Chapter 20: The Formality Of Acceptance

As he entered the village, it was not what he expected ...

“The women are in the process of building a great fire. Before you can be asked to sacrifice on behalf of The People, you have to be honored and formally welcomed into Piegan society,” said Jimmy.

Cutty wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure of one thing—there was no mistaking honor when it rose up to greet you. “These people may be down on their luck, but their fundamental spirit is intact.” He repeated this sentiment to Jimmy. “Only because you returned tonight, Major.”

Only Because You Returned!

Cutty and Jimmy had walked through the trees with the big white horse at Cutty’s side. Behind the horse had walked the rest of the Piegan Tribe: First Stoneheart with the Council of Elders, then the Warrior Societies, then the Hunters, and finally the Women and Children.

Everyone From The Tribe Had Come Out To Greet Him

The big horse had neither bridle nor rein but seemed to know exactly what was happening and where they were going. That was good, because Cutty hadn’t been sure. In times like these he had learned that the most successful route was the one of least resistance.

He had slowly walked beside the large stallion by the light of the three-quarter moon—with the torchbearers all behind him. The few times he had slowed down to make sure they were still on the trail the horse had lowered his head on Cutty’s right shoulder and brushed his cheek.

“It’s almost as if he understands why I’m not riding him,” Cutty had thought to himself.

The big white stallion was reminiscent of the one The Emperor had ridden during ceremonial parades in front of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. He could now hear the women chanting behind him, and their voices were raised in what sounded like somber celebration.

The path opened up into a wide broad area with burning campfires and clapboard shacks extending as far as the eye could see. “So, this is what a modern-day Indian Camp looks like,” Cutty thought out loud.

Jimmy could tell that Cutty was confused as he said: “Only the elders and medicine workers live in teepees, Major. The rest of the tribe lives in wooden shacks that are both cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Many of the People have lost their way and for that reason the Siksika have been able to prey on us so.”

The Piegan Were Caught In A Time Warp Between The Old And The New

The next voice he heard was that of Chief Stoneheart coming up on the left side of his horse from behind. “Ichiban, would you please mount the white horse as we approach the fire? It would mean so much to the People.”

Cutty’s initial feeling was one of embarrassment.

His mind flashed back to the story of Jesus triumphantly entering Jerusalem on the back of a donkey as people waved palm leaves at him in celebration. His self-consciousness was again tempered by the importance of observing local customs. He had learned this on several continents, and it had served him well.

After Stoneheart had passed by—and was now in front of him—Cutty spun 180 degrees throwing his right leg high into the air and over the back of the big horse. Like all good horses, this one immediately knew that he was now in the hands of an experienced rider. Cutty sat motionless on the horse’s back as it slowly made its way toward the flames.

Wooden shacks had been built in a circle around a large stone-rimmed fire pit. It reminded Cutty, in a strange way, of the squares or pracas he had seen in Portugal. Three women were standing inside the large pit and had lighted a fire. The flames danced in the moonlight as Cutty wondered what was coming next.

Then Instinct Overtook Intellect

Without fully understanding why, Cutty reared the stallion up on its two hind legs. He kept the horse in this position for what seemed like forever, before patting it on its right wither and dropping it down on all fours. It was then that he charged.

Cutty charged up the right side of the fire pit at a full gallop. He rode completely around until he was back where he started from—but he did not stop. He drove the horse even faster around the fire, two more times, before rearing him up again in front of Chief Stoneheart and the Council of Elders. The entire tribe was blinded by the aura of Ichiban. Cutty whispered something into the horse’s ear before dismounting in one fluid movement.

“So, you speak to horses too, Ichiban,” said Stoneheart, as he touched the stallion’s mane. “You two seem to know each other well. Maybe from a previous life?” Stoneheart said these words with the first smile Cutty had seen from him since leaving the train station in Missoula.

“There is nothing like a good horse,” Cutty said back to the Chief, as Stoneheart escorted him to a place of honor.

Cutty was being led to the southern end of the fire pit, when Stoneheart asked him to turn around. The women had all stopped chanting, and in a louder voice than all of the women combined—Stoneheart began. As he chanted, he raised both arms to the sky and rotated slowly.

