A young Lakota's date with destiny.
|Kicking Bear dropped to his knees. Ears to the ground, he thought. That is the way to stay safe. Know the location of your enemy. He tilted his head sideways, pressed it to the dry leaves covering the ground in the small glade of cottonwood trees. He was fortunate to have found this small oasis of cover – trees were far apart on what he knew the White Man called the Great Plains.
He felt the vibrations in the small bones of his ears, registered them in his fingertips, pressed against the dry leaves. He knew a band of Blue Shirts, white men skilled in horsemanship and firearms, was in the area. Scouts along the ridges, led by his brother Flying Hawk, assumed the Blue Shirts were planning an attack on the village. The vibrations Kicking Bear felt in the earth came from horses shod in iron, moving in formation. And they were not far away. He must inform his cousin Crazy Horse, without delay. Were the Blue Shirts between him and the village? Kicking Bear felt dampness in his palms, rubbed it away quietly with a handful of dry leaves. He envisioned the coming battle, the dust and the war cries. He imagined it would be called the Battle of the Greasy Grasses, although he guessed the White Man might name it after what he knew they called the river -- the Little Bighorn. Kicking Bear had a sense of history.
He began to rise. Suddenly, rustling leaves behind him. He felt for the knife at his rawhide belt, and whirled around in a crouch. A Blue Shirt towered over him. A Blue Shirt wearing denim jeans. “Hey there, Chief,” said Blue Shirt. “Supper’s about ready, so Mom says come on in. She made your favorite, fried chicken.”
(Word count: 298)