by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
Rays of mid-morning sun entered the tepee through the smoke opening and tickled Buck's face, insisting that he awaken. He raised his hand to brush away the persistent stream of light as if it was an annoying insect, but the sun was stubborn and wouldn't move. Buck slowly pushed himself into a sitting position on the thick buffalo robe his sister-in-law hastily made into a bed the night before and rubbed the grains of sleep from his eyes.
The tepee was quiet and for a moment he wondered where Red Bear's family was until the noises of a busy village outside the hide walls made him realize the late hour. The effects of weeks in the saddle and cold nights on the hard ground had crept into his bones and he found himself wondering if this was how it felt to grow old. Stiff and sore, he tipped his head back and twisted it around in circles until the kinks in his neck loosened with a grateful 'pop'. He had been spoiled by a soft mattress, sleeping on the ground again would take some getting used to. Feeling a bit better, he scooted to a position where the sun would shine directly on him - it warmed his tired bones and felt good. He sat quietly, cross-legged on the buffalo hide, watching dust particles dance in the circle of sunlight, breathing in the wildness of his brother's home.
It had changed little since he last slept there. There was nothing that might be called actual furnishings but the home was comfortable. Certainly not in the way the white man judged comfort, but it was enough. The animal hide might not be as soft as the bunk he left behind, but it was warm and there was something uniquely comforting knowing a great beast had given its life to provide a warm bed. Red Bear's war shield hung from one of the support poles in its protective leather covering just as he remembered. As a child Buck thought it strange that the shield was covered and suspended from the pole but Red Bear explained that it was bad medicine for the protective symbols painted on it to be seen when not in battle. It was even worse for a woman to touch the shield so he hung it high on the support pole where Wind Dancer could not accidentally touch it.
The bold decorations on the exterior of the tepee described Red Bear's bravery and high position in the tribe, but the figures painted on the inside of his home told a more personal story - a history of their family chronicling events rather than dates. Buck left his seat in the sunshine and moved closer to the painted calendar. He remembered the symbol that described years of famine when the buffalo were scarce and the one that told of the war with the Utes when many of their band had been killed. Other familiar paintings, lined up one after another, documented important events in Red Bear's family but Buck's recognition stopped at the tear drop shapes that told of their mother's death. He hadn't thought of his mother for a while. He slowly ran his fingertips across the symbol of sorrow - the feeling of her loss traveling through his skin, spreading through him, finally settling in the well guarded part of his heart reserved for her.
The remaining figures depicted events of the past seven years and their stories were not clear to him. Except for one. Following the tear drops was a crudely drawn deer walking in an opposite direction from the other figures. Buck didn't need to guess at its meaning and his throat tightened a bit remembering the day he walked away.
He was thirteen summers old when the overpowering need to escape the pathetic string of abuse filled days and sleepless nights that made up his life grew stronger than the hope that somehow, someday he might fit in. He had harbored that hope of acceptance deep in his soul in a safe warm place where children tuck away their wishes. But as the years passed and the acceptance he longed for remained a distant, unreachable dream, the hidden place inside him grew cold and hollow and hard. He would have died if he stayed. Either his tormentors would have eventually succeeded in causing an "accident" or the consuming need to belong would have eaten his spirit away from the inside resulting in a death just as final.
Buck pushed the memories aside. That was a long time ago - he had been a child then. It would be different this time.
Buck shielded his eyes from the bright light as he emerged from the dimness of the tepee. The sun was high in the sky and he felt a twinge of embarrassment that he had slept so long. That was not the way of the Kiowa. The village bustled with activity not so different from any of the towns he had encountered in the white world. Children played in the open areas chasing the unnamed dogs or perhaps the dogs chased the children, it was hard to tell. The small groups of women huddled together working on their sewing and gossiping about 'who said what to whom' reminded him of the quilting ladies that descended on Rachel's house every other week. The old men gathered under a juniper tree reciting well-worn stories of earlier days weren't much different than the toothless, tobacco spitting bunch of old-timers that sat outside the saloon in Rock Creek. Their lives weren't so different. Why was that so hard for the white man to understand?
A smile crept across Buck's face as Wind Dancer approached from one of the large cooking pots. His brother's wife was beautiful, but it was the child in her arms that invoked the response. The boy was definitely his father's son. He guessed the child wasn't more than a year and a half old, but the resemblance was already unmistakable.
"Red Bear waits for you with the horses," Wind Dancer said quietly as she offered a bowl of food to her brother-in-law. The baby in her arms leaned closer to his mother but cast a curious look in his uncle's direction. His inquisitive eyes peeked out from behind an unruly mass of charcoal black hair.
Buck nodded his thanks and accepted the bowl. "What's his name?" he asked and reached to brush the child's abundance of hair from his cherubic face. He wasn't terribly comfortable around children, that had been Ike's area of expertise. But this wasn't just any child, it was his nephew and he was eager to know the little boy.
To his surprise, Wind Dancer jerked back suddenly and twisted her body to move the baby out of Buck's reach. "Do not touch him." Although her words were quiet, the fear in her voice equaled the panic in her eyes as she clutched the child closer. "His name is White Horse. Do not touch him," she repeated and hurriedly walked away, leaving a bewildered Buck wondering what he had done wrong.