Cutty Was Discovering Just How Important The ‘Circle’ Was To Native Americans

Stoneheart rotated in two complete circles—first to his right and then to his left—before stopping where he had started directly in front of Cutty. This reminded Cutty of the many Katas he had practiced—always finishing in the same spot he had started from.  Stoneheart never lowered his head as his eyes had been fixed on the night sky.

“That sky is almost as impressive as the one over the Himalayas,” Cutty thought.

Stoneheart ended his chanting and turned to face The People. His head was now down as he started a slow and rhythmic dance around the fire.



Chapter 21: The Dance

One by one, they fell in behind Stoneheart dancing their way around the fire. Each tribal member had their own personal interpretation of the drumbeat as they danced through the mixture of moon glow and firelight.

Jimmy had now walked up to Cutty and was standing beside him.

“This is all in your honor, Major. The People can feel the magic of this night, and to them the magic is only real when it is felt in the heart. Stories, and the retelling of legends, don’t often create what they are feeling at this moment. After they have completely circled the fire, they will one by one take a seated position around the circular stones.

When the last dancer is seated, Chief Stoneheart will stand again and raise his arms to the sky. He will then chant a Blackfoot Piegan poem of thankfulness and lower his arms in your direction.

“That will be your invitation to dance, Major. I know this might make you uncomfortable, but it is a great honor to be asked to dance in front of the entire tribe. It will bring untold meaning to everyone. It won’t matter how you dance as long as The People can feel the spirit of your movement.”

When the last dancer was seated, Stoneheart rose with his arms reaching for the sky. It reminded Cutty of when he stood in front of Captain Nagata while first being introduced aboard the great Japanese warship—the Kagoshima Sun.

Eternal Moments Are Never Measured In Blocks Of Time

Chief Stoneheart dropped both of his arms with palms up in Cutty’s direction. He then spread them widely in a gesture of welcome.

Cutty had never really danced and was known as a notoriously bad dance partner both by Adrian and by the few girls he had tried to dance with at Academy *****. He knew he was bad, but there was one thing he could do better than anyone of his generation. He retracted his Katana from the Saya (scabbard) on his belt.  The entire tribe sat motionless—feeling his power—waiting for what he would do next.

“KIAI”

Without warning, Cutty let out with the loudest vocalization anyone seated had ever heard. It filled the night sky, as it bounced off the mountains with its echo of immortality. The power of its reverberation infused into the tribe, and for the first time they felt the connection between themselves and this ancient warrior.

He would share his spirit with them, and their hearts would be renewed. Their ancestors were now looking down from above and smiling at what they saw.

Cutty had watched Stoneheart as he danced around the fire. His movements seemed much slower than the other (younger) dancers, but they had a subtleness to them that seemed to contain great meaning. The other dancers—no matter how energetic—could not capture the feeling that had poured out of his every movement. He knew he could not dance like that.

Cutty Raised His Katana Over His Head With Both Hands

He then dropped his head, before beginning Kata #8. It was the same Kata that he had performed for the crewmembers of the Kagoshima Sun. This form, when done perfectly, took exactly ninety seconds to complete. It was based upon a circular attack, and Cutty would have to amplify its movements to be able to make it around the fire as its last strike was ****** into the air.

Cutty KIAI’d again! He then leaped forward with both feet while striking with his sword both right and left. He jumped and rotated in mid-air, striking an imaginary opponent with a downward killing blow as he landed.

Opponent after imaginary opponent was slain as he made his way around the fire. Everyone seated was frozen in amazement as this intrepid warrior vanquished his enemies in ways that they had never seen. He swept the blade through the embers of the fire as he passed between tribal members seated in front of him.

Not One Of Them Ever Moved Or Flinched

In the shadow of the fire’s glow, there appeared to be three warriors dancing and slaying their enemies. Cutty made his way back to his starting position and then KIAI’d again before dropping his head. It was customary—in Samurai tradition—at this point for someone of authority to release him from his exercise. Captain Nagata had released him while on ship with the command “MOKUSO YAME!”

Cutty Stood Silent With His Head Down In The Firelight

A red-tailed hawk then cried out in the distance, as Stoneheart rose with his arms extended and again started to chant. Cutty took this as the signal for his release. He sat down where he stood and waited for what Stoneheart was going to do next.

