“Good morning!” a woman’s voice greeted from behind.
“Hello,” he responded groggily as he turned to see Makawee sitting by the fire.
He rose to his feet, teetering to keep his balance. The blanket around his waist fell to his ankles. The chilly morning air on his bare buttocks was an instant reminder he was not wearing any clothes below the waist. He quickly snatched the blanket from around his feet and pulled it up to cover himself.
Makawee put a hand to her mouth, suppressing a smile at his sleepy blunder. She gathered his clothes hanging near the fire and brought them to him. He accepted the clothes in one hand while grasping the blanket around his waist with the other. As she started to walk away, Graham dropped the clothes. He grabbed her elbow, pulled her close, and leaned down to give her a soft kiss.
They held each other in silence. It was the first time they had shared a tender moment since the night they made love. Although he wanted to stay locked in her embrace, he forced himself to pull away when he heard her quietly sobbing.
“What’s wrong?” Graham asked with a worried frown.
“This morning I started to check on Zonta. Then I remembered he was taken. I miss him.”
Losing Zonta bereaved Makawee of a faithful companion. Horses were central to Indian culture and their way of life. It was akin to losing a family member.
“I’m sorry for your loss. You can ride with me. I’m sure you’ll find another good horse when you return home,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.
He modestly turned his back to Makawee as he donned his underwear and jeans, then spoke again as he pulled on his socks and boots.
“Is Zonta the only reason you’re weeping?”
“Well, I almost lost someone I love yesterday.” She smiled and put her arms around him again, resting her head on his chest.
“Where is Rides Alone?” he inquired.
“He left camp early to hunt,” she replied while stepping back and placing more wood on the fire.
“Hunt? With what?”
“The bow and arrows from the Sheep Eaters.”
Graham had forgotten about the beautifully crafted sheep-horn bow and pair of arrows left behind during their first encounter with the Shoshone. Without the Spencer and Winchester, the bow was their only hunting weapon.
“Why don’t we catch some fish?” he asked.
“There are no fish in this part of the river.”
Graham realized what she asserted was likely true in 1871. Park officials would introduce brook trout and rainbow trout to the Gibbon River at the turn of the century. Before this, there were no known native species of fish upstream of Gibbon Falls, where they were currently camped.
“Maybe we could fish in the Yellowstone River when we get to the canyon area later today,” he suggested. “But we need something to eat this morning. I’m really hungry. Wait here.”
A few minutes later, he came back with the cloth sack of cooked bacon and biscuits. Fortunately, the Piegans had not bothered to open the sack suspended from Lindy’s saddle.
As they ate a biscuit and chewed on the bacon, Rides Alone arrived. He dismounted and hooked the bow on the saddle horn of his horse.
“Shot at rabbit and missed,” he volunteered before either of them had a chance to ask about his hunting.
Graham held out a biscuit and two strips of bacon, which the Crow warrior quickly accepted.
“Getting better with bow and arrow,” he said while sitting down. “Good to hunt without rifle.”
Graham could sense the pride in Rides Alone’s voice. Perhaps the last time the Crow shot an arrow was when he was a boy. He felt fortunate they not only had a weapon, but also were traveling with a man who knew how to use it.
“Thanks for naming me Eagle Bear,” Graham said, peering across the fire at Rides Alone. “Yesterday when you said my name, it gave me courage. If I had run, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
Rides Alone met his eyes. “Spirits gave courage. I reminded you.”
“And you were protected by the bear claw,” Makawee added, pointing to the necklace hanging from his neck.
Graham didn’t argue. How many times had he been spared injury or death since donning the spirit-endowed bear-claw necklace? He had averted a grizzly attack, avoided falling into a thermal spring, shot a charging grizzly at point-blank range, survived hypothermia in a frigid lake, and escaped certain death at the hands of a vengeful Piegan warrior.
He reached under the top of his shirt and felt the bear-claw-and-eagle pendant. He needed the Baaxpée embodied in the necklace one more time tomorrow night under a full moon at the Dragon’s Mouth, where he would summon the spirits to send him home.
* * *
The trio was ready for the trail by midmorning. Graham mounted his mule, then reached down and helped Makawee up behind the saddle. Lindy initially balked at the extra weight, but quickly adjusted her stance to accommodate the additional rider. He reassured the pack mule by rubbing her withers and gently patting the side of her neck. Graham was confident if they set a slow pace and took periodic breaks, Lindy would be able to carry them the estimated twelve miles to the Yellowstone River.
Graham enjoyed having Makawee put her arms around his waist while they rode. It was another way they could share intimacy before the pending fateful evening when their futures would come into focus.
There were no major changes in elevation for most of the trip. They followed the Gibbon River Valley east several miles through a deep ravine, then climbed onto a plateau. Shortly after one o’clock, they arrived at Lookout Point on the north rim of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River.
The three travelers tied their mounts to a tree and ambled over to the canyon. Graham held onto a small tree and leaned over the edge of the cliff. Seven hundred feet below, the angry river roared through a deep gorge bordered by sheer rock walls painted in yellow and orange hues.
