Lakota Winds

Book 1: Lakota Winds

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor comes Lakota Winds, the first book in a magnificent Native American saga of a tribe, a family, and the struggle for survival that joins two hearts-and threatens to consume a nation. When his wife and young son are slaughtered by Crow warriors, Wind Dancer is let embittered and lonely. Intent only on duty to his people, he never imagines that it will force him to take another woman into his life. Chumani too has lost much to tribal wars. Seeking revenge for the murder of her husband and child, the beautiful warrior rides fiercely against her enemies, and vows never again to marry. But when a medicine man sees her union with Wind Dancer in a sacred vision, she knows their alliance will make both their tribes strong. Now, beneath the wide sky of a land at war with itself, Wind Dancer and Chimani must learn to trust again-and to succumb to a love that can heal-if they ever hope to save their people.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 332

Sample

APRIL 1851

PAHA SAPA (THE BLACK HILLS)

As the brave knelt by the fallen doe, a blade in his hand ready to skin and butcher the animal, Wind Dancer crept forward until he was close enough to prevent the stranger from having time to retrieve a bow and quiver of arrows from near a tree, and he cautioned. “It is not safe or wise to steal the hunt of another. Put away your knife and go in peace while I claim what is mine.”

The brave leapt to his feet and whirled to face Wind Dancer, whose eyes widened in surprise, for it was a woman—not a man—who stood before him. Long black braids hung over her shoulders. She was clad in a buckskin shirt, fringed leggings, and a breechclout—a man’s garments. But she was the most beautiful female he had seen, and for a short time, he simply stared at her in amazement. Her dark brown eyes studied him from head to foot, then she raised one brow slightly and looked directly into his gaze as she pointed her knife toward him. He wondered if she recognized him. He also wondered to which band she belonged, as nothing upon her unbeaded and unpainted garments and weapons gave him a clue to her tribal identity. She narrowed her gaze and glared at him as if its flames of anger could sear away his life force. Then she spoke, her voice, the sound of soft and slow moving water, her words as hard and stinging as a thrown stone.

“It is not safe or wise to prey on another band’s hunting grounds. Why do you risk trouble by stealing an ally’s game? There is no coup to be earned by such reckless theft. Have your people slain or driven all creatures from your grounds? Is that why you encroach upon another’s?”

Wind Dancer did not know if her behavior resulted from shame, courage, arrogance, or ignorance but he was disappointed and vexed by her rudeness and apparent lack of training. He was a famed warrior, a man, son of a chief, a future chief himself. She should not speak such words to him. “The deer was not slain on your people’s grounds,” he explained. “A wounded animal roams where it wills; a hunter must track it and find it to end its suffering. She is mine, for my arrow lodges in her body. Look, it bears my markings.” He watched her eye the feathered shaft which he withdrew from his quiver and held before him, then half-turn to compare its painted symbols to the arrow’s which was embedded in the doe’s chest. Despite viewing that proof, she shrugged, frowned, and insulted him again.

“It is a long way to another’s hunting grounds. If your arrow had flown true, she could not have run so far before she halted to die. It is wrong to make the Great Spirit’s creatures suffer so much and for so long.”

Wind Dancer was astonished by her rebuke. He concluded that her parents and people had failed to teach her respect. He did not even want to imagine how his family and people would react to his sister if she dared to speak to a man in this offensive manner. His wife had never belittled, shamed, or scolded him. “My arrow missed its true mark when I was attacked by an enemy,” he said in his defense. “I could not track the Great Spirit’s creature into your people’s forest until that danger was past.”

Chumani noticed that he had received no injuries from that fight, and the fact he stood before her proclaimed him as its victor. Yet, he did not boast of his triumph. And he mistakenly assumed she was of the Brave Heart band since this was their wintering section of the Paha Sapa, an area upon which she also was trespassing.

