The Owl Hunt

by Richard S. Wheeler

  The horses were used to him now, but still they watched intently. He eyed the silent cabin, not knowing whether one of the men was peering out of the black window. He couldn’t help that, and slowly opened the gate to the pen, letting himself in. He plucked the bridle off the rail and headed for the mule, which stood quietly and let itself be bridled. He led the mule a little to see if it was an obedient one, and then stopped where the saddle was, the one with the weapon, and soon he was yanking up the cinch and buckling it.

  Then he opened the gate and left it open. It would be good to let the horses out. He led his mule into the deep shade of the cottonwoods, away from the pale moonglow that had begun to brighten the land. There was more moon than he had expected, and it gave the men in the cabin good vision.

  The mule tried to return to the herd, but Owl swiftly tugged it away, and somehow kept the mule moving. He let the buckskin poke its nose into his chest and sniff, making acquaintance. He checked the stirrups, which were a little long for him, he thought, but he would not do anything about that for now. Changing their length involved a lot of work, lacing and unlacing the straps.

  He was ready. He mounted easily, and settled himself in the white man’s saddle, and felt the mule accept him and await commands. He glanced back, and saw the horses drifting out of the pen, but not going anywhere in particular.

  The odd thing was he didn’t know where to go. But he thought to go to dry ground, where the hoofprints would vanish in the hard clay, so he headed west until the land rose and the bottoms gave way to sagebrush-dotted slopes. No one followed. When he was well above the bottoms, he looked down on the cabin and saw no movement. The horses had drifted toward the river and were grazing.

  Now at last he drew the weapon from its sheath, and found he had a repeating carbine. It was loaded with fifteen bullets. He thought he knew how to lever another shell into the chamber, but wasn’t sure. He would find out how it worked once he put some distance between the men and himself. Ah! He was a warrior, for the moment. Owl felt a flood of kinship to his spirit protector, the Gray Owl that glided silently through the darkness.

  He drifted aimlessly, not knowing or caring where the mule took him. He passed some cattle, and thought to shoot one, but he didn’t. He had no knife to butcher with, and no flint and steel or match to ignite a fire to cook it. And perhaps the loaded carbine was intended for better things. It could kill every government official at the agency, and an army officer or two as well.

  But when he reached a hogback he paused, confused. He had no plan. He didn’t know where he was going. He hadn’t given it a thought. The mule stood restlessly under him while he pondered. But there was nothing to weigh. His life was not in his hands. His spirit creature would take him wherever he was destined to go.

  He surrendered to fate, wondering what would become of him. He eased the reins and felt the buckskin move slowly, and he turned the mule south, back toward the reservation.

  He rode easily toward the Owl Creek Mountains, and found his way up the same gulch that he had descended, and found the sacred spring where the ancients had filled the cliffs with owl images. Here he dismounted and fed the mule some oats. He wasn’t very hungry, but he hammered some oats between two rocks, and then left them to soak in the can, and in the morning he might have something to sustain him.

  Now, though, he climbed the cliff to a high place and knelt under a sliver moon, letting the frosty air cool his body.

  “Spirit guide, now I must do what I must do,” he prayed.

  There was no response.

  “Now I must free my people,” he said.

  Silence greeted him.

  “Now I must accept my fate,” he said. “The Dreamers are dreaming, and every Dreamer is pleading with you to set my people free.”

  He felt numb, and it was time to descend into the hollow, where the wind would not seek him. He had a saddle blanket now for warmth.

  He didn’t sleep, and knew he wouldn’t sleep again. But he watched the stars slide across the canyon and disappear, like mortals who slid so briefly into the vision of many eyes, and soon were forgotten.

  In the morning he tried his oat mush, and it was edible but full of grit. It didn’t matter, for it needed only to sustain him for a while. He shook himself free of the frost, wiped it off the back of the mule, and saddled the animal once again. By day, the mule was the color of gold.

  He saw no one as he topped the arid mountains and began his descent to the reservation. He was on the loneliest road of all. He dropped into a gulch that showed signs of passage. Shod hooves had peppered the clay with prints. The soldiers had been there, but not recently. The manure was brown and dry.

  Late that day he entered the valley of the Wind River, and saw many more prints of shod hooves. The soldiers had been everywhere, in thick columns, patrolling for rustlers or Dreamers or whatever it was they were hunting. But now they were not here.

  He reached the upper end of the reservation, snugged against the mighty mountains, and there he found the farthest of the camps, a dozen lodges where the People struggled to survive by hunting when there was nothing to hunt. He knew there were some Dreamers living among them, and he was eager to see them.

  As soon as he rode close, the Shoshone people swept out to him and greeted him with great joy, and smiled up at him. They studied his golden mule, and the fine saddle, and knew where these had come from, and laughed softly. The People were gaunt from hunger, and so ill-clad he scarcely knew how they would survive the winter. There were no more buffalo to turn into robes and greatcoats and moccasins and hats and gloves.

  He discovered Mare in the camp, and greeted his old friend, one of the first of the Dreamers, and one of the most respected. He stepped off the golden mule to greet his friend with a clasp.

