Legend of the Pronghorn

By Pat Dolan

The ancestral spirits of the Shoshone are kidnapped just as Christopher Columbus hears the words, land Ho!

Coincidence?

Pat Dolans book may surprise you.

Legend of the Pronghorn follows several generations of Shoshone as they deal with the encroaching white eyes and the subsequent degradation of their ancient culture. Mysteriously, many of their experiences are mirrored many years later in the lives of a wayward high school cross-country team desperately seeking self-respect.

The fate of the captured Windigos is ultimately tied to the team and the lone survivor of a Blackfoot raid, a strange, hard luck Shoshone teen.

Both the Native Americans and the modern day runners are unwitting participants in the Great Spirits grandiose plan to rescue the Windigos and thus reunite their people with nature and all things Divine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493146833

Pat Dolan

Professor Pat Dolan holds the prestigious UNESCO Chair in Children, Youth and Civic Engagement, the first to be awarded in the Republic of Ireland. The UNESCO Chair delivers a comprehensive programme of work towards the objective of promoting civic engagement and leadership skills among children and youth. Professor Dolan is Director of the Institute for Lifecourse and Society at the University of Galway. Professor Dolan has completed an extensive body of research on children youth and family issues including longitudinal research on adolescents and has over 100 peer reviewed academic publications. His research interests include civic engagement, empathy, family support, youth mentoring models, and resilience and social support theory. Professor Dolan has extensive practice and policy experience, both nationally and internationally.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Pat Dolan.

ISBN:                  Softcover                              978-1-4931-4682-6

                            eBook                                   978-1-4931-4683-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

While Legend of the Pronghorn is partially based on a true story and is inspired by the actions of people who actually lived—none of the characters (except for those identified as historical figures, plus Joe Vigil, Craig Prine, Professor Bartz, T.A. Larsen, Keith and Laura Burdick, Jim McCloud, Frank Shorter, Wayne Jensen, Bill Snow and Larry Mahan—who didn’t pose in American Cowboy magazine as described) depicted in the story ever existed. Some, like Deputy Sidney Bowers and Waldo Putz, are compilations of different individuals the author encountered over the years. Any resemblance of any fictitious character with those who did live and breathe is totally coincidental.

Rev. date: 02/12/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

541376

Artists

Ken Rowe

[e-mail]

Rowe Gallery 336 SR179,

Ste. A102-Tiaquepaque,

Sedona, AR 86336

928-282-8877

www. rowegallery.com

Sculptures: Express Male (cover) & High and Mighty (back cover)

Dr. H. A. Fadhli

[e-mail]

409-727-3285

Sculpture: The Proud Breed (pg. 332)

Dave McGary

[e-mail]

480-424-7412

www.davemcgary.com

Sculpture: Rain In The Face (pg. 292)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1   A Safe Haven

Chapter 2   Trickster’s Revenge

Chapter 3   Summer on the Plains, Part I

Chapter 4   Transformation

Chapter 5   Summer on the Plains, Part II

Chapter 6   Into the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 7   Athletics’ Version of a Tar Pit

Chapter 8   Spider Leg’s Vision

Chapter 9   Walk, Don’t Run

Chapter 10   The Great Red Hope

Chapter 11   Flirting with Success

Chapter 12   Meadowlark’s Lament

Chapter 13   Fly like an Eagle

Chapter 14   Love at First Sight

Chapter 15   Hell in a Handbasket

Chapter 16   The Lesson of the Waterfall

Chapter 17   Forged on Dirt

Chapter 18   Where Do the Buffalo Roam?

Chapter 19   Singing the Pronghorn Blues

Chapter 20   Follow the Birds

Chapter 21   So Close, Yet…

Chapter 22   Point of No Return

Chapter 23   Redemption

Native American Tribes (referenced)

Nermernuh (People)

Comanche—Numunu (People)

Quahadis (Antelopes)

Yamparika (Root Eaters)

Shishinoots-hitaneo (Cheyenne for SnakePeople)

Shoshone (Diggers called Snakes by Europeans—via misinterpretation of sign language)

Shoshokos (Walkers)

Nimi, Newe, or Nomo—what Shoshone call themselves (the people)

Tukuduka or Tukuarika (Sheep Eaters)

Kutsinduka or Kueundika (Buffalo Eaters)

Tussawheh (Horseless)

Lemhi or Akaitikka or Agaideka (Eaters of Salmon)

Bannock

Cheyenne (Human Beings) Sahiyena (Cree)

So’taeo’o or Shutai or Sutaio—tribe of Cheyenne

Tsetsehestahese or Tsitsistas (Like-headed people)—tribe of Cheyenne

Ohmesehese (eaters) or Notameohmesehese (northern eaters)—Northern Cheyenne

Lakota or Sioux

Arapaho—Inuna-Iua or Hinonoeino (Our People)