Graham stepped back from the edge and immediately thought of Henry Wood Elliott. The landscape artist’s acrophobia was originally confirmed by his friend Cam Carrington, who reported Elliott had stayed away from the rim of the canyon when the Hayden Survey team visited the area. Anyone with a fear of heights would surely be petrified of peering into the craggy abyss.
Makawee and Rides Alone returned to the animals and discussed the best place to water them and set up camp. The Crow siblings had seen the canyon many times during their forays into the future park. But the young white man was enthralled by the view and lingered to appreciate the magnificent panorama.
Graham scanned the landscape in front of him. Rocky outcroppings with cathedral-like spires and juvenile lodgepole pines obscured sections of the river as it snaked its way through the canyon. Nearly a half mile upstream to the southwest, the Yellowstone River cascaded three hundred feet over majestic Lower Falls, erupting into a roiling mist at its base.
This was the vantage point for Thomas Moran when he sat on a folding stool, sketchbook in hand, and created a watercolor drawing of the canyon. He would eventually transform his rough sketch into an influential oil painting that was subsequently purchased by Congress.
He recalled how the acclaimed artist explained his guiding philosophy while sketching the Grand Prismatic Spring:
“I am an artist, not a topographer. As such, I have a higher calling. As an artist, my intent is to create the essence of a scene—to pull the viewer into this divine world so that he may appreciate its grandeur.”
Indeed, Graham thought, as he gaped at the spectacular natural scenery, I am merely a spectator in a divine world.
Graham’s reverie was broken when he heard Makawee call his name. When he rejoined his Crow friends, he discovered camp would be established a few miles above the Upper Falls. They would spend the night fewer than ten miles from the Dragon’s Mouth.
* * *
The venison was flavorful, if not tender. The fine textured meat was nearly devoid of fat, making it more difficult to chew. Nevertheless, it was
a welcome alternative to the bacon strips, all of which had been consumed.
Rides Alone had used the sheep-horn bow to kill a small blacktail deer. He field dressed and secured the animal on the back of his horse, arriving in camp midafternoon. Makawee removed several loin strips from the animal’s back, then skewered and roasted them over the fire. While the two men feasted on the meat, she prepared to cook the liver by excising small chunks of fat below the deer’s skin. She braised the dark reddish-brown organ in fat using Graham’s frying pan.
In contrast to the dense loin strips, the braised liver was delectable. Graham had eaten plenty of game growing up. Frank was an avid hunter who was always bringing home a rabbit, squirrel, pheasant, or duck for his mother to prepare for dinner. He killed a doe and a buck almost every hunting season. But these crudely grilled venison strips were among the best game he had ever tasted. (Admittedly his culinary appraisal was biased because he was famished.)
Graham set up the fly after observing parallel rows of puffy altocumulus and wispy cirrus clouds in the western sky. He had learned in a meteorology class these types of clouds often form when the air is beginning to lift ahead of a cold front and are harbingers of rain. Rides Alone agreed with his assessment of pending bad weather. He ventured to a small clearing west of the river to repair a previously constructed wickiup Long Horse used during hunting trips.
The trio sat by the fire and listened to the constant low roar of the river as it tumbled over a series of small cascades toward the brink of the Upper Falls. The sounds from the river were accompanied by a repetitive series of high-pitched hoots from a northern saw-whet owl nesting high in an Engelmann spruce.
As Graham digested the large meal, he tried to think of an appropriate way to say goodbye to Rides Alone on the eve of his reckoning at the Dragon’s Mouth. He had earned the trust of his one-time nemesis after saving him from a grizzly attack, and they had formed a friendship based on respect. He decided the best way to cement their bond was by passing the pipe.
Reaching into his L.L. Bean pack, he extracted the briar pipe and pouch of kinnikinnick. He packed the pipe with the tobacco and willow-bark mixture, then lit it with a stick from the fire. After taking a few puffs, he handed the pipe to Rides Alone, who did the same. Makawee observed the ritual in silence, keenly aware of its symbolic meaning. After they had passed the pipe several times, Rides Alone spoke.
“Tomorrow night you complete vision quest at Tó-sál-dàu?” he asked, both as a question and a statement.
“That’s right,” Graham affirmed. He nervously rubbed the bowl of the pipe between his thumb and forefinger, hoping the Crow warrior would not raise questions about his motives again.
“Eagle Bear not from here.”
“I am from Pennsylvania—in the East.”
“Eagle Bear not from here,” Rides Alone asserted, emphasizing the final word.
The Crow warrior had sensed there was something unusual about the baashchiile’s presence. His statement set off alarm bells in Graham’s head. Did Makawee tell her stepbrother about time travel? He gave a furtive glance toward his lover but couldn’t read anything from her facial expression. He tried to think of a way to respond without fueling more suspicion.
“You are correct. I’m from a world that is yet to be.”
“Spirits bring Eagle Bear here?”
Graham swallowed hard. Either Makawee had revealed his true identity, or the Crow warrior was exceptionally astute. Or both. He tried to be vague.
“I’m here because of my vision quest. I need the spirits to help me return to my world.”
Rides Alone looked fixedly at Graham as if to discern the veracity of his claim. Seemingly satisfied, the Crow warrior stood abruptly.
