Falling Down the Red Ochre Hill

In the merciless frontier, a Shoshone boy's struggle against encroaching settlers ignites a clash of worlds, where ancient traditions and relentless progress collide in the flames of transformation.

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An icy wind whipped down from the silhouetted mountaintops, stirring up the salt and dust from the slumbering valley floor. It would be the last cool wind of the night before the fiery sun peeked over the rocky sentinels, transforming the valley into an unbearable furnace. Aattangki enjoyed the twilight hours when the meadowlarks began to sing their cheerful, morning songs and the bighorn sheep locked their twisted horns in battle, bleating in struggle. Although the cold stung his exposed body, it was better than the relentless burn of the sun.

We should turn back before he wakes up, Mutsa whispered as he peered nervously over a fence at a newly built shack that belonged to a prospector.

The prospector was from a foreign people who did not respect the old ways, who tore apart the sacred, red rocks in search of metal, and who claimed the living waters for themselves. Aattangki hated them.

No, he said. We have come all this way.

What if he catches us? Mutsa asked fearfully, his face like a fat, bearded lizard.

Aattangki stared out over the sparse plains surrounding them. He cannot catch us. These Numu have no power without their horses and their oxen.

But what if he has one of those frightening weapons that sounds like a rock slide?

You worry too much, Aattangki said. He was older than Mutsa, but not quite a man. It will be like the last time. No one will know we were here. Just signal if you see anything.

He produced a high pitched cooing noise like a roadrunner.

Mutsa nodded. Be careful.

With a rough grace, Aattangki hopped over the roughly made fence and sank to a low crouch. His target was a small chicken coop attached to the shack.

As he glided across the yard, his footsteps were silent. It was a skill he honed to hunt jackrabbits and other small game. Soon, like the other men, he would be big enough to hunt bighorn sheep and deer. Unlike wild game, he was confident he could secure a chicken without much effort.

However, he felt a bit nervous. Out in the open with nowhere to hide, he felt exposed, but he did not let that deter him. With a steady hand, he unsheathed a stone hunting knife that once belonged to his brother, and he carried it with the weight of that responsibility.

Slowly, he unfastened the latch guarding the coop and peered inside. A hen lay balled up near the door, unaware of the intruder. He grabbed the hen’s neck, pushed it to the ground, and stabbed it in the head with his knife. Its blood stained the knife a familiar shade of sanguine rock.

The hen barely had a chance to squawk before it was silenced. The other hens erupted in alarm, furiously beating their wings.

Aattangki flew the coop with his prize, quickly making his way back to Mutsa. Now, he was startled. That kind of uproar would have woken a hibernating bear.

As he ran, he heard the roadrunner’s warning and looked behind him. The prospector emerged from the shack, brandishing a rifle. He shouted harsh words that Aattangki was unable to comprehend. It was not the language of his ancestors.

Aattangki turned his head away in fear and sprinted towards the fence as fast as he could, struggling to carry the heavy fowl.

As a loud crack shook the air, he felt a bullet whizz past his head, striking the fence in front of him.

Splinters exploded from the fence, sprinkling his face. The shock caused him to lose his grip on the hen, and it fell limply onto the gravel.

Unsure if he should leave the hen to escape, he looked back at the prospector. The tall, white man shouted, his face like an angry demon.

Deciding to take a gamble, he scooped up the hen and crawled under the fence’s rails. His heart bucked wildly as he anticipated another shot from the prospector. He imagined the bullet piercing his body like an arrow effortlessly sinking into the flesh of a deer. Desperate to avoid that terrible fate, he pushed through a tuft of Creosote bushes, the branches scratching his skin.

As he scurried away from the prospector’s territory, the shouting intensified, but no second shot was fired. When he realized he was not being pursued, Aattangki relaxed. It seemed like his gamble paid off and he would get away with his prize.

Mutsa had already run off, but Aattangki could see him waddling up ahead. Because he moved more like a tortoise than a rabbit, he had not gone very far.

In the distance, the craggy mountaintops were aglow and the clouds were a pinkish-red haze like a Prickly Pear. The birds chirped in agitation at the disturbance from the gunshot. The crickets were unfazed, embellishing the outro of their nightly compositions.

Aattangki reconvened with Mutsa underneath a large, chartreuse-green Mesquite tree that they had designated as their meeting spot after the heist. A spiny lizard scurried away as he approached.

Mutsa emerged from underneath a branch, eyes wide. Are you hurt? Did he get you?

I feel fine. Aattangki coughed, his throat dried out from the dust he inhaled while running.

Did he follow you? Mutsa searched the horizon for signs of the prospector.

No, he gave up on the chase. Aattangki dropped the hen, his arms exhausted from the burden of carrying it. His body felt like burning coals and his sweat did little to cool him.

Mutsa’s jaw tightened. I told you this was dangerous! You remember what happened to Coyote's people who stole fire. They were all killed!

But we would not have fire without their sacrifice, Aattangki argued as he cleaned the hen’s blood from his hands, using its feathers.

Mutsa frantically gestured to the dead hen. It is not good to steal things and you know it.

Maybe, Aattangki conceded. But they deserve it. They tore down our homes near the springs. They prevent us from drawing the water. If they can take from us, I can take from them.

That will lead to a fight, and even the men want to avoid a battle.

Aattangki spit. They are cowards. Will you help me carry this bird back to the village? It is heavy.

Mutsa picked up the hen, hugging it like a basket. I will help you this time, but I never want to do this again.

With a practiced motion, Aattangki sheathed his knife. You say that now, but you remember how impressed the men were when we brought back the last one? Instead of pine nuts, you will give your Pia and sisters something good to eat, a juicy thigh bone.

A loud growl emanated from Mutsa’s gut. This talk is making me hungry.

Aattangki gave him a playful push. You are always hungry. The trees would be bare of pinecones if you could eat as much as you wanted.

Mutsa sneered, clearly offended by the joke. And there would be no jackrabbits if you could actually catch one.

Spreading his arms wide, Attangki said, I will catch the biggest one you have ever seen, and it will be so large that it will take an entire winter to finish it.

Mutsa laughed in disbelief. That rabbit would have to be as tall as a mountain. Even the Great Bear could not hunt it.

With a brotherly smile, Aattangki wrapped his arm around Mutsa’s shoulder. I can do it. With you by my side.

Mutsa shook his head. You are a madman.

Traveling over rocky terrain dotted with cacti, the boys meandered towards the village, relieved that they escaped the prospector unscathed and excited to show their catch to their families. The bright, white sun shone down on the valley, having finally crested the crimson mountaintops and freed itself from twilight’s grasp.