Gros Ventre—A’aninin, Assinee (Big Bellies), Atsina (gut people or like Cree)

Peigan Siksika, Baki’ene—(Blackfoot)

Native American Characters

(in order of appearance; names in bold are historical figures)

Introduction Duh-Pia’isa (Black Wolf) Tukuarika adopted by Kueundika

Chapter 1 Duu Gwashi (Black Tail)—Nermernuh teenager

Xao’o Mahpe (Skunk Water)—Black Tail’s uncle

Dosa-Pessi (White Feather)—Black Tail’s sister

Hese se’se (Flying Duck)—Nermernuh brave

Nahkohe Meko (Bear Head)—Nermernuh brave

Dame Newe-yanp—The Great Spirit

Chapter 2 Hai—Nermernuh medicine man, Black Tail’s great, great grandson

Chapter 4 Kwihnai-pua (Eagle Eye)—Quahadis Comanche scout

Ohapitu-mua (Yellow Moon)—Eagle Eye’s wife

Walks Bent Over—Yellow Moon’s mother

Wahaatu Wasape (Two Bears)—Quahadis Comanche medicine man

Never Sleeps—Quahadis Comanche elder

Tsakoo’ba (Breaks with Hands)—Eagle Eye’s boyhood friend

Alhehi-doo’ya (Blue Mountain)—Quahadis Comanche warrior, brother of Tsakoo’ba

Ainga’-mua (Red Moon)—Quahadis Comanche warrior

Pa’o-P’ahy—Kiowa brave

Tosaabitu-paa (White Water)—Eagle Eye’s horse

Sarir-muubi (Dog Nose)—senile Quahadis Comanche woman

Chapter 8 Awaso’atsi-oon (Spider Leg)—Kueundika medicine man, Black Wolf’s adopted father

Pa Nu—Spider Leg’s obnoxious spirit guide

Ohamagwaya (Yellow Hand)—Spider Leg’s mentor, brought the sun dance to the Shoshone

Duh-Pia’isa (Black Wolf)—Spider Leg’s adopted Tukuarika son who is half-man, half-spirit

Chapter 10 Tibaboendwartsa—Shoshone leader & Washakie’s rival

Mehkskem-Sukah—Piegon Siksika (Blackfoot) chief

Chapter 14 Nuki Nabuitt Gwahade’ (Runs like Antelope)—Spider Leg’s son

Dua (Brother)—Black Wolf’s female dog

Chapter 18 Deakwenai’-bambi (Iron Head)—Kueundika chief

Hotametaneo’o (Dogmen)—Kueundika and Tukuarika medicine man and Black Wolf’s closest friend

Washakie (Gourd Rattler)—Chief of the Eastern Shoshone

Peheve Nahkohe (Good Bear)—Cheyenne Scout

Aenohe Ohno Kaetse (Lone Hawk)—Cheyenne Scout

E-avoa’xe (Tree Blown Over)—Cheyenne Scout

Chapter 20 Duu Huchuu’ (Black Bird)—Tukuarika warrior

Ainga-Gwashi (Red Tail)—Tukuarika medicine man

Dowope Ga-Baimi’a (Walks through Clouds)—Tukuarika warrior

Aibehi-patcheya (Blue Elk)—Tukuarika chief, also son’s name

Bui Dunaa’ (Sees Straight)—Tukuarika warrior & Chief Blue Elk’s eldest son

Ainga waahin’ (Red Fox)—Chief Blue Elk’s daughter and Black Wolf’s wife

Bonzanite-mua (Round Moon)—Chief Blue Elk’s daughter and Black Wolf’s wife

Sadee (Dog)—Chief Blue Elk’s wife

Mumbichi (Owl)—Kueundika warrior

Dosabite-Biagwi’yaa (White Eagle)—Kueundika warrior

Chapter 22 Thathanjka Iyothake (Sitting Bull)—Chief of Hunkpapa Lakota

Aibehi Okaipan (Blue River)—Tukuarika elder

Cameahwait—chief of Lemhi Shoshone

Tsi-ki-ka-wi-as (Boat Pusher, a.k.a. Sacajawea)—sister of Cameahwait and guide to Lewis and Clark

