to the blanket, the white folks call it. I won’t argue with those white folks who look down on menfolk like me who go to the blanket. Truth be, I’m damn well proud to tell the whole world Titus Bass had gone to the blanket!”
“When can we name your new son in the old way of the Crow?” inquired his wife.
Flea seized on that and asked, “What will you name this little one, Popo?”
“Whoa, son. Hold on there. I haven’t had time to think on names for him yet. I only learned of him last night, and you want a name already?”
“He needs a name,” Waits agreed. “It is a father’s duty to name his children.”
“Yes, these two have good names.” And he squeezed both of the children against him.
Waits smiled. “So you’ll listen to what the Grandfather Above tells you his name is? Now that this child’s father has returned home—you must listen intently because the Creator will speak this boy’s name to you.”
“Yes,” Scratch sighed, gazing at the back of the baby’s head as it slept. “I must find the right name for this child who came as a secret I did not know.”
“Can we help listen for what to name him, Popo?” Magpie asked.
“No,” Titus said gently. “It is my job to hear what the Grandfather Above tells me. I found the right names for you and your brother. So I trust that I will find the right name for this little one.”
“When you do,” Waits began, “what of a naming ceremony?”
The idea struck him as a good one. “Invite others to come celebrate with us?”
“Yes—we are here among my people, among this child’s people,” she declared. “We should name him in the traditional way.”
“Yes! I agree. With Magpie and Flea—we only had our family. Now we can gather others around us when we announce the little one’s name.”
She reached over to gently tug on his graying whiskers. “Your wife thinks you should get busy this morning to find out what that name will be.”
“Soon enough I will listen.”
“Not this morning?” she repeated.
“I have something else to do first,” he began with a wide smile, followed by a wink down at his oldest son. “Last night I promised Flea he would have a chance to hear the Cheyenne horses talk to him this morning.”
“Will my mother be angry with me?” Flea asked as they neared the end of the meadow where they had picketed the fifteen Cheyenne horses last night.
“Because I came to listen to the horses with you instead of listening for a name to give your little brother?” he asked, patting the boy on the back of the head as they scuffed through the deep snow. “No, son—your mother will be angry at
“She will be angry because you are giving me a horse?”
“Yes,” Titus answered. “She doesn’t think you are old enough to have a horse of your own.”
“Maybe she is right.” And the child wagged his head.
“Are you saying that because you think she is right? Or, are you saying it so you won’t make your mother angry at you?”
He glanced up at his father. “Maybe … because … sometimes she might be right.”
“Every boy your age has misgivings at times,” he consoled. “You must expect to have doubts too. Any man who is too sure of everything is a man I am afraid of. Do you understand?”
“I think I do, Father. It is all right to be afraid of some things.”
“Yes,” Titus answered. “Are you ever afraid of horses?”
“Not much anymore.”
“Then I figure it’s up to you to decide what you’ll do,” he said as they came to a halt near the steadiest animal of them all, that old roan saddle horse. “You can deny all that your spirit tells you about yourself just to keep your mother from being angry with you … or you can tell your mother that you have this spirit helper inside you that you are going to follow.”
“I don’t know what she would say to me if I told her that.”
“Neither do I, son. But you can’t be afraid of displeasing your mother. In the years to come, there will be many times in your life when you have to tear yourself from your mother. More and more as you grow up. You’ll even pull yourself away from your father too—so you can be your own person one day, following the call of your own spirit. But that won’t happen without some pain for all of us.”
“Father, can I tell you when I am afraid?”
Bass squeezed his son against him and kissed the top of his head. “Yes. As long as you let me tell you when I am afraid too. Those are the sorts of spirit things a father and a son share between them.”
“Will you talk to my little brother this way when he is older like me?”
“When he is ready, he will let me know that it is time for us to talk like this,” Titus assured, feeling his heart swell with such pride. “Shush, now—and listen. Let’s stand here and see if any of these horses talks to you this morning.”
They waited and listened for a long time. Then Bass nudged Flea forward. Together they walked among the animals, slowly, and as quietly as they could upon the icy, trampled snow that squeaked with every step. Of a sudden the boy stopped and turned around to stare back at a claybank gelding.
The horse stood with its rump toward them but had cocked its head around, as if staring at the youngster that just passed him by. Bass held his breath and listened, straining to hear any sound the animal might make, watching carefully to spot any suspect movement by the horse’s jaw. But he heard and saw nothing.
“No,” Flea suddenly spoke. “But next summer will be my seventh.”
It made the hair stand on Bass’s arms. His son took two steps away from his father, then stopped, all the closer to the claybank.
“I came looking for a war pony,” Flea continued. Then paused as he took another step closer to the gelding that from all appearances continued to study the boy closely.
“I know I am not ready to go to war yet, but my father told me even a pony boy should have a horse of his own.”
Somewhat skeptical, a part of Bass wanted to convince himself that Flea was having fun at his expense.
“The bay has the strongest wind?” Flea seemed to repeat. “And the small red is the fastest among you?”
Bass wanted to chuckle. This was a good joke Flea was having on his father—carrying on a conversation with the horse. Now, Titus would readily admit that he did believe different folks possessed different powers, even that his son might possess some special medicine that would allow him to understand the secret language of horses … but to carry on a conversation back and forth with this claybank as if Flea was talking to a person?
“Why should I choose you?”
Maybe this joking had gone far enough. Scratch began to reach out to lay his hand on Flea’s shoulder when the boy took another step toward the claybank.
“Yes, of course I realize I can hear you, that I can talk to you. But why does that—”
With one more step toward the gelding, Flea stopped all but underneath the claybank’s neck, staring up at the pony’s eyes. The youngster nodded in the most matter-of-fact manner, then said, “I understand. Since you and I can talk to one another, that does prove you are the horse for me, doesn’t it?”
Titus hurried up and put his two hands on his son’s shoulders protectively, ready to put a stop to what he clearly did not understand, a situation that was giving him a very eerie sensation.
Flea turned confidently and peered up at his father. “This is the one, Popo. He told me something that makes sense.”
“W-what, son?”
“This horse admitted he isn’t the strongest horse, or the fastest horse either.”
“Then, why have you decided to choose him?”
For the first time, Flea reached up and patted the claybank along the strong jaw. “I choose him because he tells me he is most like you, Father. Not the strongest, nor the fastest. But because he is the smartest.”
Over the next few days, Bass spent part of every afternoon outside, basking in the late sun and carving a number of special invitation sticks that had to be ready when the time came for the naming ceremony. Using his