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It was almost noon when the boys arrived at the village, a collection of brush huts, fires, and hanging pelts. They were greeted with the bustling sight of women and children attending to their daily chores, tanning hides, tailoring garments, and weaving baskets. A couple of young children dropped what they were doing and raced towards the boys with the hen.

A little runt clamored for attention. Wow! Where did you get that? His name was Tokowa and like a snake his skin was scaly.

What kind of bird is that? A little girl asked sweetly. It looks like a fat roadrunner. Her name was Mua and like the moon, her eyes were gray.

Tokowa grabbed a tuft of the hen’s feathers. Can I have some?

Without remorse, Aattangki slapped the boy’s hands away. Hands off! This is our kill. If you show some respect, I might let you clean off its bones after we are done with it.

A frown creased Tokowa's face as he massaged the place where he was stung. How did you get it?

We hunted it, Aattangki told him. One day, when you are older, maybe you will be able to catch something like this.

But how did you do it without a bow? Mua observed astutely.

You can catch lizards without a bow, Aattangki said. With practice, you can catch birds too.

Where should I drop this? A tired Mutsa asked, the hen sagging in his arms.

Take it to my Kahni, Aattangki decided.

As they walked to Aattangki’s home, one of the younger men complimented them, Woah, look at what you got there. Maybe we should take you on our next hunt. If you can string a bow correctly.

I can do it, Aattangki claimed. When he had attempted to string a bow, it was much harder than he anticipated, and in the end, he needed Mutsa’s help to finish the job.

The young man looked impressed. If you are capable of carrying our supplies, then I see no reason to leave you behind. His hair was long and clean, the type of hair Aattangki hoped to grow into.

I can do it, Aattangki said. Mutsa is willing to carry things too.

Mutsa looked uncomfortable about being volunteered for his manual labor.

I will see what the others think, the young man said with a smile before returning to a stick he was whittling.

When the boys entered Aattangki’s home, they found his sister weaving maroon Muuppuh tree roots into a willow basket. She sat on a vividly patterned blanket that was acquired by Aattangki’s father through trade.

She looked up in surprise. Where did you get that? Do not tell me you stole it.

As Mutsa dropped the hen, happy to be relieved of the burden, Aattangki smiled. We found it pecking at ants.

Pia will be furious, his sister told him. She may have believed you the first time, but you cannot fool her again.

Unlike Aattangki who was half-naked, his sister wore a plain, deerskin dress. Though her appearance was simple, she radiated a natural beauty like a field of wild Primroses.

Can you help me pluck it? Aattangki asked.

His sister grabbed the bird, reluctant to reward his behavior, but secretly looking forward to tasting the succulent meat again. I cannot help you hide it. She will know what you did.

Aattangki sat down in front of her. I do not wish to hide it. How many boys do you know that can catch a bird this big?

His sister flashed him an exasperated smile. None. But you are like the Frog, getting a bit too ahead of himself. It is not a race to adulthood.

While the siblings worked together to pluck the hen, Mutsa stumbled over to a basket that held fresh water. He took a big gulp and sighed. It tastes so good!

Bring me some before you drink it all, Aattangki demanded.

Get it yourself, he mumbled into a cup.

Aattangki’s sister smiled prettily at him. Mutsa, could you please fetch a cup for me?

Mutsa blushed. For you, anything.

Aattangki watched in disbelief as Mutsa drew her a cup of water. His sister sipped it with a smug satisfaction.

With a scowl, he resumed plucking, yanking each feather with renewed frustration. You will regret this, Mutsa.

The sun had not even reached its zenith and it was already scorching hot outside. Although the brush hut provided shade, Aattangki could still feel the warm air seeping through the openings. It would soon be too hot to work outside, and his mother would return home for an afternoon siesta.

When the siblings had finished cleaning the hen, Aattangki’s sister hung the naked hen, and then gathered its feathers in a pile to be used for regalia or fletching arrows.

Aattangki’s mother stormed into the hut like an angry ewe, a stern expression etched into her face. I am ashamed. I heard that you were parading a foreigner’s bird through the village and I hoped that it was a misunderstanding. I told you not to go near them! Why did you disobey me?

Aattangki rose unsteadily, unsure of how to confront this sudden, overwhelming force. Pia, we found it wandering around the north place.

I know you are lying. You stole it from the foreigners.

It was not stolen.

She studied his face for a moment, before snapping like a branch. Mutsa! Tell me the truth. You did something dangerous.

In an attempt to keep him quiet, Aattangki stared daggers at Mutsa, but his presence could not compete against his mother.

Mutsa pressed his face into the dirt. Yes, we stole it. Please forgive us.

Quick as a snake’s strike, Aattangki’s mother snatched her son’s wrist in an iron grip. You disrespectful child! I should hang you upside down to dry in the sun!

You are always complaining about how there is little food! I wanted to help!

Stealing is not the answer to our problems, his mother said. Not only does your actions endanger yourself, but the whole village as well. Right now, they leave us in peace, but if we were to give them a reason.

Like the Muuppuh tree, she was proud and unrelenting against the forces of nature.

We do not need to give them a reason to hurt us, he argued. If we are in the way of something they want, they will gladly push us aside.

That is the way of our people, his mother said. We move to where there is room for us. Where the heat is less severe and the Mesquite trees are plentiful.

Aattangki broke out of his mother’s grip. I hear there are foreigners to the north and south, east and west. Soon, there will be no place to go.

We will find a way, she said as her face melted from anger to concern. With a delicate touch, she reached for his head and pressed it against her bosom. You are covered in scratches. Are you sure you are not hurt? I could not bear it if something bad happened to you.

Disarmed by the hug, Aattangki mumbled, I am fine, Pia.

She looked into his eyes. Promise me you will never do this again.

I am not planning to do it again, he said. This was the last time, I promise. It was true. Aattangki did not want to risk getting shot by the prospector's weapon.

His mother released him. Good, but I need to make sure you will think twice before disobeying me again. I plan to give you a harsh punishment, but for now, help me prepare lunch.

What are we eating? Mutsa asked with eager hunger in his eyes.

Aattangki’s mother scoffed. Go home. Your Pia is waiting to punish you too.

Mutsa gave an exasperated groan, I did not steal the bird. Why do I have to be punished? He flashed a dirty look at Aattangki before stomping out of the hut.

Aattangki gave him a mocking smile in return.

While his mother and sister drew water from a tightly coiled basket, Aattangki gathered brush to start a fire. Using a thin willow stick, he drilled into a soft Yucca fireboard, until he coaxed a spark to ignite the brush. After the wood had caught and the fire was crackling, he placed a thin, flat stone over the fire.

Meanwhile, his mother mixed water with Mesquite flour to make a thick dough, and then added pine nuts, Chia seeds, and dried cactus fruit into the mixture. She carefully tested the temperature of the stone with her fingers. When it was hot enough, she scooped out a glob of the dough and placed it on the hot stone.