Bazil, Tahvonshea, Cut Nose, Waks-ka, Inkatoshapop—Shoshone leaders

Wakins (Black Bear)—Tukuarika warrior

Ian Okaipan (Wild River)—Tukuarika warrior, youngest son of Chief Blue Elk

Toyaewowici—Chief of Tukudikas

Nakok—son of a French trapper and Shoshone wife and rival of Washakie’s

Tavonasia—Washakie rival

Parry-wah-say-men (Ten Bears)—Yamparika Comanche chief

Thusunke Witko (Crazy Horse)—Oglala Lakota warrior

Heove Oeskeso (Yellow Dog)—Kueundika warrior

Ton-a-en-ko (Kicking Bird)—a.k.a. Teneangop’te and Watohkonk, Kiowa chief

Tagi—Shoshone chief

Taghee—Bannock chief

Mahpiya Luta (Red Cloud)—Lakota chief

Translations—

Shoshone (generic) from www.nativelanguages.org/shoshone

aatu’ngi—grasshopper

Agai—salmon

agg—elk

ahh—yes or hello

aikopin—prickly pear cactus or thorn

aishen—thank you

awaso’atsi—spider

baa’—water/rain

Baki’ene—Blackfoot Indians

bene—traditional greeting

biagwi’yaa’—eagle

bia’isa—wolf

bohoo’bi—sagebrush

bozheena—buffalo

bungu—horse

dabai—sun

deheya’—deer

donziape—flower

dosabite—white

doyudukubichi—mountain lion

duhubite—black

gotoo—fire

haih—crow

hyssup—lavender

izhape—coyote

kikah—snake

kempa’s—prairie dog

muh—moon

mumbichi—owl

puha—power

puhagan—power giver

sadee—dog

sawa’be—sagebrush

sosoni’nee—antelope

usnea—old man’s beard

wakins—black bear

weahwewa—wolf dog

weda’—bear

wendigos—spirit beings

Dedicated to the 1978 Wyoming Class B/C

State Cross-Country Champions

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Standing left to right: Joe Urban, Ray Mutz, Joe Crosier, Jim Dalgarn, Pat Dolan

Kneeling left to right: Jimmy Vass, Winnie Pittman, Hector Coronado

Introduction

by Terra Ferma

Déjà vu. Hundreds of years after the Nermernuh’s ancestral spirits were kidnapped an orange spot appears in the middle of a large gray cloud. Duh-Pia’isa thought the strange sight was divinely inspired while the six boys in faded gray sweats noted its familiar capsule shape. Eyes wide, mouths agape, and hands searching blindly in back for a place to recline, the teenagers sit on the same slab of granite. Without warning, the capsule transforms into a Japanese symbol. A couple of boys recognized it as a kanji character but were ignorant of its meaning. Duh-Pia’isa, on the other hand, had no clue what he was looking at but was certain he knew what it meant—the Great Spirit was present.

Bitter Creek High School’s cross-country training regimen frequently took the team up, around, and through the outcroppings of igneous rocks gleaming with quartz, mica, and feldspar. Traipsing along the sheer edge of Pine Ridge’s cliff, the six boys came to enjoy the bird’s-eye view of the LaRamie River Valley and the Medicine Bow Range spread out so magnificently before them. Along the way, they often enjoyed the mind-bending smell of sage, pine, and wildflowers.

Like Kaiser, Dungee, Pitt, Bass, Armijo, and Shipman, Duh-Pia’isa was no stranger to this place. Like them, he reveled in its aromas, admired its vistas, and relished its wildlife. The sight of a bird of prey in flight or a deer, elk, or antelope racing across the prairie made all their hearts pound while the sudden appearance of a black bear, puma, rattlesnake, or badger made them anxious, but only at first. The seven teens also enjoyed laughing at the playful antics of prairie dogs, rabbits, coyotes, and foxes and marveled at the evening’s splash of color.

Running along the northwestern edge of the ridge, the team and Duh-Pia’isa happened to look skyward and instantly became mesmerized by this strange apparition. In a blink of an eye it changed again, this time into a beautiful Chinese symbol. Duh-Pia’isa was the first to lay his back across a large boulder, and before long all the boys settled into a face up position to watch the show. The group felt their heartbeats quicken when the outer arms of the Chinese calligraphy began to slowly curve to the left, gradually picked up speed and started circling around. Soon the orangey-red figure became a spinning ball of thicker and thicker swirling arms. Heat emanating from the center of the boiling cauldron eventually touched the surrounding gray clouds, which quickly imitated the angry, circular motion. Turning darker, they started to bubble. All the while, the powerful churning mass at the center of it all got redder as it grew and then suddenly, without warning, spit out one arm of crimson simultaneously north and south. The teenagers jumped to their feet and traded amazed glances left and right before suddenly recognizing what it was that they were watching—the creation of a sunset.

Perched on top of a lodgepole pine, a meadowlark watches with interest the reaction of the cross country team and instantly believes that her plan to rescue the Wendigos will succeed. Cheerfully singing her favorite tune, the shape-shifting Great Spirit revels in the knowledge that Duh-Pia’isa experienced the same cosmic anomaly over a hundred years before. This commonality of experience, the Great Spirit knows, confirms the critical role all these boys will play in her grandiose plan. The patiently laid-out scheme will, over time, trick opposing forces in both the spirit and natural world into working together. The ultimate result of all of this unwitting cooperation, the Great Spirit is certain, will jump-start the reunification of mankind with nature and all things divine. Déjà vu.