Every member of the tribe was still seated and facing Cutty, many with their backs to the fire. Jimmy got up from where he was sitting and took a position just behind Cutty. Two young boys had also walked over and were now sitting quietly beside him.

Stoneheart Finished His Chant And Began To Speak

As Jimmy translated, Stoneheart told those seated that…

“Tonight is a new chapter in the history of the Blackfoot Piegan People. A warrior has been shot from the bow of all that is good, and he has come to free the Piegan from our enemies and to resurrect our spirit. He is a warrior who has fought many battles and walked on foreign lands—lands that we can only wonder about. His enemies have been many in the pursuit of his honor. Early on, he conquered the only enemy that might ever truly defeat him—and that was fear.”

Cutty smiled inside himself, as Jimmy translated Stoneheart’s final words.

“The wisdom of savages,” he remembered the Colonel once saying. If anything savage had happened—since first meeting the three Piegan at the station—Cutty wanted no further part of what posed as civilization.

Stoneheart looked at Not-Many-Prisoners and, with sign language, instructed him on something he wanted done. Jimmy did not translate this, but the look on his face showed total disbelief.

“What’s the matter, Cadet; is something wrong? Is it something I did?”

“No, Major; there is nothing wrong. A new chapter in the long history of the Blackfoot Piegan People is being written tonight—a chapter that none of us had ever foreseen. Please remain seated until Chief Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners come to get you.”

Cutty looked back and forth across the fire. Every member of the tribe was looking directly at him, and they were shaking their heads up and down.  Several of the men had gotten up and followed to where Not-Many-Prisoners had walked off into the darkness.

“I wonder what kind of ceremony comes next,” thought Cutty. “I hope it is accompanied with food.”

His Stomach Had Started To Growl



Chapter 22: The Intercession

Two women—seated to Cutty’s right—approached him and started to tug at his blouse. He was instantly confused at this strange behavior, as Jimmy said: “Please give it to them, Major. The reason will become clear before the night is out.”

With a slight bit of embarrassment, Cutty removed his military blouse. The brass buttons reflected the fire’s light as the women walked off into the dark.

Cutty stood there naked from the waist up as every scar he had ever suffered in battle seemed to dance across his body. The People were mesmerized by these scars and started to talk among themselves.

“Holy Markings,” said Jimmy. “They see your scars as something holy, and in their storytelling, they will become symbols of reverence. It has been a long time since any of them have seen scars made by a sword, and this will only add to the sense of immortality that they already feel for you.

This is a truly magical night, Major; and the best part is still to come. I hope you can feel what we are all feeling.”

The Best Part Still To Come

Cutty started to feel the cold and moved closer to the fire. He tried to do it inconspicuously so that no one would notice, but an old woman sitting on the other side of the fire was watching him with great interest. She stood up and started to walk his way. When she got to where he was sitting, she removed the blanket she was wearing from around her shoulders and wrapped it across and over his back.

Her Head Was Down

Her eyes were almost closed, and she never looked up, as Cutty turned to thank her. Jimmy said something to the old woman in Piegan, and she stopped and turned around. Cutty reached out for her right hand and pulled her down closer to him by the fire.

He stared deeply into the old woman’s eyes. There was a wrinkled and withered beauty to her face that he had never seen before. Every line and crack seemed to be hiding something of extreme importance.

Cutty could feel the power come through her hand, as her eyes never blinked. She was another one of those kindred spirits who had seen more than can be observed in any one lifetime.

Cutty smiled and asked the old woman for her name. “Mimiteh,” the woman said as she held on to Cutty’s hand. “New Moon,” said Jimmy.

“The old woman’s name translates to New Moon. She has been a source of knowledge and renewal within our tribe for many years. No one is certain how old she is, but her stories go back to before the whites came to our land. She is one of only two people who can talk directly to the Old One and enter her teepee unannounced.”

After looking the old woman in the eye, Cutty said: ”She has stories that go back much further than that—further than even the Piegan language can tell.”

