Underneath the grime, her coat was white with splashes like black raindrops across her entire body. Her mane and tail were black. She had been badly cut by the sharp rocks in the river, and I could see pale remnants of older scars on her coat.
I backed up nervously as the filly approached on thundering hooves. I was clumsy in the hobbles and could not get out of the way. I was afraid she might crash right into me, but she came to a shuddering halt a shadow’s length away.
She was close enough that I could feel her breath whooshing over me. Her ribs showed beneath her sodden fur, and her mane and tail were tangled with burrs. From her small size I guessed she was just two winters old and had not been fed well during either of them.
The angry man, whom I had come to think of as Dirty Crow Feather, had crossed the river in a canoe. Now he strode over to where we stood, slapping his quirt against his thigh. Sitting Bear came forward to meet him, putting one hand on my neck to calm me. He stretched his other hand toward the filly, but she flinched away. Then Little Turtle’s father looked more closely at the filly’s spotted coat.
“No two Maamin are marked alike,” he murmured, “and I recognize that filly, for I bred her.” He looked up accusingly at Dirty Crow Feather. “She is the filly who was stolen from her dam’s side in the dead of night two winters ago! I do not know if you are the thief who stole her, but judging from her condition you clearly do not know what to do with a well-bred horse once you have one.”
Sitting Bear’s voice was harsh, and angry sparks danced in his eyes. Dirty Crow Feather only scowled. “I’m no thief,” he said. “I won that filly in a game of Bowl and Dice.” His shifting body and darting eyes made me think of a guilty dog who had taken a piece of venison while its owner’s back was turned.
Sitting Bear looked at the man for a long time, then went into his tent and came out with a finely carved tobacco pipe. He offered it to Dirty Crow Feather. “I will give you this in exchange for the filly,” he said.
The man scowled and grabbed the pipe. “You’re welcome to her,” he said. He called back over his shoulder as he began to stalk away, “That filly is a good-for-nothing runaway!”
I understood that a trade had been made, and I turned to nudge the filly in welcome. She started at my touch and skittered sideways out of reach.
Don’t be afraid, I said. Now you are a Nimi’ipuu horse, and you don’t have to go back to that cruel man.
The filly stood glassy-eyed beside me with her ribs heaving, and I began to wonder if she had even heard me.
I do not trust men, she said finally. The one who chased me stole me from my dam while I still needed her milk for nourishment. He rode me before I was fully grown, so that my legs and back ached. He kept me tied close to his tepee, so I could not forage for grass to keep my belly full.
No one in Little Turtle’s tribe is like that, I reassured her, and the other horses will welcome you into our herd.
I have no herd, she said, and turned her back on me.
Little Turtle and Pale Moon had just returned from their game. Pale Moon took one look at the spotted filly and her eyes shone. She took a handful of dried huckleberries from a pouch around her waist and walked over to us. But the filly backed away and hid behind me.
Well, if she was going to be that way …
I reached out eagerly to gobble the berries instead. Pale Moon patted me as I ate them, but her eyes were trained on the filly. Pale Moon’s father, Red Cloud, came over to see what all the fuss was about. Pale Moon turned to him eagerly.
“Father,” she said, “this filly somehow makes my heart feel lighter. I think she is meant to take Foxtail’s place.”
“She looks skittish and underfed,” said Red Cloud. “I have many finer horses in my herd. But if you have chosen each other, I will not argue.”
He said to Sitting Bear, “I have an extra buffalo overcoat among my supplies. Would you take it in exchange for the filly?”
Sitting Bear nodded, and Red Cloud went into his tepee. He returned holding a furry robe, which he handed to Sitting Bear.
The filly had been standing beside me, watching the exchange with wary eyes. As the coat was handed over, she squealed and spun around, nearly knocking Pale Moon off her feet. She only ran a stone’s throw away, then stopped and hung her head sullenly.
Traded again! she said. I told you men can’t be trusted.