“I am Waci Tate of the Red Shield band of the Oglalas,” he identified himself. “My people’s winter camp is almost one sun’s ride from this place, but our hunting grounds travel closer.” If she recognized his face or name, it did not show in her now stoic expression, but he had seen her gaze roam his face and body for bloody signs of his recent struggle and markings of his tribal identity. He wondered if she was impressed by the fact there were none, or if she believed he was speaking falsely to her.

Chumani knew who the tall and muscular warrior was, but she was the daughter of a chief and a skilled hunter and fighter in her own right, and she did not fear him. Following a deadly attack on her people by the Crow two seasons past, she had trained every sun to master warrior skills and increase her stamina, strength, and wits until she could defend herself and help protect her people. She had seen this warrior of awesome prowess at a distance on the grasslands on several occasions when the many bands gathered for seasonal trading. As a woman, she had been compelled to remain at her people’s chosen camp site; it was the White Shields’ way of keeping their females away from the temptation of being drawn to and mating with outsiders, Indian and White. But she and her best friend had sneaked near the men’s location one night and spied upon them. After Waci Tate arrived, she had been unable to look away from him and thoughts of him had tormented her for many moons. Now, here he stood before her, overfilled with pride and scolding her as if she were a bad child!

As one who tried his best to practice the Four Virtues—Bravery, Generosity, Fortitude, and Wisdom—Wind Dancer doused his hot irritation. “If your family is hungry and you search for food, the deer is yours,” he offered.

“There are three skilled hunters in my family,” Chumani responded. “The deer is yours to take, but do not roam these hunting grounds again. If I had known you pursued her, I would not have tried to take her.”

As she sheathed her knife and collected her bow and quiver, showing she either trusted or had no fear of him, he nodded. “That is wise. Now, tell me, who are you and where do your people camp?” Before allowing her time to respond, he added, “Rest while I prepare the deer and I will carry you to your camp on my horse. It is not safe for a woman to walk the forest alone when enemies are restless.”

Chumani’s wits cleared and she realized she was behaving badly, especially since he had offered her the doe and an escort home. Yet, she felt compelled by shame and another unknown feeling to deceive him. “I am called the morning mist. I know this forest and will be safe. Grandfather’s creature awaits your prayers and preparation.” She wanted to leave fast, as she, too, had unwittingly encroached upon the Brave Hearts’ territory so deep were her thoughts as she enjoyed the forest during the rebirth of the land after a long and bitter winter.

Wind Dancer watched the stubborn female vanish into the dense woods. She was beautiful and shapely, he admitted, but her ways were unappealing. Yet, he experienced a strange attraction to her, more than a physical one, and that baffled and piqued him. He walked to his kill and knelt to thank it for its sacrifice and to praise its prowess. This was one of the few times he had ridden alone to either hunt or battle enemies. Usually his best friend, Red Feather, was at his side; and often, so was his younger brother, War Eagle. He did not know why he had wanted to travel alone on this sun, but the feeling within him had been too great to ignore. He was glad no one else had witnessed the woman’s bad behavior, as reporting it could have caused trouble with her band if she were mated to a great warrior, trouble he wanted to avoid at this busy time when Mother Nature changed her face and while a large group of men from their band was at Fort Pierre for trading. He had not gone with them to the enclosed village which was called a fort but was only a trading post, as he did not like or trust those with hairy white faces, the wasicun.

As he loaded the game on his horse, his body stiffened and his mind came to intense alert as if something warned him of imminent danger. Perhaps, he reasoned, the enemy who had attacked him had not been traveling alone. His gaze was drawn—as if by a mystical force—toward the direction in which the woman had disappeared, and a voice within his head ordered him to ride quickly that way.

