would stop praying and start setting. If Dr. Full could get his mind out of his notions long enough to see not a child of God, a creature of Darkness, a fallen angel, or a sinner in need of grace, but a lad with a broke leg—Shoshone lad, surely a breed lad.
The lad moaned.
Flare squatted next to the lad and squeezed his wet handkerchief. Water dripped into the boy’s mouth. He didn’t react, didn’t move lips, tongue, anything. After a while Flare saw his Adam’s apple bobble. Flare squeezed a few drops onto his forehead, thinking ironically, I baptize thee, in the name of the Holy Mother-bleedin’ Church….He wiped the face and forehead and laid the handkerchief on the lad’s hair line to cool him a little.
Lad was in rough shape. Flare took the float stick he’d brought back, hacked it in half with a few swings of his tomahawk, and handed the two pieces to Dr. Full for splints. Tore up the flour sack for ties—now the flour these pork-eaters brought along was paying its way, anyhow.
Flare walked back to read the tracks. The boyo had dragged himself up the gully—plucky boyo, almost got up to his gear. Half mile uphill to here, tough going. Could have stayed alive for weeks up there, what with food and water. Didn’t make it, though, did he?
Flare read the spot where it happened. Horse was walking, being led, broke into a run. Flare couldn’t see just what went wrong for the lad—it happened on a rock with a big crack. Maybe the boy stuck his foot in the crack and went over. Would fit his break, it would. Yes, blood on the uphill side of the crack.
The lad’s crawl, and all his resting spots, were clear to those as had their eyes on earth. Flare followed the marks back up. In one place the feathery marks of owl wings brushing the sand—damned peculiar, must have been made before or after. Nothing else here but a tale of struggle and pain. A plucky boyo in truth.
The boy was unchanged. Breathing easier, maybe. Dr. Full had the leg set. Looked reasonable enough. Nothing Flare couldn’t have done himself. The doctor was going on with his tongue, in his elaborate, Dr. Fullish way. He talked as a creek ran over a waterfall, because he had to.
Flare looked at the sides of the gully. Not too bad, but…he looked up the boulder-strewn gully. Not a job for a horse.
“Mr. O’Flaherty,” Dr. Full said, “I’d be obliged if you’d fetch the smith.” Muscles to heft the boy out of here.
Flare squatted again. One of the reasons the missionaries thought he was a barbarian was that he squatted comfortable as an Injun. Well, he was a barbarian. Flare wet his handkerchief from his flask again and dribbled water into the lad’s mouth and onto his forehead. An Irishman didn’t hop to another man’s order too quick.
Mind rose, and fell. Mu-qua-yizikanzi —soul fog flew up.
Mind rose toward consciousness, and fell.
Swayed, rose, drifted, drifted, swooned. Bumped.
So. I have passed through a little death. Maybe the big death. But I have passed through the death Owl brought me. I am here.
Where is here?
Lie still, feeling. Mouth. Mouth hurts, tongue hurts. Head—move neck slightly. Okay. Trunk, okay. Arms—wiggle one finger—okay. Legs. Yes, the leg hurts. Won’t move that. The pain is there, waiting.
Maybe I’ve passed through a little death. If it is the big death, leg would be perfect. It’s broken. I hope I am below the sky. I want to do as Owl told me.
Let the eyes flick open, closed. Glare. See nothing but Apa the sun spirit, glaring.
So, where am I? Beyond a little death.
Bump!
Ataa! Ouch! Where am I?
Open yes. A horse’s behind. A woman. Unbelievably, a white woman. With red hair, the color of the sacred pipestone. Looking at me. Smiling at me.
I am with white people.
Mind-swoon.
Miracle. Owl sends me through a death and brings me out with white people, my new people. Not after a moon of travel. Now. Owl my guardian makes miracles. Soul fog lifts.
Lots of words. Booming. A man’s
The lad moaned.
Flare squatted next to the lad and squeezed his wet handkerchief. Water dripped into the boy’s mouth. He didn’t react, didn’t move lips, tongue, anything. After a while Flare saw his Adam’s apple bobble. Flare squeezed a few drops onto his forehead, thinking ironically, I baptize thee, in the name of the Holy Mother-bleedin’ Church….He wiped the face and forehead and laid the handkerchief on the lad’s hair line to cool him a little.
Lad was in rough shape. Flare took the float stick he’d brought back, hacked it in half with a few swings of his tomahawk, and handed the two pieces to Dr. Full for splints. Tore up the flour sack for ties—now the flour these pork-eaters brought along was paying its way, anyhow.
Flare walked back to read the tracks. The boyo had dragged himself up the gully—plucky boyo, almost got up to his gear. Half mile uphill to here, tough going. Could have stayed alive for weeks up there, what with food and water. Didn’t make it, though, did he?
Flare read the spot where it happened. Horse was walking, being led, broke into a run. Flare couldn’t see just what went wrong for the lad—it happened on a rock with a big crack. Maybe the boy stuck his foot in the crack and went over. Would fit his break, it would. Yes, blood on the uphill side of the crack.
The lad’s crawl, and all his resting spots, were clear to those as had their eyes on earth. Flare followed the marks back up. In one place the feathery marks of owl wings brushing the sand—damned peculiar, must have been made before or after. Nothing else here but a tale of struggle and pain. A plucky boyo in truth.
The boy was unchanged. Breathing easier, maybe. Dr. Full had the leg set. Looked reasonable enough. Nothing Flare couldn’t have done himself. The doctor was going on with his tongue, in his elaborate, Dr. Fullish way. He talked as a creek ran over a waterfall, because he had to.
Flare looked at the sides of the gully. Not too bad, but…he looked up the boulder-strewn gully. Not a job for a horse.
“Mr. O’Flaherty,” Dr. Full said, “I’d be obliged if you’d fetch the smith.” Muscles to heft the boy out of here.
Flare squatted again. One of the reasons the missionaries thought he was a barbarian was that he squatted comfortable as an Injun. Well, he was a barbarian. Flare wet his handkerchief from his flask again and dribbled water into the lad’s mouth and onto his forehead. An Irishman didn’t hop to another man’s order too quick.
Mind rose, and fell. Mu-qua-yizikanzi —soul fog flew up.
Mind rose toward consciousness, and fell.
Swayed, rose, drifted, drifted, swooned. Bumped.
So. I have passed through a little death. Maybe the big death. But I have passed through the death Owl brought me. I am here.
Where is here?
Lie still, feeling. Mouth. Mouth hurts, tongue hurts. Head—move neck slightly. Okay. Trunk, okay. Arms—wiggle one finger—okay. Legs. Yes, the leg hurts. Won’t move that. The pain is there, waiting.
Maybe I’ve passed through a little death. If it is the big death, leg would be perfect. It’s broken. I hope I am below the sky. I want to do as Owl told me.
Let the eyes flick open, closed. Glare. See nothing but Apa the sun spirit, glaring.
So, where am I? Beyond a little death.
Bump!
Ataa! Ouch! Where am I?
Open yes. A horse’s behind. A woman. Unbelievably, a white woman. With red hair, the color of the sacred pipestone. Looking at me. Smiling at me.
I am with white people.
Mind-swoon.
Miracle. Owl sends me through a death and brings me out with white people, my new people. Not after a moon of travel. Now. Owl my guardian makes miracles. Soul fog lifts.
Lots of words. Booming. A man’s
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