No, it is good that you were traded to Pale Moon’s family, I told her. Pale Moon is a friend of Little Turtle, and she will be a friend to you also.
I knew what the filly’s reply was going to be even before she said it.
I have no friends.
Fine, I said, frustrated by the filly’s suspicious nature. But you had better stop acting up like that. You could have hurt Pale Moon.
She looks fine, the filly said sourly. Pale Moon had dusted herself off and was walking toward us with her hand outstretched.
“Dancing Feather,” she called out in a singsong voice. “Tawts, Dancing Feather, I won’t hurt you.”
Dancing Feather! I said. That is your new name.
I want no name.
Now I, too, was beginning to wonder if Pale Moon’s father would have been better off with his buffalo robe, and Sitting Bear would have been wiser to keep his pipe. This filly was impossible! But I reminded myself that she was only mistrustful because she had been treated badly. As Pale Moon tried to coax the wary filly to come close enough that she could stroke her nose, I promised myself that I would help Dancing Feather feel at home among the Nimi’ipuu.
Training
When the Nat’soxiwal salmon run drew to a close, the Nimi’ipuu traded many of our horses to the other tribes gathered at the falls. The remaining horses pulled travois packed with the dried salmon, shells, baskets, and tools the Nimi’ipuu had received in exchange.
Soon we were herded to the highlands, where we grazed in meadows of lush grass. The women dug for roots and picked berries while the men hunted deer. Little Turtle and Pale Moon were kept busy gathering food with their families, but they worked with us whenever they could.
At first Dancing Feather resisted every effort by horse or human to befriend her. If one of the old mares tried to tell her a Nimi’ipuu story, Dancing Feather laid back her ears and turned disdainfully away. If Pale Moon brought her a handful of sweet blackberries, she nipped the girl’s hand greedily as she took them.
Gradually the filly’s ribby frame filled out and her spotted coat became sleek and glossy. Her long black tail remained a tangle of burrs, however, because she would kick anyone who approached her hindquarters too closely.
Pale Moon was very patient with her. Although Dancing Feather was a year older than I, she did not try to ride the filly. She spoke to her softly, rewarding her with praise for accepting a touch without biting. Little Turtle continued to work with me as well, teaching me to listen for his cues and focus on his intention so that we could communicate without words.
One autumn morning, Little Turtle led me to a stream to drink. The ground had frosted over the previous night, and the path sparkled in the morning light. Pale Moon was already standing at the riverbank with her hands on her hips, glaring at Dancing Feather.
“I know you are thirsty,” she said. “Why won’t you drink?”
“Watch,” said Little Turtle. He crouched down by the stream and took a sip from his cupped hand. Then he stepped back a few paces so I could walk to the water’s edge.
Since Little Turtle had taken a drink, I knew there was no danger nearby and it was safe for me to drink also. I lowered my head and took a swallow of water. It was so cold it felt like ice coating my throat, reminding me that winter was fast approaching.
Pale Moon crouched down to take a drink, too, and waited to see what Dancing Feather would do. The filly eyed the girl uncertainly, then lowered her head to drink. It was a small gesture, but it meant that Dancing Feather accepted Pale Moon as her leader. I was glad the filly was beginning to find peace and friendshi
p among us.
When the nights grew cold and our breath began to steam in the air, the tribe moved to our winter camp in the valley between two mountains. As a cold wind blew across the campsite, I thought how lucky Little Turtle and his family were to have snug lodges to sleep in.
My coat soon grew thick and shaggy to protect me from the weather. The horses crowded close for warmth at night, but Dancing Feather always stood shivering apart from the herd.
One night, I heard a terrible howl, followed by a horse’s whinny. People came running from their tents. In the murky darkness I could see the shadowy bulk of Dancing Feather standing over some dead animal on the ground. I edged closer and saw that it was a coyote, its mouth flecked with foam. The animal had been stricken with the illness that made animals lose their senses and attack without warning.
That was very brave, Sparrow said to Dancing Feather. A mad coyote could have killed one of the weanling foals.