It sizzled, giving off a mouthwatering aroma.

Aattangki’s stomach growled. Can we cook the bird too?

No, said his mother. We will dry it out to make jerky. It will soon be time to migrate to the mountains to escape the heat, and we cannot be certain that we will find ample game, so it is best to be prepared for the worst.

His sister laid back in a stretch. I am excited to return to the mountains. I miss the pine trees and streams and all the lilies.

His mother smiled, breaking her tense demeanor. Yes, it will be beautiful this year. Hopefully, it will be calm as well. We need a much needed break from the bad winds.

At least you will have plenty to sing about, his sister reassured her.

She laughed in a manner that revealed the exhaustion she felt over the past year. Yes, I could compose a hundred songs.

Could you make me one? His sister asked.

You are sweet, my daughter, his mother said softly. But you may not want to hear my thoughts. Watching you and your brother grow has been one of my greatest joys, but also the source of my greatest worries.

Greatest worries? His sister scoffed. I hope most of those are about Aattangki. He is the one that will bring home a rattlesnake.

When the pancake was perfectly grilled to a deep ruby brown, his mother placed it in a shallow bowl and drizzled it with wild honey. She passed the bowl to Aattangki and he happily wolfed it down. The savory pancake, tart berries, and sweet honey were a healthy and tasty combination. Compared to the other women in the tribe, Aattangki believed his mother’s Mesquite pancakes were the best.

Have you heard anything from Appu? He asked.

He has not sent a messenger, his mother said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. But he promised he would return before the migration.

I hope he brings back something nice like a turquoise necklace, his sister said with dreamy eyes. Or a colorful shawl.

We should not be greedy, his mother said in a disapproving tone. He will bring back only what we need.

You are not being truthful, Pia, his sister teased. I know you would love a new shawl.

His mother grinned sheepishly. A turquoise necklace would be nice too.

After they had finished the pancakes, Aattangki dusted sand over the fire to put it out. He returned to the hen to make sure it hadn’t been stolen by the little people. A few flies were trying to lay claim to it, so he swatted them away before laying down. He hunted a flightless bird today, but tomorrow, he planned to catch something more grand like a mountain lion.

His mother hummed a gentle tune, and a few minutes later, he was fast asleep. Outside, the sun had reached its zenith, intent on setting the valley ablaze.

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When Aattangki awoke, his mother and sister were already attending to their chores, his sister working on the same basket and his mother grinding Mesquite beans into flour.

He yawned, stretching his sore legs and arms.

Good, you are awake, his mother said as she slid a stone across coarse grounds. I have a task for you.

Aattangki sighed. What do you need, Pia?

You will take supplies to Puhakantun and bring back a story, his mother said.

I do not want to see him, Aattangki complained. His cave is cold and full of spirits and far from our home.

You claim you are ready to be a man, so you should be able to do this, his mother told him. It is a fitting punishment, I think.

Can I bring Mutsa with me? He asked hopefully.

No, his mother shot him down. Mutsa will suffer a different punishment. You will do this alone.

Aattangki’s head sank. Yes, Pia.

With a smug demeanor, his mother rose from her work and dragged him outside. The other women of the village surrounded him like hummingbirds around a flower. They fastened an assortment of items to his body to present as gifts for Puhakantun: a sack of Mesquite flour, small pouches of powdered dye, delicate feathers, and a polished tortoise shell. When he was overburdened, they finally left him alone.

How do you feel? His mother asked. Ready to go?

Although he was reluctant to go, his voice was determined. Yes, Pia.

Ask him to sing me a prayer of good fortune, one of the women asked. My household is under a curse.

And a fertility prayer for me, Mutsa’s mother said. I need a new son. My current one is defective.

A young woman with a forlorn expression approached him. My Appu is sick, and he is unable to make the journey across the valley. Can you bring back medicine or ask Puhakantun to come here?

Aattangki nodded. I will see what he can do.

His mother gave him a warm embrace. You had better get going while there is still daylight.

The oppressive sun was starting to make its descent, but its reign of terror would not end until it was swallowed by the earth.

Without another moment’s delay, Aattangki began his journey to Puhakantun’s cave. He followed a well-traveled, gravel path that led away from the village and snaked in between towering clumps of Arrowweed, their bristling stalks as tall as a man. To him, they looked like great, hairy monsters guarding the way.

He was nervous to be travelling alone through the valley. What if he sprained his ankle and he couldn’t walk? What if a mountain lion or coyote saw he was easy prey? All the supplies he was carrying would prevent him from fleeing to safety. As he walked, he carefully scanned the horizon and looked behind every bush, expecting an ambush.

WHOOSH!

A threatening rustle caused him to jump. He pulled out his knife, ready to fight the assailant, but it was just a mouse retreating from his footsteps.

Aattangki told himself to calm down and continued his trek.

After a while, he passed by the foreigner’s settlement. A row of stone kilns were ablaze as the foreign men smelted iron. With gaping, ravenous mouths that spewed fire, the kilns looked like an army of demons.

Aattangki quickened his pace, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.

Soon, he came to one of the more difficult parts of the journey. He had to traverse a long stretch of immense, rolling dunes. Because the sand was so soft, it was easy to lose one’s footing and tumble down the sheer incline.

He had once heard a tale of a group of foreigners who ventured into the valley, only to have their wagon hopelessly mired in the shifting sands. For months, they struggled to free their wagon, but when their supplies ran out, they were forced to slaughter their oxen and abandon their possessions. Under the relentless heat, one man in the group succumbed to the unforgiving valley. They did not know the old ways and were foolish to even come here.

Cautiously, Aattangki climbed up and down the unsteady hills. His feet sank with every step and the hot sand burned his ankles, but despite the difficulty, he kept his balance.

The trusty, brown moccasins on his feet protected him from the boiling sand that radiated heat like an open flame. During the summer, the sand and the rocks could get hot enough to cook a pancake without a fire. It was a miracle anything could survive, but the snakes and tarantulas didn’t seem to mind the heat.

When he had safely crossed the dunes, he relaxed. The rest of the journey was a flat, open plain where no attackers could hide and the ground was hard. He tightened the rope across his body and trudged on.

Mutsa found this part of the valley to be eerie, but Aattangki disagreed. He found the desolate wilderness to be serene like a comforting dream. However, like a dream, the experience of existing in a place where no other living creature could be seen, not even an ant, was surreal. It felt like at any moment the hazy mirages in the distance may transform into warriors in the heat of a battle, or that the ground beneath his feet would leap up, and Eagle, Bullet Hawk, Red Tail Hawk, Crow, Coyote, and all kinds of birds would plummet from the ombré sky. What was he, a small figure, in that great tumult?

