Johnny Hunter Page 15

  “What about the horses?” Johnny asked.

  “Leave them here. It is a short walk that will make us warm.”

  Walking behind him, Johnny thought the old man looked like a painting from a scene one hundred years ago. His gray hair was braided, hanging over the buffalo robe. Skinny bare legs hung out of the robe, only a pair of deerskin moccasins protecting his feet from the cold.

  They climbed steadily; the steepness and the snow seemed not to bother Gray Man. When they were near the top, a large black crow flew toward them cawing and diving. Gray Man studied the bird. He moved his finger to his lips. “Shh, we are not alone.”

  Crouching down, they crept below the ridge line until they entered a large stand of trees. The sound of breaking and smashing rocks carried across the hills. Gray Man stopped in the pine tree shadows and pointed. “White boys are destroying our ancient ones’ burial sites,” he whispered.

  Johnny looked below, his eyes wide in disbelief. Three teenage boys, wielding sledge hammers, were smashing the headstones and grave markers in the Cheyenne cemetery. Hammers swung wildly, cracking the ancient marble and concrete memorials. The chunks of concrete and marble flew across the graveyard. The boys laughed and ran from tombstone to tombstone.

  “Look at this one!” the largest boy yelled. He was about sixteen, large-boned with dark red hair under a sock cap. “It says old Elk Calf Woman was buried here in 1932. Well, nobody wants to see an old Elk Calf Woman anymore.” He swung the steel-headed hammer into the marker and it exploded into dust and splinters.

  Another boy pulled a small marker out of the ground and smashed it onto another gravesite. They had already broken over a dozen tombstones.

  “What are we going to do?” Johnny asked between clenched teeth. He felt the anger warm his body and face.

  “It is a good day to die,” the old man said with a smile on his lips. “We must stop those evil white boys and teach them a lesson.”

  “Good. Are we going to charge them?”

  “No, I don’t want to scare them off. We’ve got to take them prisoners and punish them ourselves. The white man’s courts won’t do anything to them for wrecking a few Cheyenne graves.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said, his heart pounding wildly. “Whatever you say.”

  “Good,” Gray Man said, sitting in the snow. “Do you see their car?”

  Johnny pointed toward the cemetery entrance. “Yes, it’s parked below the gate.”

  “I know, Hunter. You must make a large circle around the cemetery, staying out of sight, like a mountain lion sneaking up on a small deer. When I see you reach the car, I will make noise so you can let the air from their tires. White men of all ages are helpless without their cars.”

  Johnny grinned and shook his head. He was scared, but it still sounded like fun.

  Gray Man raised his hand. “Go quickly. They are smashing our graves.”

  Johnny slipped off his coat and hung it on a tree branch. He slid lower on the hillside and tried running through the snow. It was too deep. He slowed to a walk, and in ten minutes he was lying on the ground below a new Chevrolet El Camino. Crawling to the tires, he lay quietly, waiting.

  A voice called out from the hills above the cemetery.

  “Help me, white boys! I’m dying. Help an old Cheyenne who’s dying.”

  Johnny watched the three boys. They stopped swinging their hammers. “What the hell was that?” one yelled at the other two.

  “I don’t know,” the red headed youth answered. “Let’s go see, and bring your hammers. It might be a trick.”

  “Maybe we should just take off,” the smallest boy said.

  “Don’t be such a chicken. It ain’t cops or they’d be in here chasing us all over the place.”

  The three boys began walking up the hill, swinging their hammers as they went.

  “Help me, white boys!” Gray Man shouted again. “I have money. I can pay you for helping me.”

  Johnny could tell the old man had moved.

  When the boys were halfway up the hillside, Johnny removed the valve stem cover. His hands shaking, he turned the pointed cap over and pushed into the valve stem. The air hissed loudly from the tire. Johnny looked up the hill, but the boys did not turn around. Gray Man was making too much noise for them to hear the air escaping from their tires.

  The right front tire went flat quickly. Johnny crawled to the back tires and drained the air from them. His part finished, he stood up and ran into the trees. What comes next? he wondered. His answer came quickly.

