was dressed all in buckskin, his moccasins were of a style I had never seen, the three, huge feathers in his hair were obviously from an eagle, and there was a strange amulet hanging from a leather string around his neck. He carried the markings of a warrior—a bow and quiver of arrows on his back, the tomahawk in his belt, and a spear in his right hand.

W…why, I was just leaving, I answered, more than just a bit unnerved by his presence. This doesn’t look like a place I’d be welcome.

Don’t hurry away, my son, the old man quickly responded. Perhaps you will find something of interest, something to learn, if you wait and watch.

His words had a calming effect on me. Perhaps the old man was right. After all, I still needed to know why I was here to begin with, and why such a vast military presence was gathering in what seemed to be wilderness. And the old man? Hm. I turned around and sat back down.

Ah, that is good, my son. He seemed happy about my decision to stay.

Why do you keep calling me son? I said over my shoulder.

The old man moved closer, almost to my side. I continued.

It’s obvious you’re an Indian and I’m white.

No, my son. It is true that you have the white man’s blood in your veins, but you have the blood of my people in your veins as well. He must have noted the look of surprise on my face, so he went on. There are many grandfathers between us, but I am your Grandfather.

I turned full around to face the old Indian, and stared incredulously at him. Sensing my reluctance to believe what he had just said, he quickly changed the subject. That can wait. He pointed at the valley floor below, and in a commanding voice said, Look, and learn!

I hesitated, still wondering what to make of this whole bizarre situation, then turned and looked again at the valley. Immediately, Grandfather gave another command, somewhat gentler than the first.

Look closely. What do you see, my son?

What do I see? I began to focus my mind and to concentrate on the activity below. Well, I see that the fore guard has reached the spot just below us, and is setting up camp there. The old man—Grandfather—grunted in approval, but said nothing. They have parked the vehicles in a large circle and are pitching tents just inside the circle. It looks like some of them are carrying wood to the center of the circle, probably for a fire. I hesitated.

What else do you see, my son?

I see that camps are being set up all across the valley. It was then I realized the magnitude of it all. Wow! There must be hundreds of thousands in the camps down there.

Yes, Grandfather replied, and more.

I continued my description of the scene. I see some of them leaving their own camps and moving toward the one just below us. Some of them have already arrived, and are forming a circle around the fire pit.

At that, Grandfather reached into a pouch that had gone unnoticed on the ground. Here. You may find a set of the white man’s eyes useful. They will better help you see what is necessary.

Necessary? I took the binoculars from his hand and focused on the camp just below. It wasn’t surprising to observe that each figure was wearing military fatigues. The next thing I realized though, floored me.

Sir!…er, Grandfather, there are women as well as men in the group, all dressed in army clothes…and…they’re all native Americans—Indians!

Yes, my son. What else do you see?

I thought each soldier had applied camouflage face paint, but I can see now it’s war paint…and some are putting on war bonnets.

Grandfather said nothing, and I continued to watch the camp nearest me. Several hundred had arrived, and were seated in a circle around the now roaring fire. A small group to one side appeared to be having a heated discussion for a few minutes. But everyone quieted down as the group broke up and each found a place in the circle among the others. I noted that each member of that group wore a long, feathered headdress, all of them nearly reaching the ground.

When everyone was finally seated, one who had found a spot near the fire raised his arms for silence. I noticed only then that he was carrying a bow in one hand and a single arrow in the other. That’s very strange I thought. Most of the others are carrying assault rifles.

Like the calm before a storm, every camp across the valley became silent. Having achieved the quiet attention he sought, the warrior in the center of the circle slowly put the arrow to the bow and drew it full. As he did so, I caught a glimpse of the arrow tip. Instead of a traditional arrowhead, the arrow was armed with a bulb-like fitting in its place. It puzzled me, but only for a moment.

After holding the bow at full draw for a few more seconds, he let the arrow fly. It glided silently less than a hundred feet when the fleeting shaft hissed to life, accelerated in a flash, leaving a trail of smoke and flame as it went. There was a gasp from the thousands of onlookers, as they watched the arrow speed away and disappear out of sight, its trajectory only known by a gentle arc of white smoke.