A gust of dry wind crashed into him, almost knocking off balance. After he regained his composure, he stared across the endless expanse. His only companion on this journey was mother nature, and although she was beautiful and generous, she was also powerful and dangerous.

He passed a lone sailing stone on its hundred year pilgrimage, a long, ancient trail stretching far behind it. He wondered what it would find when it finally reached its destination. By the time it arrived, he would be long dead. However, the eternal valley would remain, a vast plain of salt dotted with petrified trees and surrounded by red mountains.

Sulfurous gas billowed from a crater nearby. He steered far away from the crater, afraid he would be pulled into the underworld where the man-eating little people dwelt. If he was taken, his mother would shed tears for him. On the other hand, his sister would finally have some peace.

Aattangki took a break by an enormous, shallow lake that reflected the mountains and watery sky above. The lake was a seasonal visitor and would completely dry up come summer, but while it existed, it was a favorite bathing spot for migratory birds. At that moment, a lone heron stood like a watchtower in the middle of the mirrored pond.

Unfortunately, the water was too salty to drink, so he took a sip of fresh water from a leather pouch instead. He wiped the sweat from his brow, wishing that he could shoot the sun down like Cottontail and throw its entrails into the lake. Fortunately, it would be night soon and the valley would enjoy a brief respite, until the next day.

With tired feet, he continued onwards. He was getting closer to Puhakantun’s cave, but still had a long way to go.

On his left, bighorn sheep navigated the rocky cliffs, making gravity defying leaps from rock to rock. He expected to see the Sky Brothers fly by and shoot the sheep with their stone tipped arrows.

On his right, a magnificent bloom of Desert Gold flowers danced in the wind. The valley had plentiful rain this season, which was both a blessing and a curse.

During the downpour, Aattangki’s house collapsed and his family was forced to share a cramped shelter with Mutsa’s family. It took many days of hard work to rebuild the brush roof and recover what was lost in the flood. His father starved himself so that he and his sister would have enough food to eat.

Meanwhile, the foreigners’ houses stood undisturbed.

At last, Aattangki had reached the sleeping giant’s mountain where Puhakantun hid away in his cave. He was greeted by colossal Muuppuh trees with spines larger than him. Highlighted by a blood orange sky, they looked like mystical totems reaching for the eternal hunting grounds.

He squeezed through a narrow canyon of orange and red rock that mirrored the sunset. Carved into the burnt walls were the stories of his ancestors. Regally patterned figures stood proud alongside Wolf and Bear. Hunters with poised bows pursued antelope and sheep in a constellation of swirling shapes.

What would you do?

If his ancestors were pushed out of the few springs and fertile plots of land; if their Mesquite trees were destroyed; if their game was hunted to extinction. Would they stay in such conditions? Would they fight?

Aattangki smelled burning sage and heard the heavy sounds of a song that imparted the sorrowful memories of the dead.

Puhakantun swayed rhythmically in front of a simple, stone altar. He was a man of humble stature, the smallest man Aattangki had ever known, barely reaching the height of a woman. In contrast to his height, he had long, disheveled hair that almost touched the ground.

As Aattangki drew closer, Puhakantun paused his chanting and turned toward him, a wide grin spread across his face. Aattangki! It is a blessing to see you, my boy. The spirits told me somebody was coming, but I am excited to see it was you. His voice had a timbre like a deep ravine.

Hakaniyun Puhakantun. Aattangki's words struggled to escape his dry throat and cracked lips. The trek had been long and draining.

Puhakantun swung his wand, a painted stick adorned with vibrant, fluttering feathers. I am feeling content and at peace with my place in the universe like a pebble in a swift flowing river, too old to fight against the current, but not yet weak enough to lose my place. How are you, my boy? You must be exhausted from the long journey.

His feet screamed in pain. I am fine. I have brought supplies for you.

He beamed. I am very grateful to your Nanumu. They are kind and generous through freezing winters and scorching summers, and in seasons with bountiful harvests and seasons dearth of game. Is everyone doing well?

Akku’s Appu is sick, he said. And Ohpimpu has an ache in his mouth, and–

Puhakantun put a hand up to stop him. We will talk about all that later. Please, you can set the gifts here for now. First, I must finish the song of a thousand trails, and then we may go into my cave to start a fire. Sit, relax, and listen to the history of our ancestors.

Aattangki found a comfortable spot in the shade to rest. He was glad to be off his feet and out of the sun.

Puhakantun, with his wand held high and his face painted in red ochre, continued the solemn tune. It reverberated through the canyon and inside Aattangki’s chest like a steady rain. He heard stories of mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, and daughters and sons. Stories of foot races and rivalry, romance and treachery, festivals and revelry. Each stanza was a tiny myth that encapsulated the entire life of a person in one special moment. Although the words were brief, they carried the full weight of a person’s life, embodying their will and spirit.

After a while, Puhakantun stopped and asked, do you remember why I sing these songs?

To remember the dead, he said.

Puhakantun lowered his wand. This song is not only for the remembrance of the dead, but also a healing ceremony for the living. If you would like, I can sing you the story of your brother.

He looked away. No. I have already heard it.

I understand, but if you change your mind, let me know. It is not good for our spirits to forsake the memories of our loved ones, no matter how painful. Puhakantun continued the solemn chant.

Aattangki didn’t need a reminder of his brother’s life and death. He remembered it all too well. However, he was happy someone was singing his brother and ancestors' stories, so they wouldn’t be forgotten.

When the sun was racing down towards the mountains, reigniting similar, but more calming colors than the sunrise, Puhakantun wrapped up the ceremony. It is time to start a fire. Let me help you carry everything inside.

I do not want to trouble you, he said. I can do it alone.

Puhakantun waved the notion aside. What is the heaviest thing? Give me that.

He looked warily at the large shell.

Is that a tortoise shell? Puhakantun exclaimed. Why would you endure the pain of dragging that across the valley? I would have ditched it in the sand.

They wandered into Puhakantun’s cave, a dark, gloomy place where the only illumination came from a small gap in the ceiling. An eclectic variety of treasures was strewn about the cave including ritualistic garb, mysterious potions, and ancient instruments. It was so cluttered that no place existed for Aattangki to sleep.

Can I borrow your knife? Puhakantun asked.

Sure. Aattangki reluctantly handed it over.

Puhakantun used it to slice dried strips of rabbit, tossing them into a stone bowl along with herbs and nuts to prepare a stew. It was Aattangki’s favorite way to eat rabbit because the herbs masked the gaminess of the meat and enhanced the broth’s flavor.

While he cooked the stew, Puhakantun told jokes about Coyote.