  Gray Man suddenly appeared on the ridge above the white boys. He was naked except for his breechcloth and moccasins. An arrow was stretched across his bow. “So, white boys, you have come to wreck our graves. Well, perhaps I will send one of you to your own.” He aimed over the head of the boy in the center and let the arrow fly.

  “Holy crap!” the red headed boy shouted as he dove to the ground. The other two landed in the snow next to him as the arrow sailed past them.

  “He’s crazy. Let’s get the hell out of here.” They ran down the hill, leaving their hammers lying in the snow.

  Johnny laughed as he watched them tumble helter-skelter down the hill. They had never run faster in their lives.

  Gray Man chased behind them, shouting, “Ya, ya, ya! Run little rabbits! Run!”

  The boys flew across the cemetery and out the gate. Without stopping, two of them jumped into the El Camino’s bed while the redhead hopped into the driver’s seat. The Chevrolet’s engine turned over and the boys’ faces lit up in smiles. The truck started down the gravel road, thumping on the flat tires.

  “Oh, man!” one shouted. The El Camino stopped. “Dad’s gonna kick my tail end for this.” The three climbed out of the truck, ran around to the flat tires and stood there, shaking their heads. Suddenly, an arrow whistled past them and sunk into a tree with a loud thud.

  “Oh, no, that crazy Indian’s still after us,” the smallest moaned. “Get inside the truck and lock the doors.”

  Gray Man walked through the gate and slowly circled the Camino. An arrow lay across the bow. The old chief smiled. “So, you ran into your burrow, small rabbits. We Cheyenne have ways of smoking our dinner out of their rabbit holes.”

  He turned to his grandson. “Hunter, go and get one of their hammers. I want to use it on this fine white man’s truck. Surely a truck is no better than our grave markers.”

  The redhead rolled down the window slightly. “Hey, old man, you better be bluffin’. My daddy just bought this El Camino less than a month ago. He’ll put you in jail for wrecking his new truck.”

  Gray Man rubbed his chin. “I suppose you could tell him about me, but there is the little matter of those broken tombstones to explain when the BIA police come to investigate. It seems to me that you might have a hard time explaining what this fine new truck was doing here in the first place.”

  The window went back up and the boys talked hurriedly to each other. Johnny had reached the hammers and ran back down the hill, waving one like a tomahawk. He felt like a young warrior on his first pony raid.

  “Here, Gray Man!” he shouted. “I’ve got one. Where should I start?”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” the redhead shouted. “Can’t we talk? Make a deal?”

  “Sure,” Gray Man said. “Throw your boots out of the car window and we’ll leave you alone. We’ll take the hammers with us.”

  “You’re nuts, old man! We’d freeze to death walking back to town. No deal.”

  The words were barely spoken when Gray Man grabbed the hammer and swung it at the side mirror. The chrome-plated mirror ripped cleanly out of the door and spun wildly through the air, landing in the snow alongside the road. The boys sat silently in the truck, mouths agape.

  “Okay,” Gray Man said, “the windshield is next.”

  The window cranked down and a boot flew out. Then another and another. Soon, six boots lay in the snow. The window rolled back up quickly.

  “That’s goo
d, little rabbits,” Gray Man said.

  “Wait,” Johnny said, peering into the truck’s interior. “It’s okay. I thought maybe they had a CB radio and could call for help as soon as we left.”

  “No, they are going to have to walk home in the snow or ruin the tires on this fine truck.” Gray Man bent over and picked up a pair of boots.

  “Come, Hunter, get the other boots. We’ll let these baby rabbits free to run home to daddy and tell him why they are walking.”

  He turned to the boys. “Both my arrows missed because it was my wish that they miss you. If I ever see you in our cemetery again, you will feel the sting of my bow. This is sacred ground to the Cheyenne people. Stay out.” His eyes burnt like coals of fire.

  The two Cheyenne walked slowly across the cemetery and into the trees. When they were out of sight, Johnny started laughing. Gray Man joined him. “Oh, Grandfather, you were great.”

