daring all his enemies to attempt to take his taunting scalplock.
With a tug, the Blackfoot finally pulled an object free from beneath the front of that buffalo-hide vest Bass could now make out was sewn from the reddish skin of a young buffalo calf. Straining, his vision fixed on what the warrior held out between them, the object just inches from the white man’s eyes.
An eagle wingbone whistle, suspended from its thong and gently nudged by the icy wind that spat sharp snowy arrow-points against their exposed flesh.
But … not just any eagle wingbone whistle. The half breath seized inside what Titus had left of his lungs. This … this whistle appeared familiar. Wrapped in porcupine quills of oxblood red and greasy yellow. A simple pattern of flattened, colored quills that he could not help but recognize.
Eventually his moist, swimming eye climbed to the warrior’s face. Something like a smile seemed to cross that face as the Indian realized the old man was studying him. The Blackfoot reached up
“Do you know me now, old man?”
There it was again. That perfect white man’s American talk he magically heard inside his head when the Blackfoot opened his mouth, moved his lips and tongue. Even though other, foreign sounds came out of the warrior’s face, like the garbled tangle of some foreign language … what Bass heard inside his head was nonetheless American talk he understood perfectly.
“I-I don’t know you,” and he hacked up more of the thick blood congealing at the back of his throat. Finally he stared at the whistle, and whispered, “But … I know th-that.”
“It was my brother’s,” the warrior said inside Bass’s head. “You killed him many, many winters ago.”
He stared at the whistle, realizing what the Blackfoot said must surely be true. That was where he had seen it before, having taken it off the dead man he had eventually buried in a tree, wrapped in a warrior’s red blanket.
“I don’t have a red blanket to bury you in,” the young warrior apologized. “The way you buried my brother that day. All I have is this red coat that belonged to my friend who you killed.”
Swallowing, Bass explained, “He killed my wife.”
“Your woman?”
“In the village. He was the only one of you I really wanted. I am glad he is dead now.”
“It is good you can wear his capote,” the young warrior declared. “He honors you, a mighty warrior who killed him. You wear the color of war as you die, old man. Just the way you honored my brother many winters ago.”
“One warrior always honors ano-another.”
As the first tear slipped from the Blackfoot’s eye, he said, “And you honored me that day too. Giving me my brother’s war whistle, placing it between my lips to blow for him as he began to take his first steps on the wind.”
He didn’t know if he could talk anymore, it was getting so hard to breathe, just to keep his eyes open, “I-I …”
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” the Indian scolded. “You must walk this last road alone, but you must walk it before you sleep.”
“C-can’t—”
Scratch felt the Blackfoot slip the long leather loop around his neck, tug it down behind his long, curly hair, then gently straighten it out before he held up the whistle once more.
“Yes … you can. Because you are a warrior. You must do this before you start your last, long walk.”
Then the young man brought his fingers up, gently parting the old trapper’s lips, prying his teeth apart as Bass felt himself sinking into such unimaginable cold. Eventually the youngster managed to slip the end of the whistle between Scratch’s teeth.
Leaning back at last, the Blackfoot brought his face down close to the old man’s, his two dark-cherry eyes looking back and forth between the good eye and that milky, clouded one.
At long last the warrior whispered, “Now … it is time for you to blow for yourself. Blow to call on the First Maker, the guardian of all warriors. Blow to call upon He Who Will Listen To Our Final Prayers. Blow, you old warrior!”
He tried, but only a weak whisper of air escaped the end of the warrior’s wingbone whistle.
“You must try harder, old man,” the Blackfoot urged. “The day you were born, the First Maker blew His breath into your mouth, into your spirit the very moment you emerged from your mother’s womb. Now it is time for you to blow out your last breath, to return it back to the First Maker … in the great circle of a warrior’s life. That first breath He gave you, now you must send it back to Him with your final prayer, old warrior. One last breath and it will be finished.”
He tried again. A little louder.
“That wasn’t your last,” the warrior explained. “The last will be strong. As strong and mighty as you have been a warrior all those seasons you have walked this earth. But now, you must begin a different journey. You will begin to walk on the wind for all time. So you must blow.”
Leaning back, the Blackfoot rocked onto his haunches, then stood, looking down at the white man. “This is for you to do now, on your own. Make this last prayer of yours a good one, old warrior. The First Maker will hear what prayer rests in your heart as you blow with that final breath … and he will be there to walk beside you on the wind.”
Bass sat there, leaning against the tree, blinking his pooling eyes as the young warrior turned slowly and trudged down the gentle slope. After a few steps, the young man whose life he had once saved, the young man whom Titus Bass had once sent back to his people … this Blackfoot warrior stopped—turned—and spoke one last time.
“Pray for what is most dear in your heart, Wind Walker.”
THIRTY-FOUR
He watched the young warrior trudge down the snowy slope until he could not see the figure anymore for the swirling snow that swept in upon gusts of cold wind.
Cold.
How he wished he could spend one more warm night with her. Just holding her, not even taking her in a fevered, frantic rush. Just to cradle her against him one more night. To lie there feeling her heart beating against him, listening to the soft breathing of their children in their lodge until the sky at the top of the poles turned gray and a new day was a’born. What he wouldn’t give to feel her arms around him one last night.
But it was too late now. So cold. Even his warm gut was starting to freeze in his hands.
The snow stung his eyes, sharp against his wet cheeks where his tears had fallen. So he closed them, wondering how he would ever have the strength to blow now that he was growing weaker and weaker. He didn’t have enough will left in him—
With a soft rustle of movement, he felt them approach, brushing against him on both sides.
Slowly Titus opened his eyes, blinked to be sure. And saw them. The Little People. And gradually the realization of what that meant made his throat go dry.
One of them, almost completely covered with long, unkempt gray hair, leaned close to his face and whispered, “You see us, old friend?”
“Yes, I … I finally see you.” He thought the words in his mind, his front teeth still clamped around the end of that whistle.
The Little Person smiled warmly, then peered down the old man’s frame as he asked, “Do you remember what I told you long ago about when the time came that you would finally see us?”
Titus nodded, weakly.
“Do you feel pain?”
Bass nodded again.