As she got back up and started to leave, Cutty repeated her name. She turned once more in his direction and said: “The wind only blows—and the waters only run—in the shadow of your spirit. The Piegan People now live in that shadow, waiting for a new dawn.”

A New Dawn

Cutty tried to speak to the old woman again as another woman wrapped her blanket around Mimiteh and led her away. “That other woman is Hanata, the mother of Stoneheart,” Jimmy said. “It is best now to just let them go about their work.”  

A new drumbeat had started in the distance as Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners walked back around the fire. Cutty stood up to meet them as Jimmy looked over his right shoulder. The two Piegan Elders flanked Cutty on each side and walked him toward the darkness.

No one spoke, as they walked quietly along a narrow trail. The moon’s light was hidden by the cottonwood branches above—spread out in full bloom—and acting as a canopy.

Cutty looked back over his shoulder, but Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where they were going and how long it would take. After ten minutes of slow walking, Cutty heard the sounds of running water. The drumbeat had gotten louder, and now seemed close, as it magnified each image inside Cutty’s imagination.

As they got closer to the stream, Cutty could see that it angled steeply down from a ravine high above. The moon’s light was again visible along its banks. There were seven teepees going up the stream’s rise. They were spread twenty to thirty feet apart, and there were curious writings and drawings on their outsides.

Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners walked Cutty by six of the teepees not stopping until they arrived at the last one. It was situated at the top of a short rise where the land leveled off and he could see for miles even in the dark. Cutty could hear voices inside, and he could see the glow of a fire through the teepee’s deerskin covering.

The Other Six Teepees Had Been Dug Into The Gently Sloping Bank

Stoneheart took the blanket from the back of Cutty’s shoulders as Not-Many-Prisoners bent down and pulled back the flap. “Please enter, Ichiban,” Stoneheart said. “Please enter this teepee as a visitor for the last time.”

Cutty ducked his head and stepped under the flap. In the center of the tepee was a smaller version of the stone-ringed fire pit they had just danced around. Ten Blackfoot Piegan men were seated cross-legged around the fire. Cutty was led to a seat of prominence, at the very back of the teepee, where he could see the entrance when he looked straight ahead.

Stoneheart walked back around the fire and took a seat right in front of the flap. He was now 180 degrees across from Cutty and sat cross-legged as the rest. Cutty also crossed his legs.

For a long time, there was silence inside the ancient dwelling with the crackling of juniper wood the only sound being made. Cutty thought it brought peace—along with great warmth—as the spirits of those seated chased away the past.

Old Memories Were Now Free To Leave, As New Ones Rose From The Flames

Chapter 30: This Ain’t No Country Club

He stared longingly out the back window of his Dad’s

car. He was headed off to the country club again, missing

the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game with the guys.

The playground was not a country club. There was no price of admission, or exclusive standards necessary to be admitted. You could be black, white, red or yellow. It didn’t matter. What did matter was how you played, and how you fit into the group. You may have been a social outcast or juvenile delinquent outside the playground, and yes we had a few, but what really mattered was how you acted inside the fence.

In 1958 my parents joined the local country club. Being a young, upwardly mobile couple, and enjoying the success of my father's growing business, my parents decided that this was one way in which they could celebrate. I hated it! Not because I didn’t like the people there or didn’t want to learn to play golf. It was because it took time away from my favorite place — the playground.

After dinner in the summers, my parents would hurry up and clear the table and then head to the ‘club’ with us kids in tow to get in nine holes. This of course meant that I had to miss the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game in the street. I would then have to suffer through the entire next day hearing who hit twelve home runs and who threw who out trying to make it home. It just wasn’t fair. How could a country club ever compare to a ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game or the playground? It couldn’t. Not then, and not now. The country club was stuffy to a ten-year old, and the country club had strange rules. Most of them seemed to be about what you couldn’t do.

A Direct Opposite From The Playground

How we go from the inclusive nature of our nation's playgrounds to the exclusive practices of our golf, tennis and yacht clubs is probably the subject for another book and another writer. I am just so grateful that my earliest experiences were on a grass field surrounded by a chain link fence. It was inside that fence that I felt the playground wrap its four-acre arms around me and, through its spirit of free-play, teach me the greatest lessons I would ever learn.