“I want you to have this as a token of our friendship,” Graham said with heartfelt sincerity, offering his briar pipe.
Rides Alone bowed slightly and accepted the gift.
“I go to wickiup. See in morning.”
As the Crow warrior disappeared into the night, Graham looked incredulously at Makawee.
“Did he say he would see us in the morning? Does that mean . . . ?”
“Yes,” she finished his thought. She slid next to him and put a hand on his chest as she spoke. “This might be our last night together. He wanted us to have this time to ourselves.”
Graham leaned over and kissed her.
When she pulled away, he asked, “Did you tell him I traveled here from the future?”
“No. He is perceptive. You are a bit mysterious to him. He doesn’t consider you a typical white man.”
“That’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever received!” he exclaimed.
Graham grasped his pack and set it between his legs. Reaching into the sewn leather bottom, he pulled out the crushed and partially eaten Hershey bar. He unwrapped the sweet confection from the tin foil, broke it in half, and handed a piece to Makawee.
“If this is our final night together, let’s enjoy the remaining chocolate,” he suggested.
They sat together holding hands and talking softly as the fire slowly morphed from yellow flames to red embers. When Makawee yawned, Graham proposed turning in for the evening.
After checking on Lindy, he spread the bear pelt on the ground under the fly. The fur from the sow grizzly would keep them warm tonight.
“Is it ready?” Makawee’s voice from outside distracted his thoughts as he remembered the grizzly attack and its aftermath.
“Huh? Oh, yes. Please come in,” he said, motioning for Makawee to enter the fly.
He removed his boots and coat while she removed her moccasins and leggings. They lay on the grizzly fur and shared a buffalo hide as a blanket.
Makawee turned on her side. She placed her hand on his chest and swung a leg over his thigh. He felt his loins stir and turned to face her. Their bodies soon melted together as they slowly made love one final time.
Afterward, they lay naked facing each other under the buffalo hide. Graham used his fingers to trace the contours of her lithe body, lightly caressing her skin as he slowly moved from her shoulders to her hips. She pulled him closer, and they shared a long kiss. It was a moment he seared into his memory for safekeeping.
He lay on his back with Makawee cradled under his arm, wishing there was some way to take her with him to the future. Blurry images of spruce boughs danced overhead on the canvas fly in a light evening breeze.
“Graham?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to leave me tomorrow night?”
Graham didn’t respond right away. He gently stroked her soft black hair and pondered her question.
He didn’t know the answer. In many ways he wanted to return to his time. He missed his parents terribly. He had also promised Redfield he would complete the vision quest. He certainly didn’t belong in the nineteenth century—even Rides Alone had sensed this. It seemed unethical to live in the past while being from the future.
On the contrary, he had met a woman who knew what it was like to lose family. Their families’ tragic pasts were part of what drew them to each other. Beyond her captivating beauty, she was intelligent, principled, and compassionate. His heart ached when he thought of living without her by his side. And she was literally lying beside him at this moment. How could he abandon the woman he loved?
“You and I know it’s not my decision. The spirits will decide if I return home or stay. Agreed?”
There was no reply—only deep breathing.
The saw-whet owl nesting in the spruce tree hooted again, its echoing calls sounding like sonar pings. It prompted Graham to raise his head and peer over his feet at the evening sky visible through the open end of the fly. A thin crescent-shaped shadow was cast on the edge of a moon partly occluded by passing clouds. It would be fully illuminated tomorrow evening.
* * *
The rain began as a light mist in the middle of the night. By dawn, it had increased in intensity. The rain fell steadily, running off the sloped canv
as and creating rivulets along the perimeter of the shelter. When rainwater started to invade the sleeping area, Graham and Makawee used knives to hastily dig shallow trenches around the perimeter of the fly to divert the water.
As the rain continued and the trenches filled, they deepened the channels, digging furiously on their knees to prevent the water from seeping into the canvas shelter. Graham resorted to using the handle of the frying pan to excavate the trenches when his pocketknife was no longer effective. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to make this simple preparation the previous evening.
After observing the water flow around the canvas shelter for ten minutes, he concluded their efforts had been successful in channeling the water away. They sat on the middle of the grizzly pelt with cold, muddy hands and stared at the steady rain falling outside. Normally they would build a fire to warm themselves in the forty-five-degree air, but the rain was unrelenting, and neither of them was eager to try to start a fire.
There was plenty of meat if they were willing to cook in a downpour. Rides Alone had thrown a rope over a tree branch and hoisted the deer carcass out of reach of potential predators last evening.
“Let’s remain here for a while and see if the rain slows or stops,” Graham suggested as he fished through the canvas bag and found a few biscuits. “We have less than ten miles to travel, so there’s no need to hurry.”
After eating the hardtack, they curled next to each other under the buffalo hide and went back to sleep.
Several hours later, they were awakened by a low voice outside the fly.
“Makawee!”
They sat up to see Rides Alone peering into the shelter. An elk hide was draped over his shoulders. His tunic was soaked, and his moccasins were muddy.
“Come in!” she said, moving to the side to make room for her stepbrother.
Burning Ground Page 45