A moment later, a much louder gasp would have been heard from the camps below, had not an earth-shaking explosion rocked the entire valley. The missile—yes, missile—hit the hill on the east side of the valley, erupting in an ominous cloud of smoke, dust and rock fragment.

That one blast, I thought, could knock out a whole regiment of men.

The cheering and accompanying noise among the appreciative troops picked up again, and for a few minutes it seemed that utter chaos had broken out among them. But, once again, the man who had seemingly assumed leadership of the gathering raised his arms for silence. In a moment, the entire assembly had quieted to the point that, had I not been witnessing the scene, I could have sworn the entire valley was in a vacuum. Once the silence was restored the leader removed his upper clothing, reached down to his sides and pulled back two items; a long-blade knife, and a…a tomahawk? Yes. My surprise prompted me to look quickly around at some of the others near him. Without the field glasses, I would not have been able to pick out what I was looking for. But with binoculars I was able to see that each of those below wore the same two items on their belts: a long-blade knife and a tomahawk.

As I made that discovery, I noted the leader was within the circle of people near the fire. He raised the two weapons high above his head and let go with a loud, blood-chilling yell. That sound reverberated and echoed around the valley, and through the surrounding hills.

And even before the echoes subsided, the leader began a chant, and at the same time, began dancing around the circle. Others stood and joined the dance.

What do you see, my son?

Well, I see they are dancing, but it is different. It’s like no other dance I have ever seen, I replied, scrutinizing the scene below. And the chant is also new to me.

And what is different?

I…I am not sure, I said, studying closely to see anything that was different. There is no music. No drums, no rattles, nothing. Just the sound of the dancers’ voices.

Yes. And what else?

They are all wearing war paint, I said thoughtfully, and yet, this in not like any war dance I have ever seen. They are dancing slowly and deliberately, not like the frenzied war dances I am familiar with.

That is right. Good. What else?

There are women dancing, as well as men. That doesn’t happen very often, does it?

No, it does not. You are thinking it through very well.

For a few minutes I sat and quietly watched the dancing below. More and more had joined the dance until it looked as though the circle would not hold another person. Once the burgeoning circle of dancers was established, the chanting took on a sort of mournful sound. The movement of the dance, along with the chanting, created a mesmerizing, collage-like tableau that became impossible to look away from. The circle seemed to turn on into eternity, ever turning, mournfully turning…

The dance had been going strong for over an hour when the leader signaled a stop. Then, once again, he raised his arms for silence. He said a few words to the group, which was not loud enough for me to hear or understand. But a chill went down my back as he pointed in my direction and shouted something. The group raised a shout with him, and then I could hear the cry coming from all across the valley in a tremendous roar. At that, Grandfather reached over and touched my shoulder.

Stand up, my son, he said loudly enough to be heard. The cheering is for you.

I started to stand, but my legs were suddenly very weak as a result of Grandfather’s announcement.

M…me?

Yes, my son. You have been chosen to lead our people in their last great battle.

Again my legs started to buckle, and had Grandfather not caught me under the arm and steadied me, I surely would have gone down. Despite the near collapse, I forced a chuckle.

You must not understand who I am. I have done lots of different things in my lifetime, but I know nothing about military strategy and even less about this amazing war technology. There has obviously been some kind of mistake.

Maybe you know more about it than you realize, Grandfather said, pointing at me. I looked down and gasped—I was wearing the same military clothing as those in the valley below. But what took my breath away was the insignia on my shoulders: the gold bars of a general. My nervous smile reappeared.

Finally I understand. I’m dreaming. It is simply a dream. This could never happen for real.

As if to reemphasize his presence, Grandfather powerfully squeezed my arm.

It is not a dream, Grandfather assured me, continuing his support. The Great Spirit has given you a great opportunity to see into the future, as well as the past, and has given me the opportunity to guide you through the experience.

He paused, and looked directly into my eyes.

Is anything too difficult for Him?

My head reeled from this latest disclosure. I could think of nothing more to say, so I turned back to the scene below me. Through the din Grandfather said, Acknowledge you have seen them.