  “Ah, Mare! It is good you are here,” he said, even as the Shoshones gathered. He saw other Dreamers, too, boys and men, standing quietly, perhaps quizzically.

  “I have a gift for you, Mare,” he said, and untied the rifle sheath. He handed the sheath and carbine to Mare.

  “Use it well, Mare. There are fifteen cartridges in it.”

  “You would give this to me?”

  “Use it well, and dream. The time is coming now.”

  This evoked a deep silence, for all the People heard him say the time was at hand.

  He unbuckled the saddlebags and handed them to the village elder, a man he knew who wore his hair unbraided, under a headband.

  “Tindooh, here are oats. Make a meal for your people,” he said. “Make tea and eat the oats.”

  “You have blessed us, Owl.”

  “Do that to remember me, Tindooh.”

  “We will eat and remember, Owl.”

  “And on this night, let the Dreamers dance.”

  “They will dance, Owl.”

  “The time has come, and you will know it when it happens, and you will be free. All the white men will walk away from here.”

  They gazed at him silently, almost in rapture. The gray-haired ones studied him sternly. The children edged close, so they might touch him. He gathered the children to him, and blessed them with a hand on the head of each one. The worn mothers collected their children then, and watched shyly.

  It was time. He smiled at them, stepped onto the gold mule, and crossed the river. The water at the ford was shallow, and soon he was headed down the trail to the next camp, farther toward the agency. There were prints of many shod hooves on the trail, and that was good.

  He found many Dreamers in the next camp, and they swarmed around him as he rode the golden mule into the center of this place, which was very close to the cold river. They studied him and his mule, and the shirt and the union suit poking through, and they remained silent, even as the people collected there.

  He had no gifts to give these people except the greatest gift of all.

  “I have come to tell you the time is at hand,” he said. “Soon the white men will walk away. Soon the People will be free to go anyw
here, hunt anywhere, and all the earth will be our home again. This night, let the Dreamers dance. And when the time comes, you will know it, and you will be free.”

  They stared raptly, knowing that Owl’s words sprang from someplace beyond the ken of most persons. These were messages from the world beyond the living, so they listened with respect and never missed a word that Owl said.

  Then he steered the golden mule away, and they smiled at him, and rejoiced at the things that would happen soon. Some followed him out of the encampment, wanting to share some of his long journey with him. They flanked him as if they were his guard, walking proudly beside the golden mule as they traversed the trail along the sparkling river. Then, after a while, he paused, nodded, clasped the hands of those that were offered to him, and went ahead alone. They didn’t turn back, but watched Owl until he was out of sight and walking through the silence of a cold day.

  There would be many more camps to visit, many more Dreamers to contact, before he was done.

  thirty

  Good times were coming. Wherever Owl went, the word preceded him. In some mysterious fashion, the People knew he was coming and stood at the edge of their camps, awaiting him and his glad tidings.

  Many camps lined the Wind River, where the Shoshones could find firewood and a little food, and one by one, Owl visited them through the moon of first frost. He marveled at the greetings he received.

  “Greetings, Grandfathers and Grandmothers,” he said, as he rode into an encampment.

  “Greetings to you, Grandfather Owl,” they replied.

  “Good times will come soon,” he said.

  “How will we know?”

  “You will know when it happens. My spirit guide has told me of this. Wait for the good times.”

  “What will this time be like, Dreamer?” one old woman asked.

  “There will be meat in every kettle, and the People will be fed, and there will be hides to make lodges and coats. Every man, woman, and child will have new moccasins to warm their feet. There will be elk and deer and buffalo and coyotes and wolves and antelope.”

  “And when will this happen, blessed Dreamer?”

  “When the white men leave. Soon the white men will load their wagons and go away. Soon the soldiers will march to the east, from whence they came. Soon the settlers will give up, because they don’t belong here, and drive their oxen away. Soon the fire wagons to the south will stop riding the iron rails. Soon the world will be as it always was and always will be, with meat enough, and the People will sing, and dance the Dreamer Dance, and take gifts to the other Peoples so that all may know that the white men have gone away.”

  Often they stared raptly at him, absorbing his words with hope in their faces.

  “Where did you get that mule, blessed Dreamer?” an old man asked.

  “My spirit guide led me to the mule and gave it to me. It was in the corral of a white man, and when I saw the mule I knew at once that the gift was given me by the creature that has entered into my heart. It is a beautiful mule, with hair the color of the sun, and when I am done with the mule I shall return it to the white man.”

  Sometimes some older people stared at him, unconvinced, or at least in sharp silence. He ignored them. Everywhere, the People were expecting good times, and the Dreamers dreamed.

  “When will this be?” they asked in each settlement.

  “Soon! Before the snow flies, before the last of the birds flies south.”

  “But most have flown south, Blessed One.”

  “Soon, soon, for I have said it, and my word is true.”

  “What does our chief say of this?” one asked.

  “Our blessed chief awaits the word, and is silent. When the word comes that the white men are gone, he will lead us once again, and the People will be great among the tribes, and we will dazzle the other Peoples with our meat and our weapons and our strength in battle, and our warm lodges, and our good moccasins.”

