Dakota Mist
Book 4 Mosquito Creek Detective club - Chapter 1...
CHAPTER ONE
The Eyewitness
October 20, 1858
The air hissed with arrows.
From behind - three swift arrows sliced through crisp fall air striking their mark in a blink.
Chief LonesomeStar fell forward against the side of a horse. With knife drawn, but two more arrows pierced the chief.
Hiss-hiss. BrokenKnife went down.
Hiss-hiss. SmallBee went down.
The two braves holding their horses had no time to react to the wave of arrows from their right.
Hiss-hiss. BlueDog dropped.
Hiss-hiss. DarkRiver fell by his brother mortally wounded by a spray of arrows from their left.
A fading sun, tucked behind shadowed western peaks, fanned its’ rays against a peach and lemon sky. While darkness slowly spread, four Crow braves and their chief lay dying of wounds driven by treachery...
………..
October 20, 1998
Hanna Gaikis sat up with a start gasping for air.
The mantle clock chimed four AM.
Heart pounding, her eyes darted about. She was in her new bedroom. Moving boxes were stacked in uneven towers outlined by shadows that moonlight didn’t touch. Drenched in sweat, she shivered in the cool bedroom air.
Hanna pulled the goose-down quilt up over her head, covering her curly auburn hair as she rolled onto her side. She tried to still her thudding heart with slow deep breaths. Closing her eyes, she waited for the memory of the disturbing dream to fade. But more minutes ticked by. The clock chimed again, and every detail remained vivid.
She just couldn’t get back to sleep. The scene had been too distressing - too real. Hanna had watched the tragic events but at the same time she felt involved. She remembered the smell of wet pine mixed with damp, fall leaves scattered on the ground. And…she remembered feeling the impact as arrow points pierced her back. And then pain, as the shock wore off with the heavy cold air – more miserable than the wounds.
………..
October 20, 1858
With a fire lit the five Crows sat down with seven Gros Ventres in a circle. The pipe was made ready with dried buffalo grass and herbs and soon they were smoking and talking.
Crow Chief LonesomeStar explained the reason for their journey. “Before the treaty at Fort Laramie, scarcely six sunsets passed without large numbers of horses taken away by war parties. Braves were killed and their deaths cried for revenge.”
“Now we have peace, but it is a peace that profits the white man more than it profits us. The buffalo become fewer each day. Let us make a peace without the white men. A peace among brothers.”
FirstBoy, who led the scouting band of Gros Ventres, took a turn and inhaled from the pipe. His expression was thoughtful. A cloud of smoke floated above his head. “It is strange that such a small party is sent on so important a mission.”
“A small party that includes the Crow Chief.” LonesomeStar emphasized.
FirstBoy turned the pipe and passed it back to the Crow Chief. “The Crows have truly sent their Chief? You are then, the one we have heard so much about?”
LonesomeStar accepted the pipe but remained silent concentrating on the words that FirstBoy was not saying.
His tone was even but FirstBoy studied the other members of the Crow party. “Many of our proudest warriors fell by your hand.” He stood. “It is good that we sit together and talk of peace.”
But the Crow Chief had understood the message in FirstBoy’s eyes and knew they must leave quickly. LonesomeStar stood also.
“Do not be uneasy.” FirstBoy signaled to one of his braves, who ran to the leader. After he whispered something to the runner the brave disappeared into a stand of trees. “I sent him after the horses. Your words are good. I shall carry them to my people.”
The Crow horses were led from the trees along with twelve others.
“We wish peace also.” FirstBoy took the rope that tied four of the tallest horses together. “These are strong and fast. Take them.”
Each Crow brave was given his own horse and two as a gift. Chief LonesomeStar was given four horses.
But an uneasy thought darted across the Chief’s mind. Their horses faced away from the direction of home. And in mounting, all members of the Crow party would have their backs to the Gros Ventres.
The Chief’s fleeting glimpse of the four Crow braves, showed their expressions fixed with dread. All motion seemed to freeze. The world stopped as it had stopped long ago. In a flash of recall, LonesomeStar was a child carrying a small bird to Grandfather’s lodge moments before their village was raided.
War whoops of that memory merged, then mingled with those in their ears now.
The air stung with arrows…
………..
October 21, 1998
“NO…!” Hanna sat up with a start, gasping for air.
Sweat ran down her temples but the inside of her mouth was dry. She could hardly swallow.
The mantle clock chimed. It was four-fifteen AM.
………..
October 20, 1858
Darkness spread as the setting sun tucked its pink and orange sky behind the steep, sharp western peaks. Four Crow braves and their chief lay dying of the wounds that treachery caused.
Chief LonesomeStar lay on the ground fixed on the fading sun. The ground began to rumble then the chief’s eyes closed forever.
The white buffalo stood at the edge of the hill slightly ahead of the rest of his herd. Just below the sloping embankment was a narrow crescent of land where cows and calves could reach the creek to drink, sheltered from sight.
Overhead four buzzards circled then landed then flew to the trees and then landed again to check. The white buffalo knew why the buzzards landed.
He had watched the attack as it happened below. And he had watched as life withdrew from the beings left behind. He turned to lead his part of the herd away from their usual spot to a place further up along the creek’s bank.
The white buffalo, sacred to native tribes had been allowed to grow old. The western Indians called him Dakota Mist. With that age came wisdom.
Most of the herd was settled at the water’s edge drinking. In the sky six more buzzards had joined with the original four by alerting others.
Dakota Mist called with a deep throated rumble to two young bulls standing guard nearby. They followed the older bull to the place where the buzzards had gathered. The birds scattered with angry squawks at the intrusion when the larger animals approached.
The white buffalo walked around each of the fallen braves then stopped at the head of the Crow Chief. Dakota Mist lowered his head bringing his nose to just above the forehead of LonesomeStar. With a snort he acknowledged the departed.
The two younger bulls followed the older one. They ambled away taking the same path back to where the herd had come to rest for the night.
………..
October 22, 1998
The mantle clock struck half past the hour. It was four-thirty AM.
Hanna tossed uneasily in her sleep then opened her eyes. She awoke expecting to see hundreds of buffalo. Then she remembered.
This dream was different. In this dream she no longer felt like she was the vulnerable, ill-fated Crow Chief, LonesomeStar. This time she felt strong and large and calm. In this dream she was…a white buffalo the Indians called - Dakota Mist.
This time sleep retuned to Hanna, deep and untroubled.
………..
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