When Snake’s wives cut his head off, the people did not want to bring him back to life because he was always up to no good, but because he was smart and might help them in the future, they decided to give him another chance at life. They threw Coyote up into the air with a stick and when he came back to life, he said, I have been sleeping. Why did you disturb me?

Laughter erupted from Aattangki’s stomach. He enjoyed the stories of Coyote, especially the ones where he made a fool of himself.

Puhakantun rubbed the back of his neck and winced. Imagine the pain in his neck when he arose the next day.

Aattangki’s cheeks hurt from smiling. I heard that if he ran too fast, his head would fall off.

Puhakantun shrugged. Ho, it is not something I have ever heard, but if I were Coyote, I would be too afraid to sneeze. You might just lose your entire body.

Puhakantun ladled a small bowl of stew for Aattangki and then, himself. Its savory aroma warmed both his body and spirit. However, something on his mind prevented him from feeling completely at ease.

After Aattangki slurped down his bowl, he stared quietly into the fire. After a minute, he spoke. Puhakantun, a new group of foreigners have settled in the valley, and more come every season. What will happen to our people?

Puhakantun lowered his bowl, his face taking on a somber expression. You could ask the spirits directly, but it is not yet time for your coming of age rite.

When will it be the right time?

When your Appu thinks you are ready.

Aattangki sprung up. But I am ready.

Puhakantun smiled. Of course you are, but it is not something you can decide for yourself. It is something that happens to you in relation to the others around you. Let me ask you this. What do you think makes a good man?

With all the confidence of youth, he said, a good man is one who can hunt well.

Puhakantun’s eyes narrowed as he stroked his chin. It is important for a man to be able to hunt to provide for himself and his tribe, but that is not all there is to it. Being a good man is not about the things you can do, but who you are. Do you understand?

Yes. A good man is someone with a good heart like my Appu.

A warm smile spread across Puhakantun’s weathered face. Exactly.

Aattangki paced in frustration as he said, But I treat my elders and the land with respect. I help with chores around the village that do not benefit me. I try my best to be honest and thoughtful. What else do I have to do to prove myself?

Puhakantun shrugged. It is not an easy thing to explain. One day, you will go off on your own, and when you find what you are missing, you will return to our people with that gift. You will feel that the great change has finally finished and a new journey has begun, and that is when you’ll know you are a man. As for your other question, I don’t have a satisfying answer. I must ponder this some more, but I do have a story. Would you like to hear it?

Aattangki returned to his place near the fire. Yes.

Puhakantun stroked his chin in contemplation. Do you recall the story of how our ancestors came to this land?

Everyone knows it, he said. After the man-eating women wove a water jug and filled it with their babies, they gave it to Coyote. When he came to the middle of the world, he opened the jug and the Numu came out. He thought they were all gone, but when he came to the valley, he heard rattling in the jug. To his surprise, more Numu popped out.

Puhakantun was delighted that he remembered. Very good!

He got up to retrieve a small, sheepskin drum, and then returned to the fire.

Pit-a-Pat, Pit-a-Pat.

Puhakantun gently patted a steady beat on the drum. Do you recall what happened to our ancestors soon after they arrived?

He shook his head.

Would you be surprised to learn that the Numu were not the first inhabitants of the valley. There were others before us. Puhakantun struck the drum, letting the sound hang in the air as he fixed on Aattangki with an expectant stare.

After a few seconds, he came to a realization. The Numittsi!

And what do we know about the Numittsi? Puhakantun asked.

They are as tall as a man’s knee and they are tricksters, Aattangki said. They will steal your things and try to lure you into the wilderness. If you hear them chattering outside your Kahni, it is best to stay inside because if you go out, they will kill you.

Ah ha, but what if I told you they are handsome and well-shaped and have long, smooth hair that almost touches the ground. They also love music! Puhakantun started to bang on his drum.

Bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum.

In the middle of the night, you can hear them drumming and dancing, but they do not like to be disturbed, so if you hear them…

Bum-bum-bum-bum.

The drum was silenced.

Keep your distance! Puhakantun warned. Because they might curse you or worse. But what if I told you they were not always antagonistic. You must remember how we learned how to harvest beans from the Mesquite tree.

Aattangki nodded. The Numisti showed our ancestors how to survive in the valley and revealed the location of medicinal herbs and taught them sacred songs.

Puhakantun grin widened. Right! At first our ancestors and the Numisti were friendly, each sharing their knowledge and skills, but over time their feelings turned to hatred.

He thumped on the drum in a tense cadence.

Our tribes grew faster than the Numittsi, scaring them away from their mountain homes. Ignorant men would desecrate their sacred groves and altars, angering the Numittsi. As you know, the Numisti were not without fault. They would play their usual tricks, but that was not the worst of it. Some would transform into animals to spirit children away from the tribe, those children never to return.

Coyote rushed to confront the Numittsi, demanding they leave his tribes alone, but his intervention only stoked their bitter resentment.

In those days, all the people were animals and hunted deer.

Little Fly, one of the Numittsi, stole an unbutchered deer from Coyote’s sons. You can imagine, Coyote’s sons were frustrated, but they decided to leave the matter alone. When they went hunting the next morning, they were even more successful than the day before. They brought home two deer, which they tied together by their legs and laid side by side.

When no one was around, Little Fly returned, landed on the deer, and carried both away. Coyote’s sons were infuriated. How would they feed their families if this thief continued to steal their quarry? They went hunting the next morning and caught three deer and tied them together by their legs and laid them side by side. What do you think happened next?

The drumming paused for Aattangki to answer. Little Fly stole the deer again.

Puhakantun's eyes flashed. When no one was around, Little Fly returned, lit on the deer, and carried all three away. However, Wise Coyote expected this deer stealer to return, so he commanded Hawk to follow the thief and find out where he lived.

While staying out of sight, Hawk pursued the Little Fly to the south and saw him go into the red, clay hills. After Hawk told Coyote’s sons, they all went south to the red, clay hills.

They found a little hole in the top of a hill, but did not know if Little Fly was inside. Afraid of a direct confrontation, they built a fire and tried to blow smoke into the hole to kill him. However, they did not think about how hard it would be. Imagine all these people gathered in a small circle, trying to blow smoke into a tiny hole.

Puhakantun blew air over the fire, scattering embers across the rock floor. It was dark now, and the shadows from the fire danced whimsically across Puhakantun’s face as he told the story, and the light from the fire illuminated the ancient, forgotten tales painted on the cave’s walls.

Nobody could blow the smoke into the hole, so Wise Coyote decided to give it a try. He blew on the smoke as hard as he could. Some smoke went into the hole, but he ran out of breath in the process, and tumbled down the clay hill!