The blossom that opens in the morning

is scattered by the evening breeze,

and the dew, condensed in hours of darkness

before dawn, is dispelled by the rays

of the morning sun.

Heedless or willfully ignorant of this

procession of changes, we dream of prosperity

all through life and, without understanding

the nature of transience, hope for longevity.

All the while, across the face of the earth

moves the restless wind of impermanence,

dissolving all that it touches.

"When I heard the learnd astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wanderd off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Lookd up in perfect silence at the stars."

—Walt Whitman

Chapter 1

A Safe Haven

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TheWind River Range

North Water Creek, Wyoming, March 19, 1372

Cut off, alone and with six angry Atsina (1) breathing down his neck, Black Tail has no choice but to climb up the leafless cottonwood tree hugging the thin stream and hide. The moonless night gives the frightened fourteen-year-old a sliver of hope that the raiders of his village won’t see him among the branches. Looking down from his perch, he catches a glimpse of the bare-skinned marauders and the flash of blood gleaming off the tips of their spears as they run by. Further downstream he hears his father’s war whoop and knows the counterattack has begun.

Black Tail holds his breath as more and more Atsina warriors sprint past the cottonwood. Invigorated by the sounds of his father fighting, the Nermernuh boy waits for the last enemy to pass, scrambles quickly down the tree, grabs a softball-sized rock, and sprints toward the commotion.

After dodging several mounds in a prairie dog town, he leaps from the edge of a gully and onto the back of a man attacking his uncle from behind. The instant he lands, Black Tail smashes the rock against the Atsina’s head. A halo of blood erupts from the raider’s skull, drenching the boy’s face and chest. Before the dead man’s torso hits the ground, Black Tail feels the wind from an arrow sail past his nose. His uncle, Skunk Water sees the man who shot the arrow, swiftly stabs the man he is fighting in the heart, and then throws the same knife into the neck of the archer.

Duu Gwashi, Skunk Water yells at his nephew, stay with me.

Blinking and spitting the burning, foul-tasting plasma from his eyes and mouth, Black Tail pushes himself off the lifeless body below him, swipes the repulsive muck off his face with his shirt-sleeve, and dashes over to his uncle. Without sharing another word, the two race toward the sounds of fighting. Emerging from the depths of the arroyo, the pair is greeted with unexpected silence. As quickly as it started, the Atsina raid was over.

Come, Skunk Water commands between gulping breaths, let us go back to the village and tend to the wounded.

As they scamper past Black Tail’s cottonwood and hop over North Water Creek, the sharp smell of blood and burning grass lodges fills their nostrils. Ten strides beyond the stream, the pair come to a sliding halt. Huts and lodges that just moments ago echoed with laughter and joy are now smashed, overturned, and crackling with fire. Black Tail is so shocked by what he sees he fails to pay attention to where he is stepping and accidentally trips over an arrow-studded dog. Reeling laterally away from the canine’s corpse, he nearly collides with the mutilated bodies of three women and the old man who died defending them. Immediately, foul-tasting vomit gushes from his mouth as a terrifying thought lights up his brain. His mother and sister! Are they safe?

Coughing and spitting the acidic bile from his lips, the teenager rushes to his family’s lodge with his uncle following closely behind. He feels his spirit soar upon seeing the untouched grass hut, but his joy is short-lived. When he lifts the leather door flap and peers inside he sees his distraught mother sitting cross-legged on the floor. Sobbing uncontrollably, her whole body convulses with such force that it causes the object she so delicately cradles in her lap to bounce up and down. Black Tail doesn’t need to see his three year old sister’s face to know it is her. Overwhelmed with grief, Black Tail collapses on his knees in front of his mother and sister. He places a shaking hand on his mother’s shoulder and another on the chest of the little girl he, just moments ago, kissed good night.

Suddenly, his attention is redirected toward the muffled sound of men talking just out side of the lodge. Black Tail feels his body jerk upwards in response to his uncle’s ear-piercing scream. Whipping his head around, he sees Skunk Water peer in from the door. The doleful expression on his uncle’s face tells him that his father is dead.

Kneeling between his grief-stricken nephew and sister in-law, Skunk Water gently places a hand on Black Tail’s heaving back and says proudly, Your father killed many Atsina before three of the cowards pounced at once.

Black Tail stares at the puffs of dust encircling his tears as they hit the ground. The roundness of the drops reminds him of the many faces of family and friends killed in similar raids. I miss Wisdom River, the boy sobs.

