Page 40 of The Last Warrior

Black Lion came fully awake.

“Human, you have called my name the day through. I have watched you. I have seen how you suffer. I have taken pity on you, and I will help you if I can. What is it you seek from me?”

Black Lion sat up, his buffalo robe falling from around his shoulders and onto his lap. At last, he had come face-to-face with his protector, the mountain lioness, for the animal sat close to him, the lion’s hind legs folded beneath her, her front legs and paws stretched out in front of her.

Black Lion tried to speak, but his voice took leave of him. He coughed and sputtered in his attempt, but at last he was able to say, “I seek counsel.”

“I am here.”

“Thank you. Mountain lioness, I would seek to know if I am on the right path. I have found the voice of the woman who sings the sacred song to me each night in my dreams. I long to sing the song to her, to see if I can break the spell for my people, but I fear to do it, in case she is not the one. Will you not tell me, mountain lioness, is she the one who will proclaim the song?”

“Human, you must discover this yourself.”

“Hau, hau. But, protector, are you saying that I may sing it to her?”

“Human, do not misunderstand. Listen well to me. You have one chance and only one chance to chant this song without missing a word. If you sing it to your wife and she does not know it, then you will have failed, for you will not have found the song. Know if this happens, you will have lost the opportunity to save your people…forever…”

At these words, Black Lion sank inward on himself, bringing up his hands to cover his face. He must have appeared utterly dejected, for his spirit protector continued to speak. “But come, it is not hopeless. I will cleanse you in the right way, and afterward, I will give you my own song, the song of the lion. While it is not the sacred song, it is one you may sing freely to anyone you choose. Perhaps the one who knows the sacred melody may recognize this, a lion’s song, and then perhaps this very same person might help you.”

As she spoke, the mountain lioness had come up onto all fours, so that the two of them, human being and lion, stared at one another, face-to-face.

Black Lion said, “I thank you for your wisdom, protector. It is, indeed, a great gift you offer me. For this I will honor you, and I will sing your song with a glad heart.”

The mountain lioness seemed well satisfied with this and turned to walk a few steps away. Black Lion commenced to follow, but the mountain lioness hadn’t gone far before she leaped onto a ledge and spun around toward Black Lion. “It is good, human being. I am honored by your words. Know this in warning. Nothing in this life is certain; nothing, no man, no animal, is perfect. But there are those who help others more than they harm. Seek to be he who helps, not he who harms, and if you do this, your pure heart will guide you straight.

“But beware. The white man’s ways are tempting. I will do what I can to help you, but you must keep to your purpose. Do not become distracted by ways of the flesh. Though you are married, you, your people, must be willing to sacrifice pleasures of the flesh.

“Now come, and I will lead you to a stream where you may cleanse yourself. Then I will sing my song to you.”

“Hau, you speak wisely, my friend, and I will honor your words. If you will guide me, I will follow.” Gaining his feet, Black Lion adhered well to his promise, chasing after the mountain lioness as they sped over the rocky terrain of the high mountains.

The Deadwood stagecoach was a piece of history, and was in fact the same coach that years earlier had been held up by Indians. Pulled by six mules, the coach sped into and around the large open-air arena as if pursued by Indians.

And it was.

The stunt was meant to be a reenactment, not simply a show. As a matter of fact, Suzette had come to learn that Bill Cody did not consider the Wild West a show at all. Rather, the Wild West was a depiction of the history of the West, as Cody had known and lived it.

In the reenactment, the coach was driven by Tom Duffey, a man who had been one of the original drivers of the Deadwood coach years earlier. Seated atop the rear of the coach was John Nelson, another colorful frontiersman who was rumored to have wed several Indian maids during his career—and at the same time. At present, Nelson and family were among several authentic characters in the show.

Suzette was seated within the coach. Her role in this drama was to be the maiden in distress, the one who would be rescued by Buffalo Bill, himself. It was Saturday, late in the afternoon, and this would be the last of three shows for the day.

The coach jerked back and forth as dirt from the mules kicked up enough dust to create a cloud, even this cold, Colorado environment. Suzette was reclining next to an open-air window, and with the coach running at full speed, she was joggled this way and that, often sliding into the gentleman seated next to her, necessitating several apologies from them both.

Behind the coach could be heard the war cries and the high-pitched whooping of the Indians as they gained speed over the wagon. In anxiety, Suzette’s stomach lurched over once, causing Suzette to lay a protective hand across her abdomen. Funny, the Indians hadn’t sounded so frightening in rehearsal. What was it about the actual performance that made the event seem so real?

Perhaps in rehearsal the Indians were not so loud or so intent on their prey, or maybe the crack of the whip was not quite so ominous or desperate. Whatever it was, it took no stretch of the imagination to envision how it would have felt to be involved in a real incident, even knowing that Buffalo Bill and his riders were to come to their “rescue.”

Jittery now, she glanced toward her fellow passengers seated across from her, a man and his “wife.” They all three shared a smile, and then, on cue, the man drew his pistol, leaned out the window and commenced firing the blanks from his gun.

Gazing once again out her own window, Suzette marveled at the skill of the Indian brave who rode up to the front of the coach on her side. The warrior sent a round of arrows toward the driver, who immediately fell over, “dead.” But the stagecoach kept going.

The Indian jumped from his seat on his pony to the coach, grappling to hold on while he wormed his way onto the topmost seat. Truly, it was a most athletic move. Meanwhile, another one of the Indians, a man she knew was called Red Shirt, rode up to her window, and, drawing his bow taut, sent an arrow aimed directly at her.

She screamed, even as the arrow whizzed harmlessly past her. Of course she’d known this was to happen; they had rehearsed it many times. Be this as it may, however, whether the stunt was real or not, it was still shocking.

At last the stagecoach came to a halt. The Indians dismounted and surrounded them. One Indian, whom she believed to be the man she knew as Red Shirt, ripped her door open.

Suzette screamed, again according to script. Even without the inducement of the script, she might have truly screamed regardless. Indians were everywhere—and they were painted for war.