Dancing Feather only twitched her tail indifferently as Pale Moon checked her body for injuries, but I saw a proud glint in her eye. After that, she did not stray so far from the herd. She would sometimes join the other mares as they stood scraping the tender inner bark from a cedar tree.
By Latit’al, the season of new blooms, Dancing Feather would let Pale Moon stroke her body without kicking or flinching away. She would lift her hooves on command and come running when Pale Moon whistled. I was proud of her.
Little Turtle and Pale Moon began to prepare us for riding. They laid blankets across our backs to get us used to carrying weight, and put bridles with braided leather bits in our mouths.
I didn’t much like the feeling of the bit pressing on my tongue, but Dancing Feather hated it. The first time Pale Moon put the bridle on, she reared and snapped the woven rein of the bridle. Pale Moon patiently mended the bridle and tried again. By midsummer, Dancing Feather wore all her tack without fuss.
One morning, I felt a charge of excitement in the air. Somehow I knew that today was the day. I paced the campsite impatiently while Little Turtle sat in the sweat lodge and then took his morning swim in the river.
Little Turtle and Pale Moon gathered the day’s firewood and helped their mothers prepare breakfast. They always had so many chores to do before they could play with us. Finally Little Turtle put on my bridle and led me down to the stream. Pale Moon followed with Dancing Feather.
I was too excited to drink, but that wasn’t what Little Turtle had in mind. He led me right into the water. Pale Moon tried to follow with Dancing Feather, but the filly squealed as the water touched her hooves, and she leaped back onto solid ground. She still remembered her terrifying encounter with the river last year.
“Starting a horse in water is a good trick to keep them from bucking, but I don’t think it will work for Dancing Feather,” Pale Moon said. She patted the nervous filly and held her at the edge of the stream.
Little Turtle led me forward until I was standing chest-deep in the water. The rocks shifted under my feet, and I splashed around until I found a comfortable place to stand. It was a hot summer morning, and the cool water felt nice.
Little Turtle waded over to my side and swung his leg up over my back. I started in surprise, but I couldn’t go far in the deep water. It felt strange to know that Little Turtle was on my back but not to be able to see him. I could hear his voice, though. He spoke reassuringly and leaned forward to stroke my neck. I decided this wasn’t so different from having him lead me. Now I would be able to win races for Little Turtle and carry him on hunting trips.
Little Turtle pressed his heels into my sides. Despite my intentions to behave well, I balked at the pressure and backed up. Little Turtle squeezed again and tapped his leather quirt lightly against my flank.
I jumped forward, startled, and water splashed against my belly. Little Turtle took the pressure away and praised me. Now I understood that a squeeze meant I should move forward. The next time he gave the cue, I sloshed through the water and up the bank of the stream. Once I was on solid ground, Little Turtle’s weight felt even stranger on my back.
I broke into a nervous jog to escape the unfamiliar feeling. I felt Little Turtle’s seat bouncing on my back, which made me want to gallop and buck! I trotted faster. Then I felt pressure on the corners of my mouth. I didn’t like this. I shook my head and kept trotting. The pressure got stronger.
“Whoa, Golden Sun,” said Little Turtle.
I knew whoa, because Little Turtle used this command when we played the leading game. I stopped.
“Tawts, Golden Sun,” said Little Turtle, praising me. He slid down from my back and patted my neck. I wished we could ride more, but Sitting Bear called Little Turtle away to skin a rabbit for the family’s supper.
* * *
Little Turtle continued to train me whenever he had a moment between his chores. It was months before I responded naturally to small shifts in my rider’s weight or the tone of his voice. But eventually we were like one creature galloping across the plains. I could feel Little Turtle’s joy as we skimmed across the grass, scattering jackrabbits and racing the shadows of birds flying above.
Dancing Feather was learning also. Pale Moon had first mounted her on solid ground shortly after my first ride with Little Turtle. Dancing Feather had behaved well, although her ears flicked nervously the whole time. It seemed as though she was just waiting for some undeserved punishment. Pale Moon did not even carry a quirt. She used only her gentle voice and pressure on the bridle to signal Dancing Feather.