It did not take long for Wind Dancer to hear ominous sounds coming from a clearing beyond him. He dismounted and told his horse, a smart and loyal animal, to remain there. He sneaked to a location where the woman was encircled by three Crow warriors, their identities unmistakable from their garments and markings. Anger filled him at the sight of his enemies encroaching on Lakota hunting grounds and taunting the beautiful creature. No doubt the daring warriors intended to take her captive and steal her innocence. His fury increased as he saw them darting in and out as they played a cruel game with her. There was no way she could escape their human enclosure, though she held a knife at the ready in her right hand and appeared agile and alert. She moved quickly as she whirled about and slashed out with her blade to keep the three foes at a safe distance, threatening and insulting them with her shouts. He noticed there was no fear in her brown gaze, only sheer hatred and coldness. She looked as though she wanted to slay them barehanded.

The men began taking turns with their sport, one resting and laughing while the other two continued dancing around her and thwarting her strikes with their lance points, their clinking contacts sounding loud in the forest’s quietness. He assumed she would soon exhaust herself, making her vulnerable to seizure and worse. With all of the stealth and skills he could summon, Wind Dancer approached the resting man.

With a loud yell and knife brandished, the oldest son of Chief Rising Bear leapt into the clearing and challenged his enemies, determined to rescue the woman even at the risk of his safety and survival. He had confidence in his prowess, for he had battled more than three foes at a time in the past, and he still walked unharmed and alive to chant those coups.

Wind Dancer sent his blade into the heart of the startled Crow. Without delay, he set upon the second enemy, who charged at him like a raging buffalo during mating season, as the woman was fighting the third with skills which both impressed and astonished him. Though he was concerned about her safety, Wind Dancer was forced to focus his attention on his own battle, as his larger responsibility and duty were to his family and people as their future leader. He needed to use his strength, and skills to best his foe, which he could not do if his thoughts were on her.

The Oglala and Crow warriors exchanged taunting grins, both assessing his opponent’s weaknesses and strengths. They stepped sideways in a circular pattern, each seeming to await an unspoken signal from the other to begin their struggle for victory. In the flicker of an eye, Wind Dancer fell backward to the ground and delivered a stunning kick into his competitor’s groin, causing the man to shriek in pain, double over for a moment, and then retreat with haste for recovery as he himself laughed at his successful maneuver and sprang to his feet with ease.

With lightning speed and hopes of benefiting from the man’s brief vulnerability, Wind Dancer raced forward and hurled his lowered shoulder into the man’s abdomen, bringing forth a rush of air from his lungs. As the Crow stumbled backward and gasped for air, Wind Dancer used his knife to slice across the man’s right side. His gaze flickered to the gaping wound and he thrilled at the knowledge he had brought forth the first-blood in what had to be a life-or-death encounter. He saw the Crow’s gaze darken and glitter with outrage and pain, then narrow in determination that this would be his first and last injury.

Both warriors shoved with powerful bodies, kicked with nimble feet and legs, and struck with hard fists as their battle continued at a fast pace. They grunted and taunted and sucked in air to aid their labored breathing as their physical conflict stirred up moist dirt, dead leaves, and small stones. The Crow slashed out in an attempt to carve a path across the Oglala’s stomach and chest, but Wind Dancer darted to his right and opened up another gushing red wound on the man’s arm which wielded an equally sharp weapon. Wind Dancer read fury in the man’s gaze and tried to keep his own impassive to prevent exposing his strategy.

A few feet away, Chumani knew her edge was in a mixture of her opponent’s annoyance at being the one to battle a female while his friend challenged an elite warrior, of his arrogance in underestimating her skills, and of his belief he could defeat her quickly and easily. That he could not win quickly and was receiving cuts from her blade and blows from her left fist and feet visibly increased his vexation and made him careless during his ensuing attacks. Her gaze never left his, as she knew his next move and the timing of it would be revealed there first, a lesson Fire Walker had taught her well. She also had learned that even a brief delay in reaction could cost her her life. She kept her feet apart, her arms and hands controlled, and her knees bent.

