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For the past three months, the faces of the dead on the battlefield had haunted him day and night. The blood, the stench of it, seemed to cling to him even though he had washed himself repeatedly in a nearby creek, defying the cold air and water just to get himself clean.
Those baths, the cold nights, the dampness of the cave, were taking their toll on Night Horse. He knew that it wasn’t wise to stay in the cave any longer, but he had nowhere else to go.
“I do not want to die alone!” he suddenly cried, tears falling from his eyes as he again thought of his beloved mother and how it would feel to have her comforting arms around him.
In his mind’s eye he saw his mother sitting contentedly beside her lodge fire on a cold, blustery winter night. It was during the winter months that his mother softened the autumn elk hides by chewing the tough skins, wetting them with her mouth.
In the summertime, he and Brave Wolf always took their mother hives of succulent honey.
When he and Brave Wolf had gotten old enough to hunt, they had proudly brought home meat for their mother, some of which she roasted, while the rest was hung on the lodge poles.
If he was with his mother and brother when he took his last breath, oh, surely he would leave this earth with a happier heart. If his mother and brother were there loving him, it could only mean that they both had forgiven him of all that he had done against his Crow people.
“Yes, I must find my way home,” he whispered as he shakily pushed himself up from the rocky floor.
He had made a decision. He did want to go home. He wanted to die among his people. He wanted their forgiveness before he died, especially his mother’s and brother’s.
He was filled with such shame at his decision to leave his village to ally himself with whites.
But he had felt so important while working as a white man’s scout, especially when he had become one of General Custer’s most trusted scouts.
Now he wondered why he had felt that way, when deep down inside he knew even then that it was wrong to be with the white soldiers, leading them where he knew they would take advantage of his own people. He had known of the pony soldiers’ atrocities against many tribes, even that women and children had died.
He had forced those facts from his mind and had ridden proud and tall in the saddle alongside Yellow Hair, pointing the way here and there, expecting many rewards for his alliance with such an important man.
“Brave Heart. . . .” he said as he went to the cave entrance. There was still a fine mist hanging in the air.
He stepped out into it and pulled the blanket over his head as he stared up at the moon that was just coming into view as clouds slid away from it.
He had badly wanted the special title of Brave Heart for being one of Custer’s main scouts.
Had Custer lived through the battle, had he been victorious over those he fought, Night Horse would have been honored with such a title, for he was one of those scouts who advised Custer and rode with him into the center of the battle.
“But now he is dead,” he choked out. “All of those who rode with me and General Custer are dead. I . . . alone . . . survived.”
He gazed into the heavens. “Why?” he cried. “What is the purpose of my survival? Is it only because You want me to suffer these memories that weigh down my heart? Take me, First Maker. Let me die. But please, first let me reach my home. I do want to see my mother’s face one last time. I do want to hear my brother tell me that he can find it in his heart to forgive me.”
Sobbing, he prayed again . . . asking that he be accepted among his people again, so that he would have a proper burial among them.
Then, hanging his head, with barely any life left in his step, he saddled his stolen horse, managed to pull himself into the saddle, and started making his way down the steep incline of the mountain.
He reached deep inside himself for the strength to get to his home.
“Ina . . . brother . . . I am coming,” he whispered.
He clung tightly to the reins as he coughed so hard he felt something tearing at his lungs.
“A-i-i-i, I . . . am . . . dying,” he whispered. “I know I am!”
Chapter Nine
O for life of Sensations
rather than thoughts!
—Keats
The smell of something cooking over the campfire and the bickering of bluejays from somewhere close by in the trees awakened Mary Beth. The growling of her stomach reminded her of how long it had been since she had eaten. She could not imagine anything smelling as good as what she was now smelling.