When he recovered, he climbed back up the hill and tried again to blow the smoke into the hole. You can guess what happened next. He ran out of breath and tumbled down the hill, again! He did this over and over and over again.

Puhakantun puffed rapidly like a panting dog.

Aattangki giggled, completely enthralled by the story. He wished Mutsa could have heard the tale as told by Puhakantun. Aattangki would relay it, but he could never do it justice.

After a long, hot day, they decided their effort to smoke Little Fly out was good enough, so they dug into the hill. When they found deer meat, they were confident that this house belonged to the deer stealer. However, some of Coyote’s sons were scared that the smoke failed to kill Little Fly and that he would come after them in revenge.

Coyote said, fine. I will do it myself.

The drumming intensified.

Bang-bang-bang.

Coyote dug into Little Fly’s house and found that all his children were all dead, but Little Fly had survived and was furious! Little Fly swung a stone pestle at Coyote, trying to kill him, but Coyote swiftly dodged the attack.

Coyote said, you will never hit me if you swing the same way every time. Swing the other way and you might have a chance.

However, Little Fly did not fall for Coyote’s trick. Catching Coyote in the head, Little Fly struck him down!

Aattangki gasped. Although Coyote was a fool, he was rarely bested.

Enraged, Little Fly jumped out of the hole and chased after Coyote’s sons. First, he caught Lizards and Snakes, and the others that were running slowly. Next, he killed the ones who ran out of breath easily, unable to endure the chase. He killed all of Coyote’s sons until only the fastest and most indefatigable remained, Hawk!

Little Fly chased Hawk over the hills and through the pine forests and across the ponds. Hawk was able to outrun Little Fly, but Little Fly followed closely on his heels. Seeking a way to beat Little Fly, Hawk flew into his home, the tallest mountain surrounding the valley. Little Fly tried to follow, but could not get through rocks. Wielding his stone pestle, he smashed through the entrance, screaming!

Puhakantun shouted a war cry.

By this time, Hawk had flown out the otherside of the mountain, using a secret way. He stripped a feather from the upper part of his wing, and used it to block the entrance to the mountain, trapping Little Fly inside.

Hawk then flew to the top of the mountain, sang in victory, and spread his wings to rest.

Puhakantun imitated the sharp cry of a hawk and pretended to go to sleep.

When Coyote arose, he was sad to see his sons had been killed. He climbed to the mountain’s peak and sang in grief.

Puhakantun imitated the forlorn howl of a coyote.

Coyote banished the Numisti that lived in the red, clay hills. He also threatened that he would transform himself into an unbutchered deer, and if the Numisti tried to steal from his tribe again, then he would change back and kill them all.

Du-du-du, Du-du-du, Du-du-du.

Dun!

Puhakantun finished his story and studied Aattangki’s face.

After a few minutes of silence, he finally said, Hawk was a wise warrior.

Yes, he was.

As he poked at a small rock on the ground, he said, I’m sad that Coyote lost his sons.

What about Little Fly’s children? Puhakantun asked.

Aattangki's head snapped up. He stole the deer!

Yes, he did.

Why did they try to smoke him out? Aattangki asked. They could have tried to capture him.

Puhakantun stroked his chin, a questioning look in his eyes. I do not know their reasoning, but we can gather that their decision was a bit rash.

Aattangki shifted uncomfortably, I stole a bird from the foreigners.

Puhakantun smirked as if he already knew. Did you, now? Maybe I will have a new legend to tell. Aattangki, the fowl thief!

He looked away in embarrassment. Sometimes, it is good to steal.

Depends on what it is, Puhakantun said. I would stay far away from deer.

He rose and started beating on the drum. Now that we have finished our story, how about we sing and dance like the Numisti to show our respect for their culture and ward off any evil presences.

He played a lively beat that Aattangki knew well. Reluctantly, Aattangki pushed himself off the ground and participated in Puhakantun’s jig. They cried like hawks and howled like coyotes, and soon Aattangki lost himself in the swell of the drums.

In the middle of a song, Puhakantun gulped down one of his potions, draining the dregs into the flames. The dregs popped, transforming the color of the flames from orange into green and then blue and then red. Like a deer, Aattangki leapt over the colorful flames and laughed the whole way over.

They continued to dance and sing until their bodies were exhausted and their voices were hoarse. For Aattangki, it felt like all the tension of the day dissipated into the music, and he was momentarily at peace.

Before they lay their heads down to rest, Puhakantun adopted a serious tone. Listen to me, my boy. The spirits of the valley have warned me that a pack of wolves will be out hunting tonight. It is important that you remain in the cave where it is safe.

But no wolfpack calls this valley home, Aattangki questioned.

Puhakantun seized Aattangki’s shoulder, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity. The spirits do not lie. Whatever you hear tonight, you must not flee in fear. Do not go outside. Promise me.

I promise, he said, unsure if Puhakantun was telling the truth or if he was just mad.

Good. Puhakantun gave Aattangki a clay jar with a powerful smelling paste and said, remember to take this when you leave tomorrow.

Is this for Akku’s Appu? He asked.

No, that is another potion. This one is an ointment to soothe and heal wounds. You will need it.

He was confused. What do you mean?

You will understand when the time comes. Now, go to sleep. We will talk more in the morning.

After Puhakantun put out the fire, a thick, oppressive darkness swallowed the cave.

Aattangki laid his head on a rough, deerskin pelt with a musky odor. When he closed his eyes, he dreamed of Coyote falling down the clay hill, and of Hawk pulling a feather from his arm, and of the Numitsi who were banished from their homes.

---

---

Aattangki woke to the sound of scratching and sniffing. It was pitch black, but he felt a terrible presence, like a massive, hungry beast. The sniffing and scratching grew closer and closer. He was frozen in fear, unable to move a single muscle on his body. He tried to scream, but no sound could escape his lips as it felt like his breath was trapped in his lungs.

A low, rumbling growl shook the cave. Was it a wolf sent to devour him? Or, was it Little Fly who broke out of the mountains to continue his massacre? Or worst of all, was it the prospector who came to punish him?

Aattangki reached for his knife, but it slipped from his trembling fingers. It didn’t matter because it was too small to protect him from the hulking monster. He smelled the bloodlust dripping from the beast’s jaws and felt the cold tremor of his impending death. He shut his eyes.

An ear splitting howl echoed through the cave, and then, like the sudden end of a nightmare, the presence vanished.

Aattangki whispered, puhakantun.

He was met with an unnerving silence. It didn’t feel like anyone else was nearby. He was alone to face the danger.

Howls reverberated off the cavern walls like an aggressive symphony of death. He imagined a pack of wolves snapping at a wounded deer, tearing the skin off its bones.