As the enemy lunged at her, she dodged his approach and whirled to send her blade into his heart from behind. The Crow arched his back, grunted, and fell to the ground, soon dead from the lethal blow. She withdrew her knife and gazed at his body, her generous heart unable to pray for his departing spirit after what his people had done to hers two seasons’ past. Unlike the Crow war party who had attacked her people, she and her band did not slay women and children, even for revenge. For every Crow warrior slain by her or another, she wondered if he was the one who had taken the lives of her loved ones.

Chumani forced her anguish aside, retrieved her other weapons, and hurried into the forest. She dared not take victory prizes with her or reveal this glorious incident upon returning home or the men in her family would refuse to allow her to leave camp alone again. To do so was a rare action for her, but her best friend had been busy with other chores when the urge to roam the forest had overwhelmed her.

Now she recalled how the Crow’s knife had almost nicked her arm when she was startled by Wind Dancer’s sudden arrival and her brief distraction by him. It was unlike her to lose her wits over a man and to allow her attention to stray at a perilous moment, but, indeed the Oglala warrior had stolen her thoughts for a time. She could not stay to thank him, even if she should; to do so would compel him to escort her home, and that would expose the peril she had encountered. Shielded by trees, she paused to take one final look at him. Though annoyed with him and his unwanted assistance she could not help but admire his looks and respect his great prowess. She frowned and scolded herself for allowing herself to linger, then left to find her beloved Cetan and return with him to camp before darkness blanketed the land.

Wind Dancer cautioned himself to be patient and vigilant, as a lack of those qualities often meant defeat. Sweat glistened on his face and dampened his garments, as the air was unusually mild for this time of year. His breathing was ragged, but his energy was heightened by the excitement of the battle and the coup awaiting him. He realized the Crow’s stamina was lagging. He ducked as the Crow tried to ram him in the chest to knock him off balance. He licked his lips in anticipation of impending triumph and with a few more clever strikes and evasions, the man lay lifeless on the ground.

He turned to look at the woman, knowing her battle was over from a brief glance toward her earlier, but she was gone. His keen senses scanned the surrounding area, but he neither sighted nor heard anything to indicate her location or direction of retreat.

Wind Dancer walked to the third slain enemy and let his ebony gaze examine the man’s injuries. The woman had fought with amazing skill, strength, and cunning— and had won. He could not imagine why she had sneaked away or why she had not thanked him. And she had taken no prize of her glorious victory, which astonished him. He selected those possessions of the slain warriors he wanted, summoned his horse, and loaded them. He concealed the bodies of the Crow with rocks and thick brush, a few branches in the shade still dusted with the last of the rapidly melting snow. He did not want them found before Mother Nature could dispose of them.

After everything was prepared for his departure, Wind Dancer left his horse there and followed the woman’s trail until it, too, vanished as she had. Her tracks on the soft earth simply halted and no hint remained of where she had gone—no leaves, rocks, or limbs were overturned or moved or broken. He knelt and studied the damp surface with confusion. His troubled mind filled with questions. Who was she? Why had their paths crossed two times in one sun? Where had she gone? How had she vanished without leaving a trail? Was she the “morning mist” as she had told him?

Chumani observed Wind Dancer from high above him in the tree. She made certain to remain silent and still. She did not even flinch when a bug crawled over her hand and bit it. She prayed Cetan would not return from his hunt and give away her position or attack Wind Dancer. She remained there until the bewildered man shrugged, took a deep breath, and returned to the clearing, where he mounted, took the tethers of the Crow horses, and rode away, out of her life forever.

When she was assured he was gone, she scampered down the tree with the agility of a squirrel. She walked to where her horse awaited her, with Cetan perched on a nearby branch, watching her with his keen eyes.

“There you are,” she murmured to the beloved hawk she had kept since she was ten winters old. “Come, Cetan, we ride for camp,” she said, holding out her arm with a wide leather band now secured around it. After the bird settled himself there with his tawny gaze on her, Chumani reprimanded in a playful tone, “I may have needed your help if Wind Dancer had not appeared and rescued me from our enemies. But it was not a good sign to meet him up close, Cetan, for he stirs strange feelings within me. I must make certain our paths never cross and our eyes never meet again.”