Wind Dancer had made a place for him in her home after his mother died, but it was obvious to the young Running Buck that she did so only because of her love for Red Bear. Her welcome was no warmer now that it was years before. His back stiffened a bit as a chill whirled around inside him like blowing snow. Buck picked at the food Wind Dancer had prepared, but found his appetite had left as abruptly as she did. He started to return the bowl to her, but decided against it and laid the wooden dish at the entrance of the tepee where she would find it. No point making matters worse.
Buck's mood brightened some as he caught sight of Red Bear beside his red mare at the edge of the village. She was still secured to the white barked aspen where he left her the night before, but the bridle had been replaced with a halter of woven leather strips. He noticed the bridle hanging from another branch of the tree - evidently Red Bear objected to the metal bit as much as the horse did. Buck paused, watching in amusement as the chief raised the pony's foot, shook his head disapprovingly and grunted his disgust of the metal shoe nailed into the hoof. Red Bear placed the foot back on the ground and moved to the horse's head. She moved a bit uneasily under the unfamiliar touch but calmed at his soft words and gentle movements. Red Bear pulled her lips up to inspect the teeth and gums, nodding in approval of the care given to the animal.
"Do white men sleep all day?" Red Bear asked in good humor at the sound of dried grass rustling under his brother's approaching footsteps.
"Some of them do," Buck admitted, his face growing flushed at Red Bear's reference to his laziness. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Red Bear shook his head and continued his inspection of the animal. "There was no need. You were tired from travel. She was tired, too," he added stroking the white blaze on the mare's face. "You have treated her well."
"I promised you I would. Remember?" Buck replied, stroking the mare's neck affectionately. Red Bear nodded. Yes, he remembered. The day his little brother left their people was something he would never forget.
Red Bear walked a short distance into the horse herd, singling out one of his own ponies. "Come. Ride with me," he ordered with the authority befitting a leader. He grabbed a section of the gelding's mane and swung onto its back with an agility that belied his thirty-three years.
Buck nodded in agreement and reached for the saddle blanket still lying under the tree where he deposited it the night before. Out of habit he tossed the blanket over the horse's back and bent to retrieve the saddle but his brother's voice and accompanying scowl stopped him.
White men did many things that didn't make sense - the need to use such a strange device to ride a horse was something Red Bear could never understand. How could you know your mount if you didn't touch it? "Do white men need such a thing to stay on a horse?" he asked with a sincere curiosity, motioning to the saddle.
Buck let the saddle drop to the ground, laughing out loud as a vision of Ambrose Merriweather on horseback trotted across his memory. He then tossed the saddle blanket in the same direction and swung onto the mare's bare back. "Yes, brother," he answered, still amused by the thought. "Some of them do."
The autumn air was crisp and hinted of the snow it had already brought to the higher elevations as they rode through the valley following the twists and turns of the stream's crooked path. Ripples of moving water caught rays of mid-day sun and transformed the surface into a layer of multi-faceted jewels, their diamond cut edges reflecting the light back to the heavens. Buck turned up the collar of his jacket to guard against the chill and let his eyes wander up the valley walls, through the thick, dark stand of sheltering evergreens and into the cloudless sky. The stillness in the protective enclosure was overwhelming and for a moment it was almost possible to forget Ike's noble death - forget that Noah lost his life for no good reason. The feeling of being left behind while his friends moved on could be easily lost in this place so far removed from the touch of the white man. The valley offered the peace he craved and Buck drank the scene in great swallows as if he had been thirsty for a very long time.
Running Buck's arrival delighted Red Bear - he had prayed for his return for years. His brother's absence was the one thing out of order in Red Bear's very orderly life. But much as he would like to believe that Running Buck returned simply because he wanted to be with his true family, he doubted that was the case. "Why did you come back?" Red Bear asked to appease his suspicions.
Pulled unwillingly from his reverie, Buck shifted uneasily under his brother's questioning gaze. He wasn't anxious to hear Red Bear's 'I told you so.' "Do I need a reason to visit my brother?"
"No," Red Bear answered almost casually. "But you have one," he continued, his tone turning more serious. "When we last spoke the love you felt for your white family was strong."
"It still is," Buck answered and reined the mare to a stop. He loosened the reins of the halter allowing her to graze beside Red Bear's black gelding in the tufts of grass that grew between the moss covered rocks along the stream bank.
"But something has changed."
"Yes," Buck answered, his eyes fixed on the shimmering stream. "Many things have changed."
"When did the silent one die?" Red Bear asked, causing his brother's head to jerk around sharply.
"How did you know?"
"When he was captured by my braves you were willing to give yourself for him. Your bond was very strong. If he still lived, you would not have returned."
"He died in the spring," Buck answered quietly. "I killed the man responsible," he added in a stronger voice, making sure Red Bear knew he had avenged his friend's death as a warrior should. Red Bear didn't answer, merely nodded with an understanding the Express family had never exhibited.
Buck sighed heavily and slouched a bit as he continued, as if the weight of his reason for returning was great. "There is a war coming and I wanted no part of it. The white man will fight himself. Friends and families are turning on each other."
"And now your white family is gone," Red Bear stated assuredly. He knew it would happen, he had told Running Buck as much. But there was pain in his brother's voice. Now was not the time to remind him that he had been warned.
"Some of them left. The others have moved on with new lives," Buck admitted a bit reluctantly. "I didn't want anything to change. I was foolish enough to think we would always stay together but I was wrong."
"Life is a journey, little brother, it does not stand still. Perhaps your white family has learned that. Perhaps you need to learn that, too."