I too miss the valley of our grandfathers, his uncle admits, but season after season of rainless skies drove Bozheana, Agg, and Deheya’ southeast, and we had no choice but to follow. Remember it was your father and I who discovered this valley where the rain still pours and the grass still grows. Now they (buffalo, elk, and deer) are here and we have no choice but to stay.

Xao’o Mahpe! Flying Duck yells frantically as he and Bear Head hurdle over a toppled cooking stand and sprint toward the lodge. Thrusting his head into the hut, Flying Duck shouts, Baki’ene (Blackfeet) approach from the east.

What? How many? Skunk Water yelps.

It is much larger than the Atsina’s raiding party, Bear Head replies excitedly from outside the lodge.

Skunk Water wastes no time exiting the hut and is immediately greeted with the shrill sound of mass panic. Observing the worn-out and injured survivors scurrying about, he takes a deep breath and, in his calmest voice, asks the two panting braves before him, How long do we have?

Flying Duck hears the warning chirps of prairie dogs nearby, looks directly into his friend’s eyes, and declares, We must flee now! The Baki’ene are already passing through Kempa’s village.

Skunk Water’s eyes flash left, then right. We should put the river to our backs and fight!

Bear Head observes the fierceness in Skunk Water’s eyes and quickly adds, "Forget about fighting! We are still licking our wounds from the last fight and they are too many!

Flying Duck is emphatic. Did you not hear Kempa’s alarm? We have no time to mount a defense but maybe just enough to escape.

Quickly, Skunk Water orders upon recognizing the wisdom in his friends’ words, gather everyone and get them across the river.

While the three men hustle about organizing the survivors, Black Tail stays close to his uncle. He is very aware of the dilemma facing the Nermernuh, as it’s the same one that has plagued them for the past two years. Since the day the six families arrived, the native tribes did not take kindly to their intrusion. From the get-go it was no contest. His band, though courageous, did not possess their new neighbor’s size and speed or their extensive knowledge of terrain and guerilla tactics. On the rolling prairie, the Nermrenuh’s undersized legs prevented them from escaping their longer-legged and much faster enemies, who aggressively and continually tormented them. Another disadvantage confronting the Nermernuh was their belief that divine spirits lived in everything, including people, making them reluctant to do even the most cruel human being harm.

Conversely, the Atsina, Baki’ene, Kansas, Omahas, Missouris, Apaches, Utes, and Osages were not restricted by their religion or culture and thus had no qualms about stealing from, murdering, and raping a people they considered vastly inferior.

While trying valiantly to keep up with his uncle and the others, Black Tail’s legs get entangled with Bear Head’s, and he and the much-larger warrior trip and fall. With his face pressed firmly against the dirt, Black Tail hears, under the roar of Bear Head’s cussing, Nermernuh voices singing a song as sweet as a meadowlark’s. Quickly popping back onto his feet, he looks in the direction of the singing but sees, in the dim, moon light, only the vast expanse of rolling prairie. The voices are faint, like they are coming from far, far away, but he has no doubt that they are urging him to head in their direction.

Do you hear that? Black Tail shouts.

Here what? Bear Head barks, still angry about being tripped.

Voices, beautiful voices, chanting, singing, telling us to come to them.

I hear nothing but the wind and women and children crying, Flying Duck snorts.

Black Tail reaches out and grabs the back of Skunk Water’s leather vest. He looks deep into his uncle’s eyes and pleads, The voices, I think, belong to our ancestors, and they are telling us that we must come to them quickly, before the Baki’ene arrive. 
 The voices you hear know about the Baki’ene? Skunk Water shrieks.

Yes, I think so. There is a sense of urgency in their voice, Black Tail replies.

Nahkohe Meko, Hesse se’se, Skunk Water orders the startled men standing beside him. I will stay here and fight off the Baki’ene while you and the others follow Duu Gwashi.

Bear Head acts insulted. I’m not leaving you to fight those cowards by yourself!

Thrusting his bow toward Skunk Water, Flying Duck pipes in, The three of us can hold the bastards off long enough for the rest to get away.

Skunk Water shouts in a voice loud enough for all to hear, Go! All of you. Follow Duu Gwashi until he tells you to stop! Turning toward his nephew he continues, Duu Gwashi, run toward the singing and take our people to safety. Don’t look back. Now go!

Running fast in the direction of the voices, Black Tail leads the Nermerhuh as they hop over North Water Creek and then head southwest over the cactus-strewn desert. Not long after leaving their village and in the midst of crossing the Big Horn River, they hear the unmistakable sounds of fighting. Undaunted by the ungodly noise or the river’s obvious hazards, they continue crossing the swift flowing body of water. When Black Tail is halfway across, an elderly women enters the stream and immediately slips on the rocks and pulls her husband, whose hand she clings to, down with her. The remnants of the Nermernuh band watch helplessly as the elderly couple bob up and down before disappearing beneath the splashing crests of white water. Moments later, a four-year-old boy falls off the back of his father and is immediately carried downstream. The father dives in and nearly drowns himself before somehow rescuing his son.