At that moment, he wished more than anything to be with his family in the safety of their home. His only comfort was the small hole in the ceiling that was a window to the gentle moon and the spinning stars and the Great Bear’s white trail.

He hugged himself, trying to steady his nerves, but the howls were neverending.

An image flashed through his mind of his sister and mother huddled together in fear. He hoped they were safe. With his father away, the burden of protecting their family fell to Aattangki. He drew strength from this sacred duty, feeling courage rise within him like a flame

A thunderous explosion struck the mountain’s peak.

BOOM!

His courage was almost snuffed out, but he resisted the fall into despair. He vowed to return to his family and make it through the night.

---

---

He awoke to the laughter of a roadrunner. The sun was beginning to rise, gradually melting the sky like a flame melts ice.

Aattangki sprung up, searching the cave for danger. As if some great battle had occurred, feathers, pelts, and bones covered the cave. Puhakantun was nowhere to be seen, but he could smell burning sage.

With hesitant steps, he emerged from the cave and called out, Puhakantun!

His voice echoed through the canyon, but it did not return with the person he was looking for. He called again, and the roadrunner cackled at his effort.

He returned to the cave, gathering the items he needed for the return trip to the village, including the potions and ointment to help the sick and injured. He wanted to wait for Puhakantun to return to thank him for the rabbit stew and for entertaining him with the story of the deer stealer, but he also wanted to leave while it was still cool in the valley.

He sat for a moment, chewing on a piece of dried meat. The faces of his mother and sister waded through his mind, stirring his heart. He decided he couldn’t wait for Puhakantun, even though it was rude to leave without saying goodbye.

Before leaving, Aattangki took one last glance at the ashes where he danced around the fire with Puhakantun. He contemplated the night’s terrifying events, unsure of what he experienced. Was it wolves or Puhakantun he should be scared of?

With determined strides and a lighter burden, he trudged down the mountain, bidding farewell to the icons of his ancestors.

The Muuppuh tree guardians silently watched as Aattangki crossed their mountain threshold into the valley. Beyond lay a tapestry of Marigolds and red Paintbrush flowers that mirrored the colors of daybreak, as if the sunrise had fallen to earth. Bees bobbed up and down among the yellow and red and pink brushes of color, buzzing their morning tunes.

He glided by the shriveling lake where strange waterfowl gathered. When he reached the portal to the underworld, he hesitated. Though curiosity tugged at him to search for signs of the Numitssi below, a primal fear held him back.

He bounded over the sailing stone, whispering a blessing for its slow pilgrimage across the vast salt plains. Though the white expanse stretched endlessly to the horizon, his feet somehow carried him to its far reaches. Then, with reckless abandon, he skimmed down the rolling dunes, startling the sunbathing lizards.

Although the sun blazed brightly, it did not seem hostile.

His blissful journey was interrupted by the flaming-mouthed kilns, whose unnatural smoke wafted in the air. As the foreigners were going about their mission to strip the land bare, he wondered how they could continue living in opposition to nature and get away with it. Aattangki’s tribe lived in harmony with the valley. That is how they survived. If even nature was unable to oppose them, what power could?

Finally, he reached the arrowweed beasts, who heralded his return, and then he was home.

When he entered his family’s brush hut, his mother rushed over to embrace him. She said, I am so glad you made it back safely. My prayers were answered.

He looked up at her. Although he was slightly shorter than her, it wouldn’t be long until he sprouted above her. I am fine, Pia? Did you hear the wolves last night?

His mother shook her head. Wolves? No, but something awful happened this morning.

A feeling of dread came over him. What happened?

He could see the deep lines of worry inscribed in her face. The boys were playing too close to the foreigner’s settlement. A dog attacked them.

Is everyone alright? He asked.

Failing to hide the dismay in her voice, his mother said, no. Mutsa was badly injured.

Aattangki’s heart raced. Where is he?

At his Kahni, but you should let him rest–

He was out the door before his mother could finish.

Without asking for permission, Aattangki burst into Mutsa’s home and found him lying on the ground, his left arm covered in bloody wraps.

Aattangki! Mutsa’s mother shouted. Let him be!

She shared her son’s puffy features, but while warmth bloomed in her cheeks, his face had turned ashen.

Mutsa wheezed, I was not a coward.

What happened? Aattangki asked.

The man we robbed. He–

Mutsa keeled into a ball, groaning in pain.

Mutsa’s mother kneeled, stroking his hair. Hush, my child. You need to save your strength.

Did you try to steal from him again? Aattangki asked.

No! Mutsa’s mother snapped. They were just playing, trying to get a look at the foreigners’ new machines, and that evil man let his dog loose on them. Akku’s son was targeted, but my stupid, brave boy jumped in to help, and now his arm–

Tears fell from her eyes onto Mutsa’s wounds.

Mutsa struggled to whisper, you will have to go hunting without me.

Aattangki could recognize his wounds were deep. Even if he survived, it would take him a while to recover, and even then, his arm may never work the same again.

Mutsa’s mother sobbed. I told you to keep quiet.

Aattangki held back his own tears. I heard a new story from Puhakantun. Would you like to hear it?

Yes. Mutsa closed his eyes, the shadows deepening in his gaunt face.

Before Aattangki could finish the tale, Mutsa was fast asleep.

Mutsa’s mother said softly, Aattangki. You should go.

He reached into a pouch attached to his waist and pulled out the clay jar full of ointment. This is from Puhakantun. It will help with the healing.

His mother took the jar, but did not thank him.

A bitter rage swelled within Aattangki as he left Mutsa’s house. How could they do that to him? I am the one who stole the bird!

It was not the first time the foreigners had hurt someone he cared about. His brother, the only one with the courage to resist their oppression, was brutally murdered, his scalp harvested by a Pakkeetu. He watched as they dragged his brother’s dead body across the salt, staining it scarlet like the color of the clay hills. Who will be next? Pia? Sister?

All afternoon, he stewed in his miserable emotions, wishing he had been the one to face the prospector. I would have used my knife to kill the dog. Then I would have killed the white man too.

Gripping the antler handle of his brother’s knife, he vowed to get back at the man who hurt Mutsa. A direct confrontation would be suicide because the propspector had a powerful weapon, so he had to think of an alternate method.

As he watched one of his tribesmen build a fire, he was struck by a spark of inspiration. The foreigners didn’t respect the land, the old ways, or the tribes of people that existed long before they arrived. They didn’t belong in the valley, and in order for the land to heal, they needed to be forced out. If nobody was brave enough to do anything, then the responsibility lay on his shoulders.

He would raze their settlements to the ground.

---

---

A tense darkness fell upon the valley as Aattangki, a cold-blooded determination burning in the pit of his stomach, scoped out the prospector’s house. Above him, the sky was a riot of red and orange flames like a raging bonfire. In contrast, an icy wind stung his face and hands, begging him to seek shelter before the sun was strangled by the night.

