His parka was long gone, stolen by the white men hours ago. His bare legs had chapped, turning purple in the evening air. His feet were two blocks of ice, naked and numb, kicking up patches of snow as he hobbled the path to nowhere.

Walking was the only normal thing he had left.

The whiteness of the ravine twisted and morphed around him, mocking his mocha skin and leather chief suit. The white snow fell harder, blinding him. White had taken everything from him, the thought, momentarily seeing Haiwee’s face, Beshup’s eyes as they too slipped into blindness.

Sagwitch winced, bending the few face muscles that were left unnumbed. He heard Haiwee’s screams from the hill on his horse and turned to make a run for the white man on top of her but his horse was killed and Sagwitch was shot, wounded in the snow. He blacked out, awoke to darkness and ran.

He limped still further, reassuring himself that at least Beshup could be okay. His little boy. Just eleven years old.

He had to block out the sounds. His entire tribe, moaning and dying on the field they’d lived on for generations. His wife, screaming in pain.

Clamoring for something, anything to take him out of the numbness, he thought of the song he used to sing to Beshup when he was little as the ravine came to a clearing.

“The wind, it whispers/ the bells, they’ll ring/ the trees will sound/ when it’s you I’ve found.”

Past the clearing was sizzling steam, heat radiating softly, welcoming Sagwitch in. A hot springs.

Someone had heard his lullaby.

**

Everything around Beshup throbbed. His stomach. His left knee. His right cheek.

He was in a tent in the woods with elders huddled outside, whispering in not-so-hushed voices.

“Hold her head up – ” “Keep her still – ” “Drink this, my baby -”

It was the newborn, just a month old. They were trying. She was dying.

The throbbing intensified. It rung in his head. He counted his bandages – seven. One for every shot. Where was his father? And his mother? The elders told him to hide, but he heard his mother’s screams and ran into the snow.

Everything hurt. He racked his brains for comfort, for solace, unable to fidget or to cry out because of his pains. “The wind, it whispers/ the bells, they’ll ring – ”

An abrupt silence outside. A moan and a cry. The baby had died.

Beshup closed his eyes, ready to fall back into the blissful world of unconciousness – the only thing that made sense anymore.

“Looks like there is something up on the ridge up there. Look like a cloud. Maybe it is a steam come from a horse. Maybe that’s them soldiers they were talking about.”

Chief Sagwitch’s words, the last her husband would ever speak to her, rang in Haiwee’s mind, reverberating through her cerebrum as potently as the gunshots buzzing overhead.

There was a crash as the fragile door flew from its hinges, landing in a cloud of dust on the earthen floor. Haiwee recoiled at first, but as the debris cleared she saw a friendly face — Itu, the runner.

He was the first and only messenger to return from the fields surrounding the village. He came bearing dire news: we were in retreat. “The settlers have beaten us back, our guns have run dry, and the menacing men shrouded in smoke are advancing upon the encampment.” he panted.

Haiwee was the chief’s wife, now overseeing the women and children cowering in the center of their embattled village. She knew what must be done. Haiwee turned to her mother, seated behind her, and said with a quivering voice: “pack your bags, and tell the rest to do the same. I know their intentions. If we do not run then there is no hope for the children.”

“Yes little dov.” Her mother whispered back, her face wrinkled and her eyes wet.

***

Chief Bear threw his rifle to the ground after squeezing out the last of his bullets. The strength of his defenses had been measured in direct proportion to his level of ammunition. Bear’s forces had achieved a degree of success while their meager resources had lasted, but now he was being edged backwards.

Bear had known from the beginning that this was no clash between two equal parties, his resources were too meager for that. No, this was another leg in the struggle between opressor and oppressed, occupier and occupied; a struggle for justice, not victory.

An otherworldly shriek ruptured Bear’s battle meditations. He swung his head around in its direction in time to see a dispersing column running back towards the village; the women and children, attempting to flee, had encountered the rapidly advancing settlers.

Bear lept into action, drawing his tomahawk, and raced towards his people, followed by the defenders which remained. Bear saw the first settler throw one of the older woman to the ground as he caught up to her, the greedy glisten on his face visible from where Bear now stood. One by one, before Bear was within one hundred feet, the settlers fell upon the defenseless villagers. Sobs echoed across the valley as Bear’s men unleashed their final battle cry.

It was ill suited. This was no battle.

The land was beautiful and calm, misleading to what he knew would be an unfriendly visit. The snow covered trees and endless valley normally brought him peace but now all he felt was the piercing winter chill.

A single snowflake landed softly on the tip of Chief Bear’s nose. Hoping for one last moment of peace he closed his eyes.

“We are a people of the land. Mother Nature provides for us and in return we treat her with respect and honor,” He could hear his late grandfather’s voice ringing in his ears.

Bear remembered the Shoshone lifestyle from when he was a boy. Encounters with white men were rare, food was plentiful, and life was placid.

Since the European Migration to the west began, Chief Bear’s fond memories quickly became overshadowed by conflict and struggle. The white men did not care to understand the Shoshone lifestyle. They had no respect for Mother Nature and her precious gifts. They left only a path of devastation, infecting the Shoshone with the trials of disease and starvation.

His mind raced, “We were left with no choice but to steal their livestock. We needed food for survival.”

“Chief!” A young boy’s yelp of terror ended Chief Bear’s brief moment of silence. “The white men have been spotted over the horizon”

With a feeling of dread, Chief Bear knew it was time. He responded to the boy with four words of strength.
“Let Justice be ours.”