Finally emerging from the river, the frightened but determined band continues to move swiftly and without rest over a large expanse of grassland. Approaching Mud Creek they come upon the Blackfoot village whose warriors just attacked them. Black Tail reacts quickly by leading the tribe further down steam and away from the enemy’s camp. Using the cover of darkness while maintaining a code of silence, the Nermernuh escape detection as they cross the shallow stream. A few miles from the Blackfoot camp, Black Tail comes upon a game trail that takes them past a series of thermal springs and mud pots.

Three days later the unrested group are still moving, with all due haste, over the rough-and-tumble Owl Creek Mountains. Not knowing how far they must go or even when they should stop, they traverse two forks of Muddy Creek and then Five Mile and Dry Creek and, finally, the raging Wind River. The last water obstacle proves to be the most deadly. Dog tired, the band loses three more grand parents and a five year old girl to drowning. Despite their losses and overwhelming fatigue the Nernernuh continue to follow Black Tail as he leads them along Crow Creek, up a rocky foothill and finally deep into the Wind River Range. Completely exhausted after traveling over 130 miles in only seven and a half days, the families stop near a vertical granite formation resembling an upright grasshopper. All eyes are on Black Tail as he points at a large square boulder sprinkled with lichen resting on the far edge of a deer trail. The wendigos sing from that rock, the boy declares.

Living high in the mountains proved to be a lot safer for the nature-loving people. While their buffalo-hunting enemies considered mountain living to be a virtual hell on earth, the Nermernuh thrived. Their barrel chests provided them with the lung capacity necessary to thrive in the thin air of high altitude while their short legs, unlike on the flat grasslands, were no longer a disadvantage. Subsisting primarily on a steady diet of fish, roots, berries, grubs, rodents, and other small game, their preferred source of nourishment was still buffalo. On the rare occasion when they ventured down to the plains, they lit the prairie on fire and stampeded part of a buffalo herd over a cliff or into a pit. Unfortunately, buffalo hunting wasn’t feasible when other plains tribes were near the herd, so the Nermernuh turned to the much more dangerous task of harvesting big-horned sheep. Soon they became known far and wide as the Tukuarika or Sheep Eaters.

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Grasshopper Rock

Chapter 2

Trickster’s Revenge

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Singing Rock

Wind River Mountains, Wyoming, August 18, 1492

The great-great-grandson of Black Tail, the boy who inadvertently introduced the Nermernuh to mountain living, stands naked in front of the village’s most revered landmark. Using a crude willow brush, he applies paint freely onto the face of the square boulder, now affectionately known as Singing Rock.

A young mother and her pair of toddlers stop to watch the man with the narrow face; long, pointed nose; and dark, sunken eyes paint. The little boys are instantly captivated by the sudden flashes of light bouncing off the medicine man’s red clay cap. Crawling out from under the yarmulke-like hat are neatly trimmed three-inch-long strands of raven-black hair that lead the boys’ eyes to the gleaming array of tattoos scattered all over Hai’s face and body. The morning sun, much to the tykes’ delight, highlights the white-and-yellow dots and lines (some straight, some jagged) glistening on his face and neck. The boys are too young to recognize the sparkling constellations Corvus, Aquarius, Lupus, and Perseus accurately displayed on Hai’s chest and back.

The day before, the sixteen-year-old Nermernuh medicine man watched in awe as a muscular six-point bull elk tiptoed across a treeless ridge. Following closely behind the bull was a line of four terrified cows and three frightened calves. Each elk was eyeballing, with every cautious step, a drooling six-pack of wolves hungrily sniffing around the area that was last night’s bed! Now Hai attempts to recapture the event in his art.

Visualizing the elk and wolves, Hai dips a pickle-sized stick carved from a willow into one of the three clay bowls filled with paint. He grinds the softened tip of the stick into a mixture of mashed-up red-ochre clay, water, red berries, and rabbit blood. Once satisfied with the amount accumulated on the end of his rudimentary brush, the artist carefully adds color to the images of the elk passing quietly above the wolves. In his mind he knows that if he paints well, his people will be able to harness the power of the spirits residing inside the famous boulder.

A few villagers happen to walk past Singing Rock and then hurry off to tell their neighbors what their young medicine man is doing. In no time at all, the villagers, some still singing their personal wake-up songs or wiping the morning dew from their eyes, get word that something extraordinary is happening. They stop what they’re doing; exit their circular grass huts, cave, or lean-to lodges; and make their way to the village’s most sacred place.