With quiet, quick footsteps, he snuck up on the wood shack like a mountain lion stalking its prey. When he reached the structure, he slowly breathed out, steeling his nerves, and then, he sprung into action.

He smeared animal fat across the dry walls of the shack, arranged a small pile of brush, and vigorously rubbed a stick against a fireboard to spark a flame. The brush caught immediately, but it would take a minute before the flames were hot enough to burn the wood and fat.

Bark! Bark!

From inside the shack, a dog alerted the prospector that an intruder was sneaking around outside.

He blew on the fire, trying to make it spread faster, but his efforts just created more smoke.

The shack’s door flew open, releasing the hound, a burly, mangy brute. It barreled towards Aattangki like a missile. He abandoned the fledgling fire and started to run, foolishly hoping he could outrun the dog.

Close on his heels, he could hear the dog rapidly closing the distance between them. At any moment it would be upon him, so he turned to face the beast.

Pulling out his knife, he screamed, Ahhh!

The hound hit the brakes, sliding across the gravel on its haunches. Aattangki used that opportunity to continue his retreat. Fuming at the mouth, the dog snapped at him from a cautious distance.

The prospector shouted, having finally emerged from the shack. Instead of taking aim at Aattangki, he was distracted by the small fire that threatened to burn down his house. He cursed as he tried his best to stamp it out.

As Aattangki ducked under the rails of the fence surrounding the prospector’s property, the dog snipped his thigh, sinking its teeth into his exposed flesh.

Aattangki cried in pain, and with his knife, he swiped wildly at the dog. The hound twisted away with prescient awareness, but Aattangki’s blade still found its mark, drawing a line of blood across its snarling muzzle.

With a startled yelp, the mangy beast tucked its tail and fled whimpering toward its master.

Aattangki limped away from the fence, blood dripping down his leg.

A thunderous noise erupted from the prospector’s rifle. The bullet struck the bushes near Aattangki, effortlessly snapping branches in two. Aattangki shuddered, but kept driving forward into the night.

Unlike last time, the prospector decided to pursue the intruder. At his feet the dog barked in Aattangki’s direction. With an injured leg and the dog on his scent, Aattangki came to the frightening realization that he might not be able to escape.

Although the full moon provided some illumination, it was too dark to see what was hiding on the valley’s floor. As if the spirits had it out for him, unseen force snagged Aattangki’s foot, sending him sprawling onto the sharp gravel. The stones bit hungrily into his hands and knees, leaving raw patches of peeled skin.

Pain shot through his injured leg as he pushed himself upright, drawing unwanted tears to his eyes. Close behind, the dog growled angrily while the prospector crushed twigs and succulents beneath his boots.

As Aattangki desperately hobbled away, he felt his strength rapidly slipping away. It wouldn’t be much longer until he collapsed from exhaustion.

When he reached a regal Muuppuh tree, Aattangki was forced to catch his breath. A short distance away, stood the prospector, a baleful smile carved into his face.

This is it. I caused misfortune and this is my punishment. Like Little Fly, I will be killed by the new people. Is this just the way of things? Does the valley care if my blood stains the salt?

The prospector pointed his rifle at the boy. Aattangki looked into the prospector’s callous eyes, seeing his hatred reflected back at him. Gripping his brother’s knife, he took one step forward, prepared to make one final desperate charge.

AHOOO!

A piercing howl interrupted their standoff. It was Coyote!

A hollering pack of coyotes descended upon them. The prospector fired a shot to scare them off. At first, they backed away, unsure of the threat, but then, they pressed forward, undeterred.

With the mangy dog running ahead of him, the prospector made a swift retreat. Some of the coyotes bounded after the retreating pair, but the others turned toward Aattangki, their nostrils flaring at the scent of his blood.

He made a panicked scramble up the Muuppuh tree, its spines digging into his already wounded leg. Beneath him, the coyotes scratched and leaped at the trunk, their hungry bays like the clamoring of a dinner party.

Resting uneasily on a thorny branch, Aattangki watched yellow eyes circling in the darkness. If they thought he was easy prey, they would stay there all night until he came down. By that time, the prospector might return to finish the job.

He replayed the last two days in his mind. What went wrong?

Because he stole the hen, Mutsa’s arm was mangled. Because of his stupid actions tonight, he was almost killed. His rage against the foreigners remained, but he realized taking hasty actions was likely to get him and his tribe killed. Still, he could see no easy way out of the conflict with the encroaching settlers, and in the end it may come to war… But whatever he was doing now was not the correct path.

What can I do?

The coyotes mocked his questions with their cackles.

Gradually, his mind started to slip away as the weight of the world crashed down onto him. Above him, the hope of his ancestors twinkled like a thousand stars. When he passed away, the duty to protect and propagate the old ways would fall to another, but how long would they be able to keep it up? At some point, nobody would be left to carry the torch. Who would sing the songs of the dead? Who would be left to remember?

He saw a tiny flame in the darkness and heard the shuffling of paws as the coyotes scrambled away from the tree. He thought the prospector had returned.

A voice as gentle as a river, but as strong as a mountain called to him, Aattangki! My son. What happened to you?

Tears fell from Aattangki’s eyes. Appu!

He climbed down from the tree and into his father’s warm arms.

I’m sorry, Aattangki sobbed.

His father squeezed him. Everything is okay now. I will take you home.

A young man from the tribe scowled. Pokwinapi, you see what that white man did to your own son. We should end this tonight.

No, his father said. Tonight we go home and discuss. Tomorrow, we will talk to this man, without resorting to violence.

The men, relieved that they successfully rescued Aattangki, made their way back to the village.

Aattangki’s father carried his injured son across the thriving desert. Wow, look at Mua and the stars! They are beautiful tonight!

Aattangki stared up at his father's joyful smile, large and bright like the magnificent constellations swirling above their heads.

His father said softly, I have heard the new people call this place Death Valley. While the sun can be a stern provider, I think that name fails to truly embody the spirit of the valley’s wonders. If only they knew the land is worth more than the metal they can extract from it. Maybe then, they could call it home.

---

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TIMBISHA SHOSHONE LEXICON

Tumpisa (Timbisha) - red ochre
Aattangki - grasshopper
Mutsa - lamb
Numu - people
Pia - mother
Tokowa - rattlesnake
Mua - moon
Kahni - house
Muuppuh - Joshua tree
Appu - father
Puhakantun - medicine man
Hakaniyun - Hello, how are you?
Nanumu - family/tribe
Akku - sunflower
Ohpimpu - Mesquite tree
Numittsi - little people
Pakkeetu - cowboy
Pokwinapi - chieftain