How we develop the later prejudices of black/white, democrat/republican, or any choice at the exclusion of another is not something we learned there. At the playground, in the absence of parents and adults, we had to fit in and find a way to adapt to one another. The weather and the big guys called all the shots. That’s the way it was, and that was A-OK with us. It worked, because at different ages, and at different times, we all got to be squirts, then decent players, and finally the big guys.

It Was Fair Even When It Was Unfair

If that doesn’t make sense to you, then you probably didn’t grow up on a playground, where the whole truly was greater than the sum of its parts. There were no polo ponies or alligators on our shirts symbolizing our dreams. We lived them every day, and we lived them together!


Chapter 31: Violent But Not With You

The stare-down was over. Joe took the first punch but

delivered the second, then five more. To his credit,

Bobby was still on his feet, but the fight was over.

The playground’s resident tough guy could be violent, but he almost never directed that towards you. Not unless you were dumb enough to challenge his honor by publicly embarrassing him or making him look like a fool in front of the other guys. Then, the punishment was swift, like being shown the door after making your company look bad because of a dumb comment you made at the quarterly board-meeting. Nothing was more fundamental or learned earlier than the recognition of power.

The young neighborhood girls sensed this more than anyone, and it harkened back to Robert Bly’s ‘Iron John’. “Men are attractive because of their fierceness”. The Playground took on an aura proportional to its ‘tough guy status, not unlike many corporations. The tough guy’s roles were limited but invaluable when called upon. He was the playground’s last line of defense, even though his role was mostly one of deterrence. Similar to many companies, the tough guy’s role was usually passed down from the resident champion to his heir apparent, sometimes willingly, and sometimes not.

The mechanics of this process were mostly known only to the tough guys, but it gave the playground the stability and the security it needed. In the movie ‘A Few Good Men’, Jack Nicholson, while under interrogation from Tom Cruise says: “Somewhere in places you don’t admit, you want me on that wall, where four thousand Cubans try to **** me before breakfast”. He then finishes it with the immortal line: “You want the truth, you can’t handle the truth”. In our playground, the truth was governed by principles based on natural selection and the Law of the Jungle. Bobby Gross was our resident Tarzan.

Bobby was from the poor side of our town and was almost sixteen in the eighth grade. He had been ruling our four-acre domain for as long as anyone could remember. Bobby always seemed so much bigger and older than we were. It wasn’t only his age that made him the resident tough guy. Bobby earned and retained this title due to the several times when he had successfully defended his crown. These events though seldom, were major occurrences in the playground and were attended like a championship bout. They almost never happened by accident and were full of anticipation and bravado. The challenge usually came from another playground, and we were all extremely proud of Bobby when he successfully defended our honor.

Bobby almost retired undefeated. At sixteen, just about everyone leaves the playground for the world of cars and girls. I say almost because of Joe Church. Joe was a Navy brat whose Dad was an Admiral at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. They had just moved up from Norfolk Virginia, and one gray Thursday afternoon Joe showed up on the Playground for the first time. No words had to be exchanged, or threats made, it was just something you knew. Bobby and Joe knew it better than anyone. There could only be one playground number one, and today there would be a changing of the guard.

Like Bobby, but even more so, Joe was advanced physically for his age. He was very athletic and muscular. He had an air of quiet defiance, bred by years of moving from one Navy town to the next having to defend his honor at every stop. No one quite remembers exactly how the fight started. Someone heard the word ‘punk’ shouted and it began. It was over almost as quickly as it began. After taking Bobby's best shot, Joe pinned Bobby up against the chain link backstop and beat him to a pulp with less than six punches. This kid could really fight. It’s funny though; with Joe there was no bravado or posturing, just a raging controlled fury that you hoped would never be directed toward you. Joe was later highly decorated in Vietnam, and all of us who shared our waning years on the playground with him were very proud— including Bobby Gross.

Another Playground Legend Was Made!

Most corporations have their resident tough guy, or gal. You can only hope that they got their training, and cut their teeth, on the grass and asphalt of a distant playground. That way you can be sure that their lessons were true. If not, you may have to suffer the rants and tirades of some William Agee or Jack Welch wannabee. The real tough guys pass their strength along in the form of confidence and security to those working under them, just like Bobby and Joe did for us. This creates an atmosphere of stability and confidence that allows everyone to thrive and prosper and comes from lessons truly learned and paid for. The god’s of the playground instilled this in all. They entered your soul on the fields and courts of adolescence ...

