The Gift of Life

The men stood slack-jawed over the party of Indians who happened on the buffalo herd. I'd been told most tribes were hard to read. One of the ranch hands with us said, "They sure do keep a good poker face."

The one with a band of feathers rode up with his staff held high in peace. Young braves flanked him.

Redhawk and Jake rode up to meet with the Indians. The other ranch hands fingered their rifles at a safe distance where we hugged the grass edge of the creek bank. My heart jumped inside. Flashbacks of the raid on my cabin jarred my thoughts. I blinked it away to stay focused, as if on knifes edge.

Thad held out his revolver. I looked at him and tried to hide the fear with my words. "How many you figure to take with just a pistol?"

It's what you're going to do with it, Miss Taylor. If we don't make it-you take your life. Things be better in heaven then what they will make you live through. I got my ole Henry to keep me company."

"You can't be serious? They aim to talk it over." I thought about my boy on the ranch and how he could become an orphan.

Thad looked at me with a fear of death in his eyes. "That Jake, with his messed-up head got us into this, let's hope Redhawk gets us out."

I took the pistol, but I wasn't going down without a fight. The thought of not seeing my son again rattled me something fierce.

If arms and hand gestures could talk, they all seemed to be having one big conversation. Then one of the braves held out his knife near the buffalo. He skinned it open, careful to keep the gut sack intact. Jake knelt down with him to help. The brave pulled out the heart and held it up for the whole world to see. He cut a piece with his knife and offered it to Jake.

Thad looked at me. "You can breathe now. Looks like we have an understanding."

I breathed a sigh. I was all too happy they weren't carving our hearts.

Before Jake and Redhawk turned their horses our way, Jake had given the chief his rifle. And just when I thought it was the price of our heads, a young brave handed him a buffalo robe. The pair came toward us high in the saddle with all their hair and pride in the right place.

Some of the Indian women converged with children who looked baked as cinnamon in the sun. A couple of the horses had their Indian sleighs to carry all the buffalo meat. The women knew how to smile, a trait that seemed illusive for the men. But I admired how they carried themselves with a sense of purpose and unity.

The winds lifted, as if they too sighed. The spirit of the wind was here again to remind me, of our delicate balance between life and death and how we were all connected to the land. All God's creation.

When it was all said and done we left with an uneasy peace, but it was peace enough, as we followed our trail back. Jake seemed more alive than ever, proud of his buffalo robe. He explained himself on our way back east across the range. "I told them the Buffalo was shot as a gift, and we meant no ill will." It seemed to resurrect his personality.

As we rode on, I looked at Redhawk and then at Jake. "Don't get too stiff in collar, we might have to pry you off that saddle."

Redhawk looked back at the setting, which looked like a fiery red ball over the mountains. "We will need to make camp. Too far to make it back before dark."

We settled on a place of a placid stream where there were reeds and cattails. We found a nice soft piece of ground from where we tethered our horses to the scrub trees. It was there we set out to have a feast fit for banquet and talk of our adventure for the day. A few men made use of their axes and found some deadfall trees along the water's edge, enough for a robust fire. We'd already figured to post a sentry near the horses. We trusted the Indians in the light of day. But when cloaked in darkness we wouldn't trust the slightest sound from a wayward wind to the snap of a twig.

We gathered around the fire, as it it's tongue lashed the sky and sparks flew like fireflies. I rested my head on my saddle and looked up into the stars, a billion or so like silver trinkets, as if there was no small wonder beyond and below. The men's laughter was catchy and seemed free of nerves over such a lively fire that could bring eyes from near or far.

I found myself in the midst of men, but alone like a star that filled the sky with no one to hold and keep me warm. My unspoken prayer was how Jake would forgive himself for my husband's death, and he would know I forgave him. It was then I knew I needed to let my words fly.

Jake was next to me his hat over his head. I seized the moment. "I'd like it if we could start over. If we could pretend, I was never mad at you before you left and nearly got your head shot off in the war."

There was a heavy silence between Jake and I, saved only by the roar of the fire.

"Do you remember what made us distant in the first place? Do remember how you cared for me when my husband died?"

It was then in the glimmer of the fire light, he lifted his hat, and I saw the soul of his eyes. "I know, I ruined your life."

"I've forgiven you. Why can't you forgive yourself?"

"I...I thought about you Jane. I thought about you, alone, a widow woman, so young. I'm too ashamed to remember some things. Ashamed that I fell in love with you so soon after your husband's death. You could melt the heart of any man. My care for you was selfish."

A shout rang out from the sentry. Reeds parted. We must have all strained to see by way of the fire and the stars. At first I reckoned it was a creature, but it turned out to be a young squaw with a baby in her arms. Just about everyone had their pistols cocked and ready. But she fell to her knees before us.

She spoke in her Lakota tongue. Redhawk interpreted her words. "She followed the light. She said she prayed for a sign."

She collapsed before us. I coaxed the child from her to check his condition. She released her grip, when Redhawk explained I could be trusted.

Redhawk took the lantern spreading light over the woman. It was then I heard the words kidnapped come from the girl in broken English. He let the light linger over her dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, in case anyone had their doubts. She'd been kidnapped, and God only knew since when, as a small child perhaps.

The men squashed the fire, knowing most of us wouldn't sleep a wink.

The infant in my arms was not moving or breathing. I gave the cold child back to his mother, sensing she hadn't accepted his death. Some things were best left until the morning light, and sunrise couldn't come soon enough.