Soon, people of all ages are racing down the narrow deer trail before pouring onto the rock formations beside and above the large square boulder. The tribal members immediately assume a respectful, solemn demeanor although occasionally their silence is broken by an ooh, an aah, or an uncontrolled giggle. The persons witnessing a sacred act for the first time are ecstatic, sensing the importance of the artist’s renderings but unsure of its significance. The more experienced villagers are equally excited but also anxious because they know that paintings, such as this, can also foretell the future. (2)

Hai, meanwhile, is so focused on his painting and the image fixated in his brain that he is totally unaware of the crowd of people politely whispering, giggling, and rearranging themselves all around him. Among the last to arrive on the scene is a trio of gray-haired men, probably in their fifties. Almost immediately, they begin grumbling among themselves regarding the protocol required for such an occasion. They notice, for instance, that Hai is not wearing the mandatory sacred headdress and necklace. Immediately they dispatch a short but strapping twelve-year-old boy back to the shaman’s lodge to fetch the proper attire. The instant the boy returns with the pronghorn headdress and necklace of bones, claws, and teeth, the three tribal elders hastily adorn the young shaman. Hai’s trance is so intense he appears completely unaware of the old men’s attempt to bring his appearance up to code.

It is only after the pompous elders are satisfied with Hai’s adornments that they allow their gazes to turn to the burgeoning display of sacred art. The elders are impressed. The artist’s unique use of natural features, like the various shades of green and turquoise in the layers of lichen, the dark-green moss and, of course, the changing texture of the rock, gave the painting a sense of mystical realism. The synergistic union of paint and stone make it clear to everyone present that their sacred rock and Hai’s inspired painting were indeed made for each other. This type of thinking also serves to heighten the elder’s feelings of elation and dread.

When the artist flicks his wrist with the last application of paint, the crowd becomes deathly silent and watch, with bated breath, as the three elders step forward to inspect the painting. Talking quietly among themselves, the trio agrees that nothing catastrophic has been foretold. When the elder with a crooked scar streaking across his forehead turns around and smiles, the entire village erupts into a loud cheer.

Hai raises his arms and then waits, like a seasoned politician, for the crowd to settle down. When he hears only the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, the gaunt sixteen-year-old shaman speaks. When we watch a pair of falcons risk their lives every day to feed their young, we know what it means to be a family. Working together like wolves, we realize the power of the band. Seeing geese flying in formation with the stronger birds in front, we recognize the value of the tribe. This is how Dame Newe-yanp meant it to be. The Great Spirit moves like the wind through the trees and the water through the earth. Dame Newe-yanp lives in the air we breathe and the tears we shed. We, Nermernuh, have always recognized the beasts, the wind, and the land to be our brothers. Hai pauses for a moment to let his words sink in and then points at Singing Rock and then continues, Long ago, Dame Newe-yanp called on the wendigos living inside this boulder to sing to my grandfather. Seeking the source of the wendigo’s songs, Duu-Gwashi guided our grandfathers to these mountains, where we have remained safe from all those who enjoy killing us. Hai pauses again while continuing to point at the large square rock. "Agg honors our grandfather’s escape, when he demonstrates how to sneak away from our enemies without being heard, seen, or smelled! My painting on Singing Rock celebrates not just the bond between Agg and Nermernuh but our ties with all of nature and Dame Newe-yanp. Now when we come here to pray to our ancestral spirits, the puha within Singing Rock will be imparted to us."

With the sound of whoops and cheers filling the air, two men fling their new hero onto their shoulders and lead the singing villagers up the deer trail to a large grass and flower-filled meadow sandwiched between a pair of glacial deposits, each over a hundred feet tall. Soon the jubilant sound of drums echoing the heartbeat of the earth and flutes trilling the laughter of spirits and animals fills the air. Immediately, the village of sixty-one souls gathers in a circle of spirits and animals. Dancing arm in arm, they sing songs of praise, triumph, and joy. The impromptu celebration continues unabated for a day and a half before finally running out of steam.

That night Hai wakes up in a cold sweat, visibly shaken by a strange and powerful dream. He rises and rushes over to the fire pit, drops six handfuls of cold charcoal into a paint bowl, and then grabs his painting stick. Not wanting to awaken his mother nor the four siblings sharing his home, he tiptoes across the dirt floor. Exiting the lodge, he runs as fast as he can back to the large square boulder.

Standing in front of Singing Rock, Hai pees and spits into the bowl full of charcoal. He quickly grinds the mixture together with juniper berries plucked from a nearby bush and hurriedly adds a third character to his painting. The strokes he uses this time are not delicate and flowing but jerky, even violent!

Hai applies the last bit of paint just as the first rays of the sun splash across the rock. Relieved that he beat the Great Spirit’s deadline, a tear trickles down his cheek as he steps back to inspect his work. He is very pleased with the new addition yet seems impervious to the fact that the new figure is totally out of proportion to the rest of the piece. In fact it covers the entire upper third of the rock. The shaman’s left forearm wipes the salty discharge from his eyes before proudly announcing to the world around him, I did it. Just as Dame Newe-yanp commanded, I beat the sunrise! Now the bond between our worlds is secure!