As soon as those words escaped her lips, Chumani frowned and scolded herself once more for having such forbidden feelings and thoughts. She kneed her mount and headed southward to her village.

As Wind Dancer approached his people’s winter encampment the next day, the shaman of their tribe halted him before he reached the numerous tepees which were set up amidst tall green pines and still-barren hardwoods in a northern sheltered valley of the Paha Sapa. He smiled at his mother’s father, as he loved and respected the wise and powerful man. Despite the clouds within his grandfather’s eyes, which whitened more with every circle of the seasons, he noted an odd gleam in them and an unusual expression on the old man’s heavily creased face.

Nahemana rested a wrinkled hand on the warrior’s muscled thigh, locked gazes with him, and said, “Remember the past sun, he who dances with the wind, for your feet have touched the path to your destiny.”

“I do not understand your words, Grandfather. I have battled and defeated Crow many times. Their horses are a gift to you for trade. Their belongings will be given to those with loved ones slain by our enemy.”

“Your heart is good and generous, micinksi.” Nahemana praised Wind Dancer, calling him “my son,” since he had helped rear this man as was the people’s custom. “Wakantanka will reward you on the hunt and in battle. Soon, the words the Great Mystery put within my head will become clear to Nahemana; this is not the sun for Him to reveal their meaning or for us to speak of them. Walk with me, micinksi. Tell me all your hands did, your ears heard, and your eyes saw since you left camp on the past sun.”

Wind Dancer was eager to go to his family’s tepee to show them he had returned safely. He also wanted to share his exciting news with his best friend, Red Feather, and his younger brother, War Eagle. Yet, he always obeyed his grandfather, so he slid off his horse’s back, secured four sets of leather thongs to bushes, and followed the slow-moving shaman to a small clearing surrounded by black boulders. As with Nahemana, he sat on the ground cross-legged, facing him and with little space between them.

“The air grows warmer each sun, micinksi, but a strange coldness attacks within me.” Nahemana revealed his concerns in low tones. “I have not felt such trouble in my heart and mind since my firstborn daughter vanished many seasons ago. I fear danger rides toward us at a fast pace and great suffering lies ahead for our people if we do not find and defeat it. My daughter’s safe return was a great victory over our enemy, but soon we must seek an even greater victory over them.”

Wind Dancer remembered the painful time when all believed his mother was dead for two circles of the seasons. That had been twenty winters past when he had lived to four marks on a growing stick. It was during that tormenting time when his father had felt and shown his only weakness, but that was not something either he or Rising Bear wanted to recall. It was strange, he reasoned, that the number two played another agonizing part in his life, for two winters’ past, it felt as if his heart had been torn from his body when his son and wife were slain by a Crow band. At times, Wakantanka worked His will in mysterious and cutting ways, yet, an honorable man accepted those challenges, without anger and a loss of faith in Him. “When will you seek answers about me and our danger from the Great Spirit, Grandfather?” Wind Dancer asked.

From his grandson’s expression, Nahemana knew his mind had visited the past once more, and silently grieved with him for a while. “I will do so on the next full moon,” he finally answered, “as He told me in a dream when I last slept. The ice which chills my thoughts and body comes from the direction of the rising sun and from where the winter winds are born and blow toward us.”

“You speak of two different perils, Grandfather?”

“Yes, micinksi, but the two threats will melt into one force as the ice arrows on the trees melt into a stream and mix with its waters. If we do not control it and keep it within its banks, the new water has the power to flow over us and destroy our people and camp.”

Wind Dancer felt his own heart chill and his spirit tremble at the use of the number two again. “Do not worry, Grandfather,” he tried to assure the shaman, “we will keep it within its banks.”