Other boys and girls in the tribe had their own horses, too. All of them thought their colt or filly was the bravest and fastest. The children often challenged each other to games and races on horseback. Our riders galloped us in circles, trying to throw spears through wooden hoops. They slipped sideways on our backs so their bodies were hidden behind our necks and pretended to shoot arrows at each other. They had weaving races through lines of rocks spaced on the ground.
Little Turtle’s patient training had paid off. Some of the children’s horses balked and fussed when they had to make tight turns. Sometimes they even bucked. But I knew how to sense the slightest shifts in Little Turtle’s weight and adjust my strides to match. I frequently won the agility races.
Dancing Feather often became overexcited during these games. Pale Moon had to ride her away from the other horses, trotting her in slow spirals until she calmed down. Pale Moon’s father sometimes shook his head and said, “That filly is as fussy as a toddler cutting its teeth!”
But when Dancing Feather was focused, she was fleet as a deer. None of the other children’s horses could win a race against her. Pale Moon’s eldest brother, almost old enough to be a warrior, challenged her to a race one day. His prized black stallion, Crow, had been on many buffalo hunts and enemy raids.
Dancing Feather’s hooves flashed quicker than snake strikes on the ground as they ran. She took nearly two strides for every one of Crow’s. By the time the galloping horses reached the tree that marked the finish line, Dancing Feather had edged ahead by a nose and won the race.
The green leaves of Taya’al faded to gold, and the Nimi’ipuu returned to the river for the late salmon run. When the salmon had gone, we journeyed once more to the valley lodges.
Another winter passed and turned to spring. Little Turtle was eleven now. He had gotten stronger and taller in the last year. His legs hung farther down my sides, and his seat was heavier on my back. His father sometimes let him take me out on overnight hunting trips.
I had changed, too. My slender body filled out and grew muscular. I could gallop faster and longer, and I knew what Little Turtle was going to signal almost before he asked. We weren’t always in harmony—one day a snake slithered across my path and spooked me. I spun around and sent Little Turtle tumbling to the ground. But most of the time, Little Turtle and I were like one being when we rode. We were growing up together, and I wondered where our life’s journey would bring us next.
Earth Medicine
As the boys and girls in the tribe grew older, they began to develop skills that would define their place in the tribe as adults. If a girl was a talented weaver, she was encouraged to make storage baskets and beautifully patterned hemp bags for her family. Some boys were excellent shots with a bow and arrow, and spent their time hunting difficult game like deer and elk. The bravest boys might even join their fathers on the long journey to hunt buffalo on the plains.
The horses of the tribe had their unique talents, too. Dancing Feather could win any race she set her mind to. Fire Tail was a brave buffalo horse who could evade the charge of an angry bull while his rider drove the stampeding herd off a cliff. Sparrow was safe and gentle for even the youngest children to ride, and her filly Winter Shadow was one of the most beautiful Maamin the tribe had ever seen. Her pale silver coat was powdered with white like snow on a frozen river.
At times I felt I had no abilities that set me apart. I was agile but not especially fast, and sometimes I couldn’t help but spook at things. What special quality did I have that made me valuable to the tribe?
Little Turtle, however, was beginning to discover his own path. Lately he had been spending a lot of time with his grandfather, Wise Elm, who was the tribe’s healer.
If a baby had a cough or a warrior broke a bone falling from his horse, Wise Elm knew what plants to use as a remedy.
Little Turtle began to take me out with Wise Elm and his spotted bay mare, River Rock, to gather herbs. River Rock had been Wise Elm’s mount for more than twenty winters. Her muzzle was gray, and one of her eyes was blind and milky blue. She knew the human words for most of the plants we encountered.
Horses are born with natural instincts for what plants to eat when they suffer coughs or stomach cramps, but River Rock had learned much from Wise Elm during her many years with him.
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