And Never Left.

Chapter 18: The Fire Of The Unknown

For all of that day, they rode north through the grass and camped just east of Dupuyer, in the Butte Valley.

“Tomorrow, we will arrive at our home camp—just east of Browning—in the heart of the Blackfoot Piegan Reservation, Ichiban. I am sure that Stoneheart has arrived by now and has prepared the tribe for bad news regarding our disappearance.”

You Were Our Last Hope

“Hope springs eternal, Not-Many-Prisoners, when it is all you have left. With your help tomorrow, we will convince your People that the worst is behind us. The Blackfoot Piegan Nation will recapture its spirit, and we will unleash its fury upon the Siksika who have attacked in the dark and from behind.”

Not-Many-Prisoners liked the way Cutty used the words Us and We. “He is a man who goes beyond the smoke to the land of our Grandfathers,” he thought. “He has truly been sent from the great Kessuckquànd (Heaven), as the Old One has prophesied.”

With his saber and katana lying beside him, Cutty again offered thanks for being in the company of men with honor.

The Military Academy had been fine for what it was — “but a man’s true spirit could only be forged and replenished in the fire of the unknown.” He was once again at peace.

A Peace Only Proffered In Times of War



Chapter 19: The Backbone Of The World

Not-Many-Prisoners remained quiet during the long ride into the Blackfoot Piegan Camp. The reservation was located just east of the great mountains and stretched north to the Canadian border. Jimmy had told Cutty it was larger than the entire state of Delaware. “It is a big area for so few of us left,” Jimmy had said.

Cutty became overtaken by a feeling that he had not had since leaving Nepal. The grandeur of the mountains was filling his soul, and words again became useless in trying to describe their beauty. “No wonder the Indians fought so hard to preserve their homeland,” Cutty thought to himself. “Who wouldn’t rather die than leave this sacred place?”

As the sun disappeared behind the Livingston range, he could tell that Not-Many-Prisoners was worried. The Piegan Elder had been quiet all day, but when they passed a sign pointing toward Browning, he finally spoke: “We will be in Browning in less than an hour, Ichiban. Thirty minutes after that, we will enter the main camp of the Blackfoot Piegan Nation.”

Cutty wondered if he would be in trouble with The People for leaving Chief Stoneheart. He knew that Not-Many-Prisoners would have no say in the matter—even though he led the rustlers away from their small party. Cutty also knew that warrior societies had their own specific rules and regulations, and they often did not make sense to an outsider.

The Japanese Emperor had often told him: “Look not to the intellect for the truth you seek, My Son. Look instead—inside your heart—where fear is overcome by belief. Only there will you find the true warrior and the spirit and courage to win.”

As they passed through Browning, Cutty could feel the emptiness hidden in its dusty old streets. The buildings were drab, but more than that, there seemed to be an absence of life and a dispiritedness that hung over the town. It was nothing like any of those Tibetan towns that he rode through on his way to Kathmandu.

He Couldn’t Get Through Browning Quickly Enough

Passing the eastern border of the small town, Cutty began to hear drums in the distance. They were beating to a very slow cadence and seemed to dramatize the melancholy he already felt.

“They are the drums of sorrow, Ichiban. The People now fear we are dead, and their last hope of regaining the spirit of their Grandfathers has died with us. They will not believe what they see when we ride in through the dark.

“I would ask that you wait here, and let me ride in first to announce our presence. As you now know, proper introductions are very important to my People, and it is fitting that they hear of the things you have done before you arrive. Please rest here—by this small lake—I will be back by the time you have watered the horses.”

Not-Many-Prisoners dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to Cutty. Without another word he walked off into the darkness in the direction of the drums. It seemed like a long time had passed when Cutty heard the sound of the drums change. They now had a powerful energy, and he was sure their message (whatever it was) was reverberating off the great mountains to the west.

All At Once The Drums Stopped!