Nahemana’s weakened gaze locked with Wind Dancer’s. His grandson’s eyes contained a contradictory mixture of confidence and uncertainty, as did his own heart. “That task will be yours, micinksi, for you also walked in my dream when I last slept. You have been chosen as the Great Spirit’s weapon against our enemies. As has another who is a stranger to us, but will become our ally and your helper. I will pray for your courage and skills to help you walk the path He will set before you.”

Wind Dancer wondered who that “ally” and “helper” would be and when he would come. “What words must I speak and what deeds must I do to save our people and our land, Grandfather?” he asked with great curiosity.

“The Great Spirit did not allow me to hear and see them at this time. Soon He will speak them in a loud voice for my old ears to hear and He will uncloud my eyes so I may see them and reveal them to you and others. I will go to Mato Paha for my vision quest on the next Wi minbe.”

Wind Dancer’s heart filled with anticipation and he prayed he could meet the unknown challenge which loomed before him. But what, he wondered, did his coming duty have to do with what had taken place on the past sun? Did his task and destiny involve the fallen Apsaalooke warriors, or the spirit woman who still haunted him, or both? He had no choice except to live through twenty-one suns until the next full moon at their sacred Bear Mountain where his grandfather, their shaman, would be granted his answers.

Following their daily morning prayers and meal, Wind Dancer and Red Feather sat on rush mats near a pine tree while working on their weapons. Beside each man lay a pile of shafts from the chokecherry, gooseberry, and willow. Already those slender limbs had been measured and cut for the proper length, bark peeled away, straightened of any curves, shaved with a knife to make them as identical as possible, notched on one end for fletching, and grooved on the other for a piercing head. Strong sinew and glue made from buffalo hooves for securing the points and feathers to the shafts lay nearby. Though some of the other warriors used iron obtained from trading with the wasicun, both men preferred to use stones they found and chiseled into arrowheads, a task done often during the long winter.

“Where does your mind roam, mitakola?” Red Feather called Wind Dancer “my friend” with great affection and respect. “You wrap the sinew around the tip and shaft many times, only to remove it and do the task again when it was right the first time. I have made ten arrows while you play with one.”

Wind Dancer laughed as he laid the chokecherry shaft across his lap and looked at Red Feather. “It thinks of the woman I met in the Brave Heart’s forest three suns’ past,” he confessed, as the truth had always been spoken between them. One of the greatest honors and enjoyments in life was a friend—a kola—who loved and protected another’s life as much as his own. It had been that way between them since they were small boys. They had played and trained together with their fathers, grandfathers, and other males in their family circles. Later, they had ridden together on hunts and into battle, their bond as close as blood brothers. “There were many enemies in the forest that sun; I wish to know if she returned home safely as I did.”

“You speak of the wit-stealing wicagnayesa,” Red Feather jested as he recalled what his friend had told him about the mysterious woman upon returning to camp.

Yes, Wind Dancer’s mind concurred, she was a “trickster” who had eluded him and bested his tracking skills, a beautiful woman who invaded his thoughts when awake and his dreams when asleep. He did not understand this powerful pull toward her, but it could not be denied, though he made every attempt to do so. He did not want a woman to become special to him, another woman who could die at an enemy’s hand, and at a time when a dangerous and unknown challenge loomed ahead. Yet, it was as if she called out to him, and he could not seem to resist that summons.

After Wind Dancer whispered those thoughts to him, Red Feather said, “The Brave Heart camp is within a sun’s ride. We can say we come to see when they break camp to head for the grasslands to hunt buffalo.”

Wind Dancer refuted his best friend’s suggestion. “It is too soon to hunt the buffalo; the females are bringing forth new life at this time. And the great hunt always takes place after the growing and mating season.”

“We can say we come to see how they survived the cold season.”

“That would not sound true, and we must not speak false to those we may need as allies or they will turn against us.”

“We can say we come to ask if more Crow have encroached on their hunting grounds or attacked their camp in the night.”