  “I was pretty good, wasn’t I? It has been a long time since I was in a fight. Come on, I think there’s more fun to watch.”

  They stood silently in the trees and observed the El Camino. After a couple of minutes, the driver’s door opened slowly. The redheaded boy put his sock-covered foot into the snow and quickly pulled in back into the truck. The other door opened and a boy hopped out, barefoot.

  “Look how they walk,” Johnny whispered. “It’s like the ground is hot, not cold.”

  Gray Man chuckled, his face alive with wrinkles. “It will be a long walk home for them.”

  “Will it hurt them?”

  “No, I do not think so. Someone will pick them up on the highway soon enough. There are always white men cutting across our lands.”

  “I’d love to hear their story to their father,” Johnny said. “It should be a dandy.”

  As they watched, the boys hopped down the road and disappeared around a bend. They could hear the boys cursing long after they were out of sight.

  “Take the boots and put them in the truck bed,” Gray Man said. “They will be punished enough by the time they return to their homes. See if the mirror is okay and put it with the boots. We must be heading back soon. It is rapidly growing dark. I know a little used path for our horses that will quickly get us back to our house.”

  Johnny’s heart felt full of love for Gray Man and his ways. This must be what it feels like to be a Cheyenne warrior, he thought.

  They slid down the hillside on the snow. “On the way back, Grandfather,” Johnny called, “see if you can think up a good excuse for me to tell mom. She’s going to kill me when she sees me. I’m soaking wet.”

  THAT’S IT, MOM. I’m quitting the basketball team Monday to get a part-time job with Mr. Pretty Feather. I’ll go on to high school, but there will be no college for me. It’s just a waste of time for a Cheyenne. I must’ve been kidding myself.” Johnny walked back and forth in front of the kitchen table.

  His mother sat at the table, her eyes wet with tears. The noon sun shone brightly in through the windows. “But, Johnny, you love basketball. It was your daddy’s strongest wish that you’d continue to play basketball. You’re throwing away the only chance you’ve got to succeed.”

  Johnny bent over the table and stared into her large black eyes. “That’s a bad joke, Mom. Dad was wrong and Gray Man’s right. I’m a Cheyenne. There’s no sense trying to be something else. I can get a job and help out right now. We’re going to need money from somewhere now that Dad’s gone.”

  “You’re still a boy. You should act like a boy.”

  Johnny felt the anger rising in his throat. He picked up a washcloth and slammed it into the sink. “C’mon, Mom. Dad was working when he was ten years old. Besides, I can still be successful even without a college degree. Mr. and Mrs. Pretty Feather never went to college and they are doing great. I’ll work very hard, and if they can do it, I can too.”

  Mrs. Hunter slid the wooden chair back and stood up. She walked across the kitchen and grabbed Johnny, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, Johnny, listen to me. You’re something special. Don’t throw it all away for a little money. That’s what the white man wants. If he can keep us dumb and uneducated, we’ll stay just where he wants us—broke and drunk. The Pretty Feathers are successful but they are sending their kids to college. They know it’s a better way.” She stepped back from him and wiped her eyes with the faded yellow apron she always wore. “I don’t know what happened to you on the mountain the other day but you haven’t been the same since. What happened?” she asked.

  He tucked his blue denim shirt into his jeans before he answered. “I saw what it’s like to act like a Cheyenne brave,” he said, his voice loud and clear. “Gray Man showed me what it feels like to be a man. I know now that I am as good as any white man. I don’t need them, and I don’t need their college degree. That’s final. I’m quitting the basketball team Monday. I’ll see you later. I’m going to ride Thunder for a while. No telling how long this warm spell will last.”

  Johnny grabbed his sheepskin jacket and ran out the door. He felt his mother’s eyes on him, but he refused to look back.

  The air was warm for December and he breathed deeply. He felt a yearning for spring and the warm days by the river with Richard and his friends. No swimming for him this year, though. He would be working by then—maybe pumping gas or stocking shelves or working for Sarah’s dad. It would be good to earn money and help his mother. She would see that he had made the right decision by quitting basketball.