Hai grabs his bowl and brush and returns to his three-sided rock lodge. He is fast asleep when a pair of hysterical women charge into his home. Their panic-filled voices fill the air with high-pitched wails of doom and bewilderment.

What is it? Hai sleepily asks. What is the problem?

Your painting on the sacred rock of our ancestors has been defiled! they scream. Now we’re doomed!

No, no, no, Hai assures them while standing up, you’re wrong. Nothing has been defiled, and no one is doomed. The puha living in the sacred boulder is greater than we ever knew, and my painting has preserved it forever!

Yes, but someone has added a grotesque figure above what you did! one of the women cries.

Hai smiles broadly. Women, free the fear from your hearts and be glad that I completed the work earlier this morning.

Just then, the three elders barge into Hai’s lodge with several distraught villagers crowding behind. What do you mean? the elder with the wicked scar across his forehead asks.

Raising his hands in a calming gesture, Hai quietly responds, Last night I had a dream, and in my dream Dame Newe-yanp told me that another figure was necessary to preserve Singing Rock’s awesome puha.

"You! You defaced the sacred rock?" the oldest elder shouts.

Yes, I… no… I mean, I defaced nothing… I…

The shortest of the three elders aggressively interrupts the young shaman. But we just heard you admit that it was you who defiled the very painting which you yourself told us was inspired by Dame Newe-yanp and would harness the puha living within the great rock!

Yes, but my painting was incomplete! Hai pleads, the pitch of his declaration embarrassingly high. The puha in Singing Rock was far greater than any of us ever realized. Dame Newe-yanp…

You must remove it immediately or our bond with the spirit and natural world will be broken forever! shouts the seemingly oblivious oldest elder.

I’m sorry, Hai responds defiantly. If I do as you ask, it will expose the wendigos living inside the rock to great danger!

You choose to disobey the tribal elders? a shocked voice from the crowd screams.

Hai shouts back, his shrill voice gaining in volume with every word, I mean the elders no disrespect, but Dame Newe-yanp commanded me!

Dame Newe-yanp! the short elder pipes in. Have you gone mad? Why would Dame Newe-yanp ask you to destroy what he inspired you to create?

I destroyed nothing but only completed the task! Hai screams as tears well in both eyes. Dame Newe-yanp made it clear to me that the puha in the rock is crucial to our bond with the earth, the animal kingdom, and the spirit world, and that bond would be broken if I didn’t add the third image!

That is utterly ridiculous! You must remove the abomination immediately or face the consequences, the scarred elder emphatically warns.

Listen to me, all of you, Hai pleads as the mob closes in on him. If any part of my painting is removed or defaced, our ancestral spirits and our way of life will surely suffer!

Were you wearing the ceremonial headdress and necklace? the oldest elder quietly asks.

No, Hai ashamedly whispers.

The elder with the scarred forehead glances imploringly about the lodge and then shouts, Then you have done irreparable damage to our relationship with the spirit world!

By all that is sacred, you must remove the abomination! the short elder yells, his tone filled with fear and loathing.

I told you, Hai emphatically repeats, I cannot do as you ask!

A man’s voice leaps out of the crowd. Once again he defies the elders!

Immediately some of the women loudly moan, We’re doomed! We’re doomed!

Dropping to his knees, Hai begs, You must listen to me. I speak the truth! Dame Newe-yanp spoke to me in a dream! Hear me if you have ears!

He’s gone mad! a female voice declares.

Another hysterical woman deep inside the crowd screams at the top of her lungs, He has cursed us all!

Several women and children begin to cry as more angry men shout. The cacophony of noise escalates quickly and thoroughly agitates the once-worshiping crowd. Fueled by fear and rage, the unthinkable happens from within the peace-loving village—violence breaks out!

Two of the men grab Hai from behind, stealing control of his arms. The instant they are set, a third man lunges from the midst of the crowd and thrusts a Folsom-style stone knife deep into Hai’s chest. Hai moans before going limp and falling forward into the legs of his killer. Acting repulsed, the murderer quickly shoves the dying shaman onto his back as he yanks the knife from the victim’s chest. The sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood saturates the air and instantly seems to transform the once-passive people.

Shouting above the hollers and whoops, the scar-faced elder tells the villagers to grab a handful of charcoal and a bowl of water each and leads them back to Singing Rock. Upon their arrival, he instructs the Nermernuh to mix the charcoal and water and then points to the rock. The frenzied mob immediately swarms all over the large boulder.

The oldest elder pushes the scar-faced one in the chest, points frantically at the rock, and shouts, "What have you done? Stop them before