I stepped toward the precipice, and the cheering rose to a deafening roar. As I raised my arm, the cheering suddenly stopped and the throng went back to what they had been doing—some dancing and others watching.

You can sit back down now, my son, Grandfather instructed.

 As I settled back down, my attention returned to the dancing below, which I watched more intently than before, trying to draw out every available bit of information that might in some way help in this unbelievable situation in which I found myself.

Once the dancing was in full swing again, some of the observers stepped forward and handed each of the dancers a small bundle. Once all of the bundles were distributed, there was another signal and the dancing stopped. Each dancer shook his bundle out and began pulling it over his head. I could see now the bundles were shirts, as each dancer solemnly dressed. Something about the shirts triggered a memory, and I looked around at Grandfather.

Grandfather, they are doing the Ghost Dance, aren’t they?

Yes, my son, Grandfather replied, obviously pleased that I had figured it out. More than a hundred years have passed, Grandfather continued, since the dance was taught to our fathers. The time draws near for its return.

A few recollections passed quickly through my mind. The Ghost Dance was introduced to American Indians around 1890. It was said that the dance would bring back life as it had once been for them, before the white man. The white man and the life he brought to America would roll up and vanish, and the life as the Indians had once known, would return once again.

For a time, nearly every tribe in the Americas had performed the Ghost Dance. It gained momentum virtually overnight and quickly built the confidence and determination of every member of every tribe. The Sioux Indians added a touch of their own. They made themselves shirts; similar to the ones I could see being worn. It was said the shirt would protect the warrior from the white man’s bullets. Also, they used peyote to help bring them closer to the Great Spirit. The Ghost Dance caused concerns in Washington, which eventually prompted a nationwide ban on the dance.

It was all put to the test at a place known as Wounded Knee Creek. About 250 to 300 Sioux men, women, and children assembled and began to participate in the Ghost Dance. It probably would have gone without incident, except that General Phillip H. Sheridan and his nearby troops received word of the dance in progress.

General Sheridan may have thought he was enforcing the ban when he suddenly crashed in on the dance, and began killing the Sioux. But before it was over, many of the Indians were dead. The promise of protection from the shirts had not been fulfilled.

 Despite the ban and deaths, the dance did not die, but from that time went underground, as did the circles of peyote users.

Grandfather, I asked thoughtfully, with such an important cause, and among so many more qualified men and women to lead, why…why me?

You are right to ask such a question, my son. Grandfather stared thoughtfully at the ground. And having been thrust into this situation, you deserve a truthful answer.

He walked to the edge of the cliff, slowly scanning the vast army in the valley below. After a full minute of observing and saying nothing, I was sure the thread of our conversation had snapped, and he’d forgotten about the promised answer. He finally turned with a smile. I have not forgotten, my son. He turned back to the army, and with his outstretched arm motioned with a wide arc.

Many are qualified to lead and would no doubt do well. But you, my son, have some advantages others may not have. You have been observed and studied over the years of your life, and there are a few important reasons you have been selected.

I sat quietly waiting for the old Indian to go on. It was another long moment before he continued. "You have the advantage of living and growing up as a white man. Yet, without knowing why, you have been willing to take up the cause of the lowly Indian. You are able to see the problems from both sides, and have no biased opinions about either.

Also, Grandfather continued, "you have exhibited nearly unlimited empathy, or feelings, for all. Not just whites or Indians, but oppressed and downtrodden people everywhere; for animal life; for all of the creations of the Great Spirit. Many of our own people have forgotten these things after being drawn into the white man’s ways for so many years.

It is no coincidence, my son, that many years ago you were named Eye of the Eagle. You were given that name in memory of one who lived many years ago, named Eagle Eye. Your thoughts and deeds are very much alike. Eagle Eye was a leader who peacefully resisted the government’s efforts to submit his people or himself to a reservation, and was the last to submit to reservation life.

I watched Grandfather intently as he spoke, and suddenly it occurred to me. Grandfather, are you Eagle Eye?

Yes, my son, that is my name. Grandfather looked me directly in the eye. "And now it is your name as well. That is why I have been given the responsibility of being with you during this time. Carry the name proudly,