Cutty could hear voices, and lights seemed to be coming through the woods. It was then that he heard the voice of Stoneheart calling out to him from the trees ahead.

“Ichiban, the words of the Old One have come true. You are truly the savior of the Blackfoot Piegan People. Please enter our village as one who comes back to us—from before.”

Cutty had no idea what Stoneheart meant. “I’ve never been here before,” he said under his breath. “What could Jimmy have told them to make them greet me in this way?”

The lights ahead seemed to forge into one, and Cutty could see at least a hundred people walking his way carrying torches. They were also carrying something in their arms that he didn’t recognize.

“These are small offerings from the tribe in honor of your return,” said Stoneheart. “Not-Many-Prisoners told us about what you have done. It only adds to the stories that Lightfeather has already told about your many battles and triumphs. It has been a very long time since The Blackfoot Piegan Nation has been so honored by a visitor. Please allow us to formally welcome you again to our camp.”

Cutty was then offered a white horse to ride, but he insisted on walking with The People.

Chapter 15:  A Different Brand Of Justice

The horses had been bound together with a technique that Cutty had never seen before.  They had all been tied to a forty-inch branch that allowed them to move freely and graze without getting tangled.  It lowered down as they fed and then rose when their heads straightened back up.  

Cutty vowed to remember this for the future.  It provided for both security and a limited amount of mobility.  It had been invented by the Cheyenne and was used extensively throughout the southern plains. The Colonel had been right when he said: “The Native Americans are noted for their prowess in stealth and tactics.”

Cutty untied the horses from the branch, and—with three of the reins in his right hand and two in his left—started to walk them slowly toward the fire.

He knew his next move would be costly, but he needed to create as big a diversion as he could.  It would only leave five shots in his Colt, but the effect would be worth the bullet—at least that’s what he hoped.

                   He Reminded Himself About Hoping Again

The Colonel had warned Cutty repeatedly about “hoping.”  “Wishing for a certain outcome is not worth the mental effort you will put forth.  Keep your attention focused on the task at hand.  That will afford you the best chance of success.”

Cutty slapped the lead stallion on its **** as he fired his Colt up into the night sky.  At the report of the gunshot, all five horses took off toward the fire like they were being chased by the underworld God, Hades.  Entering the mouth of the ravine, there was not enough room for them to go around and avoid the fire.

                              They Charged Straight Through

The horses charged across the fire, as the five cowboys looked on in drunken horror.  There were smoke and flying embers everywhere.  Two of the cowboys at the far end stood up and tried to run but were trampled by the horses before getting very far.  The lead cowboy, Jack, managed to get to his gun—before leveling it in Cutty’s direction and firing.  

Cutty redrew his Colt while dropping to one knee.  He sighted his big .45 and fired before Jack could get off a second round.  The bullet went straight through Jack’s right shoulder—causing him to drop the big Peacemaker as he fell back away from the now scattered fire.  

Cutty picked up Jack’s gun and ran toward where Not-Many-Prisoners was tied.   As he cut his restraints, he handed him Jack’s gun saying: “There are five shots left in the cylinder.  Here’s six more rounds in case you run out.”

They both turned to face the startled cowboys who were now crawling through the dirt trying to make sense of it all.   With a KIAI that none of these rustlers had ever heard before, Cutty advanced.  One by one, he grabbed the men and threw them face down onto the dark ground.  He then yelled to Not-Many-Prisoners: “Tie them up with their hands behind their backs.  I’ll tie the one that I shot after I check on his wound.”

             The KIAI Had Been For Not-Many-Prisoners Benefit

Cutty checked on Jack’s shoulder.  It was bleeding profusely, but it was a clean wound, the bullet having missed any bone or cartilage as it passed through.  Cutty grabbed the bandana from around Jack’s neck—***** as it was—and wrapped his shoulder.  “This will help to stop the bleeding,” Cutty said.  “Keep pressure on it with your other hand.  It’s better than you deserve, but you might just live if you keep it from bleeding out before you get to a doctor.”

Jack had been staring at Cutty’s blouse as he doctored his wound.  “So, you some kinda government agent?” Jack asked, as Cutty started to walk away.