  “Hey, Thunder,” he called as he opened the shed door. “Let’s go run some of that winter fat off you.” The brown and white pony shook his head and stomped his hooves excitedly.

  Monday morning was still warm and Johnny walked down the driveway to meet the school bus early. He felt a lump in his stomach that he knew was from worrying about telling Coach he was quitting. His mother had tried to talk him out of it again that morning, but his mind was set.

  The morning quiet was broken by the motor noise of a yellow school bus rounding the curve and crawling up the hill toward him. It was a newer bus than the one that had crashed, but it was still rusted and dented from years on the reservation. Brakes squealing, the bus stopped and opened its door. Johnny climbed the steps and sat down next to Richard.

  “Boy am I glad to see you back,” Richard said. “They’re going to make up the snowed out game with the Crow Indian School today and we’re going to need you.”

  Johnny’s stomach grew tighter. “Are they really?”

  “Yeah, they sure are,” Richard said. “And Coach Goodheart is back. It’s going to be super. Too bad for me that my arm’s still in this dumb old cast.”

  Johnny slowly shook his head.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure, fine. Just a little nervous, I guess.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell Richard that he was quitting the team. He had completely forgotten about the Crow game. It was a game he had dreamed about since the start of the basketball season.

  He stared out the window as the bus slowly drove across the reservation toward school. The snow had melted in some spots, revealing the still brown grass. It would be many months before the warmth of spring brought the grass back from its frozen sleep.

  The day at school felt extra-long, dragging on and on. Johnny wished it was 2:30 and he had finished telling the coach that he was quitting. Father McGlothlin had been coaching while Goodheart was recovering, and Johnny would have just as soon told the priest about quitting. But Coach was back.

  Finally, the bell rang and classes ended. Johnny walked slowly down the hall toward the boys’ locker room. Standing next to the coach’s office was Coach Goodheart and Father McGlothlin. One look and he knew they knew he was going to quit. His mother must have called them.

  “Hey, Johnny, how you feeling?” Coach asked. He was wearing a worn blue sweatshirt and jeans, and he was leaning on a pair of crutches. A white cast stuck out from his pants with only his toes showing.

  “Fine, Coach. How’s your leg feel?”

  “O
h, it’s coming around. It still hurts some, but I can feel it growing stronger every day. I can’t wait to get the cast off. I never did get to really thank you for saving my skin in that snowstorm. I think you did a man’s job that day.” He put his arm around Johnny’s shoulder and squeezed him.

  “Aw, Coach, I didn’t do anything special.” Johnny felt his face turning red. Coach Goodheart was making it harder than ever to quit.

  Father McGlothlin, who had been standing quietly next to the wall, placed his hand on Johnny’s head. “Johnny, your mother called me and told me what you want to do. Before you talk to the coach about it, there’s someone waiting outside to talk to you about your decision.”

  Johnny looked at the priest, his eyebrows furrowed. “Who is it?”

  “Just go,” the priest said. “If you still want to quit when you’re finished, the coach and I won’t try to stop you. Go on, he’s up by the big tree next to the church.”

  Johnny looked at both men, two men he loved and respected. “Okay,” he said and turned bursting through the doors. He ran across the school yard to the church. Rounding the front of the stone building, he stopped.

  Gray Man stood under the giant pine, wrapped in his buffalo robe and wearing his buffalo horn hat. His face was painted red and yellow.

  “Grandfather,” Johnny said hesitantly. “Father McGlothlin said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes, Hunter, we must talk like braves. Walk with me a while.” The old medicine chief turned and started down the slope toward the clinic. He held out his arm and Johnny ran under it.

  “Are you going to quit basketball?”

  “Yeah. It’s time I went to work, and besides, I want to spend my free time with you, learning the ways of the Cheyenne.”

  Gray Man smiled, his teeth yellow with age. “And I want to teach you the ways of our people. My heart soars when I think of you as a leader of our people.”