“That would reveal I have done the same,” Wind Dancer pointed out.

“But your reason was a good one, to spare Wakantanka’s creature from suffering; they will understand and accept it. Or you can speak the truth.”

Wind Dancer shook his head at his friend’s playful hint. “I must not ask about a woman who may have a husband, a warrior who would not like my interest in her. Perhaps she was not supposed to be in the forest alone and that is why she sneaked away and took no battle prizes. To seek her out would expose her disobedience.”

“That could be true, mitakola; you told me of her bad ways. The women of our band would be punished for such behavior toward a warrior.”

“Perhaps there was a good reason for her mean words and manner.”

“Perhaps the fierce and powerful Waci Tate frightened her into a loss of wits. Or perhaps she was angered and shamed because you filled her body with desire when her husband is ugly and selfish and does not give her pleasure upon the sleeping mat or he is too old to do his duty there.”

Wind Dancer chuckled at his friend’s jests. He called to mind her beautiful image and how she had looked at him with interest, a remembrance which sparked fiery hunger within his loins. The thought of her being captured and abused by a Crow enemy sent quivers of fury throughout him. He even felt nibblings of envy and jealousy toward a possible husband, a man who could enjoy her body every moon and enjoy her beauty, smiles, and laughter every sun. Why, he wondered, had his wife never made him experience such potent feelings? But he knew the answer as he asked himself the question: she had been chosen by his father, not him, after he had reached manhood and it was time to mate and bring forth children. Even so, following her death, he had not wished to repeat that experience. No woman had tempted him until—

“It has been over two circles of the seasons since you lost your wife and son, mitakola. Do your heart and body hunger to replace them?”

Wind Dancer’s fading smile vanished fast at Red Feather’s serious expression. “I had put such longings away until I saw Morning Mist,” he revealed. “She stirred my body as no woman has, and I yearn for another child. I love and respect my family, but it was strange to return to their tepee and to remain there after mine was gone, as if doing so shouts loudly of that defeat by the Bird People. At times, it is as if I walk two life trails. When my moccasins roam one, it is as if they never lived; when they travel the other, it is as if they still live and I will see them that sun or moon.”

Red Feather understood well: following the deaths of his wife and son, Wind Dancer, as was their custom in the ituwahan, gave away all he owned except his weapons and horse which he needed for hunting and for battling enemies. He also kept his Wicasta Itancan shirt which was half blue and half yellow and decorated with hairlocks, a symbol of his rank in that powerful group of men who carried out the orders of the council. Homeless and alone afterward, he returned to his parents’ tepee, there to stay until he took another wife, who owned the family’s tepee and its possessions. Their physical bodies had long ago been reclaimed by nature’s elements from their burial scaffolds, their spirits—wanagi—now living with Wakantanka.

“That is the way it is meant to be, mitakola,” Red Feather said. “The Great Spirit dulls those memories so peace can come and pains be healed. The time for Ghost-Owning is past, so you must release them forever and travel a new and happy path.”

As he stared at the unfinished arrow across his thighs, Wind Dancer briefly reflected on the loss of his cherished son. He recalled the wanagi wopahte which had contained his son’s second finest garments, favorite playthings, and hairlock; that leather spirit pouch had hung on a short huyamni for a year following the boy’s death. Food had been placed before that three-legged stand at meals for one full span of the seasons, until those possessions were placed upon his son’s scaffold after the ituwahan ceremony of feasting and giving away of almost all of his belongings, thus ending the Ghost-Owning rite for his beloved child. He recalled how he had sung the death chant for two suns and moons until he was exhausted and hoarse. He recalled how his heart had ached and felt empty of emotion for a long time. Then he had accepted his fate and the reality his son traveled the “spirit trail.” Yet, he had never gotten over loving and missing the boy or hungering for revenge on the Crow, one in particular.

Not wanting to reopen that wound, Wind . . .