The Land - Robert K. Swisher Jr.

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or hate it was the weather or a bad harvest. It seemed there was always something. It was a curse to be the leader. A curse to have to make the decisions.

      Over the past several years Black Bison had wanted deep in his heart to take his wife and ride out into the wilderness. Out, away from the people, and build himself a small home. A home he would never have to leave. A home on some mesa top where he could stand during the day and look out upon the earth in peace. There had truly never been peace in his life.

      When he was a young boy, the Spaniards had come into the land. A cold, greedy people. A people who did not understand the people or their ways. A people who only wanted to take from the earth and never return anything. Life for them was to conquer and die. To die so they could go to some heaven in the sky. Life to Black Bison was to live to see the sun and smell the rain, to make love to his wife and play with his children. But there had been so many battles. So many raids on the Spanish, so much hatred and revenge and so much fear until the Spaniards were driven from the land.

      Whenever it seemed there would be peace once again, there would be danger. Not danger from the Spaniards but danger from the southern Indians. Indians unlike his people — these were cold-hearted marauding people, people who took what they needed from weaker peoples. Man was such a strange creature. Unable to live and let live. Always desiring, always hating, always wanting. It seemed there was no end. It was almost a shame to bring people into the world now. It was not like his grandfather told him the world used to be like. It was not a good place.

      Black Bison looked from his pony at the procession of his people. There were ninety women, thirty-two children, twenty-nine old people, and over 100 warriors. Out still scouting were over twenty other warriors. Looking at his people plodding through the dry crust of the earth, Black Bison could not help but feel what would another man want with these people? Cannot we just live in peace with the earth?

      Black Bison knew the people wanted to rest. He knew the horses were tired and hungry, but they must push on. Soon they would be in the canyon and the people could rest while the warriors took shifts watching and preparing for the battle. They would build fortifications across the mouth of the canyon and hope the gods were with them. He knew even the women would have to fight and the young boys. They were no match against the 200 warriors in the open, but cornered they would fight, fight to the death every man, woman and child if necessary before they would be slaves to any man.

      Black Bison’s father had been a great chief. A good chief. And when Black Bison was young, his father had never bothered him with what would be his destiny. He was shown no special treatment or care, but was allowed to play with the other boys of the tribe. It was only when he was twelve years old his father took him outside one day to the top of the gently sloping ridge above the tribe and pointing, he spoke.

      “All you see will be yours. The heart and souls of all the men and women and children will weigh on your back. For them you must live and breathe. From the day that I die you will never be able to love only one woman, for you must love them all. All children will be yours. The future of our people will be your decision and your decisions will become great burdens on your heart.”

      And from this day forward, Black Bison was taken from the other boys and kept with his father at all times. He sat in council meetings, he listened to the medicine men. He listened to his father make decisions, and he grew to learn the respect and power his father held, and he knew that one day it would also be his. But he also began to feel the segregation from the other people of the tribe. He was different. He was to be chief.

      While Black Bison rode in his thoughts, six braves who had found each other in their search for danger caught up with the tribe. They had ridden around the invaders. It would be very close to see if the people would make the canyon. Black Bison chose fifteen warriors who would remain behind and try to slow up the enemy, hoping it would give the tribe just enough time to make the canyon. Each of the young men knew he would die, and Black Bison looking at them could not but feel a great sadness in his heart. They were so very young, so full of life and joy. Looking into their faces he saw strength and pride, and he thought to himself how many children would these brave men have brought into the world. How many great things could they have done. It was such a waste, such a deep sorrow. As the tribe moved on, the women began a low deep wail, knowing that blood from the people would spill onto the earth. And the wail would not stop until the tribe reached the box canyon.

      As the tribe disappeared from the sight of the fifteen, one of the warriors began to dance and yelp a song: “I who am chosen to die, will die with the blood of many enemies.” Soon the others were dancing and each in his words and thoughts made peace with the world and prepared to face the enemy and die brave and proud.

      Several hours later, when the 200 warriors from the south approached the fifteen, the chief of the invaders, Blue Sky, was astonished. The fifteen sat upon their horses, painted for war. From their hair strung feathers and from their ponies’ manes were scalps of other enemies. The chief raised his lance and stopped his men. The fifteen were a beautiful sight, a sight of defiance and life, a sign of strength, and he could not help but feel respect for the men. He motioned to his men and asked in a loud voice, “What fifteen do I have who will engage the brave ones?”

      Immediately fifteen warriors broke from the pack, their ponies prancing and fidgeting. Blue Sky lowered his hand and the fifteen kicked their horses and tore at the men.

      Black Bison’s fifteen warriors in unison began their war cry. The fighting was furious and bloody. Men ripped into each other from frothing, kicking horses. Knives tore into flesh and stained the earth, and when it was done, eight of Black Bison’s men still stood, while around them lay fifteen of the enemy and seven of their own.

      The chief once again raised his hand and eight fresh braves pranced forward. “Kill the brave ones,” he commanded, and the eight tore into the eight tired Black Bison’s men. But once again when the fighting was done, four of Black Bison’s men stood while all the others lay dead.

      With this the chief sent out onto the bloody field a man under a banner of truce followed by several men with food. Dropping the food on the ground the man spoke to the bloody survivors. “Eat and sing your death song, brave ones, for in the morning you die.” With this the band of invaders spread out in a large circle around the four men and dismounted.

      That night, surrounded by the campfires of their enemies, the men sat in a circle and ate, and then, throughout the starlit night, they sang their songs and relived their lives.

      At times one would stand and shout into the darkness, “I am Snake Man, I am not afraid to die. You are but women in our way.” And the warriors circling the four could not but be impressed by their enemy. Inside the hearts of the four men, they knew they had won, for with each passing minute the tribe grew closer and closer to its destination — the safety of the canyon.

      With the dawn, the invaders mounted their ponies and the four braves faced in four directions (north, south, east and west) and watched as the circle around them grew tighter and tighter, until by sheer numbers they were beaten from their horses and trampled into the ground by the hooves of the horses.

      In ages to come there would be no trace of this battle. No monument to the courage of the men, no eternal flame to spur on the imaginations of the young. There would only be the rock and the cactus. The cedar and pinon trees and the lonely howl of the wind, forever shifting the dirt.

       SANCTUARY

      By sunrise the next day the tribe arrived at the box canyon tired and exhausted. The canyon was cut out of a large granite hill. Too steep on the sides to be scaled by men or animal, its entrance a small opening no more than 100 yards across. The canyon itself in depth was no more than 50 yards. In the opening were large boulders scattered and crisscrossed across the mouth, making any entrance difficult. Between these boulders were ancient twisted and gnarled cedar trees, providing even more protection for the tribe. At the rear of the canyon was a small spring that bubbled and filled a rock hole about 5 feet across.

      Even in their exhaustion the women were put to work gathering firewood for cooking fires. All dead wood was dragged

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