  In one camp, where some old and powerful headmen and shamans had pitched their lodges, Owl sensed that they stared at him darkly.

  “The soldiers are looking for you,” said one.

  “Where are the soldiers? They are not here! They marched from one end of the reservation to the other, where the Arapaho people are, and they did not find me. And now they are back at their post.”

  “This is trouble,” another said.

  “Only for a moment, and then the good times will come. Some things are destined, and all must come to pass before the good times come, Grandfather.”

  “And what is destined?”

  “That is only for Owl to know, but you will all know when the good times begin.”

  An old woman came close to touch him. “You are the Beautiful One to come,” she said.

  “Grandmother, you have seen me wisely,” he replied, touching her cheek.

  “Aie! He is the Beautiful One! I have said it,” she cried.

  “I am what was given to me, and nothing more, Grandmother. I am nothing, but my word is true, and the word is the promise, and the People will enjoy the word.”

  “You are not nothing; you are everything, Blessed One.”

  “I came into this world with all the gifts given to a Shoshone boy-child, and soon I will leave the world with nothing at all.”

  “You are leaving the world?”

  “When the time has come for all to happen, it will happen, blessed Grandmother. All the People will see and hear and celebrate.”

  He left that camp with the mark of a prophet upon him, for he could see into the future, and he could awaken the People to the times that would come.

  There were many camps to visit, and he went to them all, riding his mule the color of the sun, and he was greeted in every village with great joy, for his message has speeded ahead of him, so that the People were waiting. They brought him water and bits of meat, and he refused the meat but he took the water, and proceeded on his way, drawing closer and closer to Fort Washakie and the agency.

  And nowhere was there a bluecoat soldier, for the columns had all gone back and the whole reservation belonged only to the People. He rejoiced, and steered the friendly mule downriver, and let it eat the brown grasses, and let it water at the riverbank, and was in no hurry, for time didn’t matter, and all was ordained to happen the way it was ordained to happen.

  And so, in the middle of a sleepy afternoon, he rode the golden mule straight into the agency grounds, and no one stayed him. He saw no one about. A thin stream of smoke rose from the schoolhouse stove, and more smoke rose from the chimneys of the agency, because the weather had turned sharp. He rode the mule to the agency, and tied it to the hitch rail, and saw no soldiers and not a soul was stirring.

  He pushed open the outer door, and then walked through the antechamber to the office of the agent, Major Van Horne, who was slumbering with his feet upon his desk, and his beard buried in his chest.

  The agent awoke with a start, squinted at the youth, and lowered his legs.

  “Yes, what?”

  “I am Owl.”

  “Who, who?”

  “The one you seek.”

  “Go away, don’t bother me.”

  “I will wait.”

  Owl settled in a chair while the agent stared at him.

  “The boy? The Dreamer?” the agent said.

  “I have heard you want me. I am returning a mule to its owner.”

  “Owl!” The agent yanked open a drawer of his desk and extracted a revolver and waved it at Owl.

  “Guard, guard!” he bellowed, but no one was about.

  “Don’t you move,” he said, and rumbled through the agency, looking for a soldier or two. He came back much riled up.

  “All right, you, we’re going to talk.”

  “My words are not very good in your tongue.”

  “We’ll get the teacher,” Van Horne said.

  At last a sleepy clerk showed up.

  “Get Dirk Skye. At once. To translate.”

  The clerk
eyed the boy, the waving revolver, and the agent, and vanished.

  They sat quietly, but light and joy were building in the eyes of the agent. Then, after a commotion on the porch, blue-shirts boiled in and swarmed around Owl. The big chief himself strutted in, eyed Owl, and barked an order or two. Soldiers patted down the boy, and then stepped back.

  “You got him,” the big chief, Cinnabar, said.

  “I caught him sneaking around here,” the agent said.

  “Well, you caught the most dangerous savage in the West,” Cinnabar said. “I was ready to post a reward for his capture.”

  “We’ll defuse all that now,” Major Van Horne said. “This does it.”

  “What are we waiting for, Major?”

  “We’re waiting for Skye to come translate.”

  “Hope he’s up to it,” Cinnabar said.

  “Oh, he’s good enough when he wants to be,” the agent said.

  The teacher arrived, glanced at Owl and the rows of soldiers forming human walls in the office. Owl glanced back. The teacher looked unhappy, unlike the rest. Owl smiled at him.

  “All right, ask him why he was sneaking around here, Skye.”

  Owl understood the English. “To give myself to you,” he said.

  “And why?”

  “It is what I must do to make the vision come.”

  “What vision?”

  Owl smiled. “The People will be free, and the buffalo will return.”

  “There, you see? Insurrection from his own lips.”

  Dirk Skye hadn’t translated a word.

  Owl addressed him in Shoshone. “This must happen for all things to be. Soon the white men will walk away. They will fill their wagons and their oxen will take them away. Then the People will live as they always have. But for this to happen, Owl must give himself to them.”

  Dirk Skye, North Star, hesitated, glanced at the white men, and slowly translated.

  “Give himself to us?” the agent asked.

  “I must die,” Owl said, in English.

  “Well, you’ll die all right, just as soon as a tribunal can convict you.”

  Owl smiled.