“I’m a Major in the United States Army, here to investigate charges that rustling has been taking place on government land.  I can see now that the rumors have been true.  In addition, you were getting ready to commit capital ******.  I am ordering you—and your men—to stay here until my detachment comes back to pick you up.

If you’re not here when they arrive, they will hunt you down like the wild dogs that you are. I need to get this Indian Scout back to headquarters. We know who you work for and what you’ve been doing.”

                          “You Are All Under Military Arrest”

Cutty tied Jack’s right hand to the top of his other arm. He knew he had just stretched the truth, but he wasn’t above doing that if a man’s life hung in the balance.  He looked across the scattered but still burning embers ...

Not-Many-Prisoners had a look on his face that Cutty had not seen from any of the Piegan Elders before.  El Cristo had been the first to look at him that way when he had mortally wounded his son, Elligretto, in Seville.  His expression transcended the present moment—as it acknowledged Cutty’s immortal warrior spirit.

Not-Many-Prisoners then ran into the darkness, in the direction that the horses had just gone. In less than ten minutes he was back with all five of them in tow.  “How was he able to find them in the dark, and to have done it so quickly?” Cutty wondered.  

Horses, when frightened or startled, will often run for miles without stopping.  He was sure when he fired that shot from his big Colt, those five had been both.  The Colonel’s assessment about Native Americans—a breed of men Cutty had only met once before in Abilene—rang true again tonight.

At West Point, the native cadets had been masked in eastern tradition, hiding the best parts of themselves.

Cutty Jumped On The First Horse As He KIAI’d Into The Darkness!!

We need to remember our heritage and the reason we celebrate the 4th of July.

Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence? Their story. . .

Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died.

Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.

Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured.

Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War.

They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.

What kind of men were they?

Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists.

Eleven were merchants.

Nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated.

But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.

Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.

Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.

Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton , Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.

At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General
George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.

Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed.

The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.

John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying.

Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished.

So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.

Remember: freedom is never free!

The real cost of technology has not been to jobs or the economy, but to the human spirit.  Huge cyber wastelands have replaced what was once a society of human interaction.  We’ve sold our souls for the convenience of not having to know that they’re there. We’ve sold our souls with no repurchase guarantee.  

Some people have many channels in their head like a radio.  Others have only static, interspersed with very few moments of clarity. They live in a self-imposed interference. The reality of their nature being FM, as they ramble the AM stations consumed by the noise. So many of my early years were filled with this AM wandering, always in motion, with my direction in doubt. The clear channels, usually unwanted and tuned out in my programming, were hidden resevoirs of what I had forgotten to learn.

Some of us though, have only one clear and consistent channel. It is a short wave to the future and the past but plays loudest in the present. Crazy Horse was like that. Like all true prophets, he saw through the superficiality and into the meaning that connects all of life together.  His channel had no on/off switch, and he needed no advertising or endorsement to drive home his message.

The price for this clarity he had already paid, and he would ultimately pay again. His message, although often unwelcome, was the warning that his tribe needed to hear. His station was not a place on the dial, but a frequency into the heart of one refusing to change. It was a respite, and last hope, from the threat that European civilization posed to the Oglala Sioux.

The truth, resonating from the deepest places in his heart, burdened him because so few wanted to hear.  His message was ignored by those who still lived in denial. He would remind them: "To live truly free comes at the highest cost of all," and like many great men the idea of Crazy Horse was more welcome than the reality of who he was.  The line crossing over from storytelling — to living the story — left many behind.  The message in his words was often covered over by the smoke of what many still wanted to hear. So often he said: "Looking into the fire you either know or you don’t know," and the difference lies not in the music of the dance — but in the dancer.  

The campfire oftentimes had an illusion unto itself. Its chanting would enlighten the few while only warming the many in a comfort that could not last. Like Muzak, which tries to convince us today that any noise is better than the quiet it replaces, the Oglala Sioux continued to hear a similar monotony — with their heads in the sand.

As I pull into Tuba City, my memory yearns for the simplicity of my old BSA Gold Star, where more was not necessarily better and whose soul I could always find.  The clarity of its exhaust note would reach deep inside me, reminding me that the truth is always spoken to one directly, and the importance of its message only strengthened with time.

Kurt Philip Behm: June, 1971