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Strikes Fast was hurrying through the act of skinning his recent kill, an elk, when he heard the scream with his mind's ear. And, reaching out to look into the environment, he saw his wife collapse. She was lying next to a creek, the one he recognized as running outside their shelter.
Leaving the elk where it lay, Strikes Fast jumped to his feet, and, without even a pause, he shot in the direction of their camp, realizing how great the distance to it was. There was no trail here, but it didn't matter. He sprinted across the broken tree limbs, ground brush and shrubs as though these were not the encumbrances they were. Up and down a few hills, he fled, as though an enemy were hot on his heels.
At last, a dim view of their camp came into focus, and within a flash he was racing down the gully he had seen in his mind. At once he beheld his wife, and his heart sank. She was lying at the bottom of the coulee, her unmoving body next to the creek. At her side was a young boy. Giving the boy little more than a single glance, he knew at once the lad was Lakota. The boy was crying as he sat beside Strikes Fast's wife.
Running quickly to the woman he loved, Strikes Fast examined her from the top of her head down over her body to her toes. He could clearly see she'd been hit in the head by the large sheet of ice which lay broken around her.
"Akbaatatdía, Creator,"he prayed,"let her still be alive."
Placing his finger beneath her nose, he felt for her breath and cried out as shock ran through him; he could not detect any breath there. Gazing at her chest and placing his hand over it, he didn't see nor feel it rise and fall.
He screamed, then cried out, "Akbaatatdía,Creator, help me! Do not let her die!"
Pressing urgently on her heart had no effect upon her; however, placing his lips over hers, Strikes Fast kissed her quickly before he began blowing air into her lungs. But, still her chest rose and fell only a little and not on her own. He barely even knew he was crying when he raised her up gently and took her into his arms. He motioned for the boy to follow him. But then, suddenly she coughed up water and sludge, gasping at the same time for breath. And, though she didn't awaken, it was with a cry of exultance when Strikes Fast gazed up toward the sky with thanks in his heart; she breathed at last.
The Creator had heard him. She still lived.
Climbing slowly up the gully so as not to disturb her body's injuries, Strikes Fast stepped toward their hut. The boy followed.
Once inside, he placed her as gently as possible onto their sleeping robes, the boy sitting at the entrance. Looking over to the boy, Strikes Fast signed, "Go get me water and some wood! Quick!"
Without uttering a sound, the boy went into action and returned quickly, carrying wood. Grabbing one of the bags from within the lodge, the boy left again, returning to the lodge at once with water.
Strikes Fast asked in sign, "Can you build a fire?"
The boy nodded and began to place the sticks he'd gathered into a pile, and, taking up a knife, made tiny shavings from the wood. Then, he placed a piece of flint, which lay at the side of the stones encircling the fire, and by carefully catching the spark, he lit the fire.
Again Strikes Fast signed, "Place a few of the larger sticks across the stones at the side of the fire and put the parfleche of water on the sticks. Let it boil."
The boy went into action, doing as asked.
Meanwhile, Strikes Fast made his wife as comfortable as possible. Taking her wet cloak from around her shoulders, he threw it to the side and, not bothering to undress her further, he instead wrapped her in several warm skins. No sooner was this done than he began rubbing her hands and feet, trying to bring warmth into them. Once they were a little warmer, he began the long process of rubbing her body up and down, over and over, bringing as much heat back into her body as he was able.
Thankfully she was still breathing, though the rise and fall of her chest was shallow. Still, she breathed, and, for this, Strikes Fast said again, "Thank you,Akbaatatdía,Creator."
As soon as the water was boiling, he gave the boy a rag and asked him to wet it, and, when done, Strikes Fast placed the warm rag over his wife's head injury, gently cleaning the blood from her face and head.
How much time elapsed as he knelt by her side, ministering to her, he didn't know. When at last he felt he had cleaned up the blood from the injury to her head and had also pumped warmth back into her, he reached behind them to grab a large parfleche bag, extracting from it his medicine drum and drum beater.
He hadn't used his drum and beater for years, having abandoned the way of the medicine man. Yet, as he began to strike his drum in the rhythm of the healing process, he sang his medicine song, the one given to him by the beaver. How many years ago was it since he had sung this song? Was it seven or eight years?
To this day, he always brought his drum and beater with him, if only to remind him of the society he had once held sacred.
It was dark outside when Strikes Fast at last came up onto his knees, and, motioning to the boy, asked him to accompany him outside the lodge, and, by the signs every man and child of the Plains knew and spoke, he discovered what had happened.
The boy had been crossing the creek on the ice overlaying the stream, when the ice had broken loose and he had fallen into the path of the fast-moving icy stream. He had barely been able to grab hold of the biggest section of the ice, yet he had done it, and, holding on to it, he had screamed for help.
"And, my woman?" asked Strikes Fast. "How did she come to harm?"
As the boy related the story, Strikes Fast came into the knowledge of how heroic his wife truly was. Without her aid, the boy would have surely drowned. Why were the facts of her heroism surprising to him? It should not have been so.
Yes, it was true her quiet demeanor spoke of a natural reserve in her character; yet, he was reminded of a time when, because of the danger to her friend Amelia, she had ignored her fear and become her friend's protector and heroine.
Taking hold of the boy, he hugged him. Then, patting him on the shoulder, Strikes Fast signed, "Your help is good and is appreciated. You are welcome here. Later, I wish you to tell me how you came to be here, alone in these mountains. But, not now." Glancing critically at the boy, Strikes Fast asked, "Are you injured?"
"No," said the boy in sign.
