Sitting Bull blew smoke rings at the spirits in the stars, untroubled by booted footsteps crunching like an asinine cow.
“Sit,” nodded Sitting Bull, just before the stranger’s nose dipped into the glow of the firelight. The stranger stood sharply, towering above the grasses tall enough to hide a fawn of only two moons. He wet his lips in hesitation and his chin cast a shadow onto the brim of his new cowboy hat like a v of geese.
“You’re a redskin,” the stranger said, crouching on the other side of the fire.
“And you a white man,” said Sitting Bull, “and together we share the warmth of this fire tonight.” The herd of cows shifted their stance in their standing sleep but not disrupting the grasshopper songs. The full moon caught the tailed tops of the grasslands, glittering in their attempts to compete against heaven’s beauty. To Sitting Bull, this was a perfect night.
“Mighty kind of ya,” said the stranger, easing as Sitting Bull unmoved from his cross-legged position on his cow hide. The stranger clattered his bag to the ground, rummaged for a tin and then fumbled to untie a string. After grunting with his stubby fingers, he succeeded in filling a metal kettle with water and coffee. He welcomed himself to a stick and hung it above the fire by the handle.
“What brings you West?” asked Sitting Bull finally. His jaw massaged hard jerky between puffs of smoke.
“Gold,” said the stranger. “Out in Cali-forni-a gold is there for the taking for anyone with an eye and a pan.”
“The Great Spirit does provide.”
“What about you?”
“Ah,” Sitting Bull nodded. “The Great Spirit provides everything we need.”
“Even gold?” asked the stranger. He was young and too eager. He was foolish and looking for the easy way to turn his luck. Sitting Bull smiled.
“First, let me tell you a story.
“Long ago, my people were great hunters. They would hunt buffalo across the plains from the mountains to the river. With each successful kill, they would shoot an arrow into the sky to help its spirit travel into the afterlife. Then the hunters had to travel further and further to find the buffalo. Long into the night, the hunters searched until they found the buffalo. Alas, the buffalo stampeded.
“As they chased the buffalo in the dark, they shot their arrows into the rising dust. The buffalo trampled the arrows, turning them into hundreds of pieces of stars and buffalo ran up them and into the night sky.”
The fire snapped, and the stranger was mesmerized by the sparks that joined the Milky Way of Sitting Bull’s tale.
“That’s a mighty tale,” he said. “I seen a buffalo at the train station in Dodge City. There’s a plaque claiming it’s the last one.”
“I have never seen a buffalo,” nodded Sitting Bull.
“So the Great Spirit took all the buffalo?”
“My people honor all life and the circles their spirits take.”
“Spirits, huh?” The stranger fetched his coffee and dumped the coffee grounds on the matted dirt. The stranger snorted his drink and spat. “Bah. Wish I had sugar.” He wasn’t a hunter. He wasn’t a buffalo.
“We use every piece of animals we kill, and we know how to use all the Great Spirit provides. White man took the buffalo but the Great Spirit brought the white man.”
“You honor the white man? Like me?”
“Yes,” Sitting Bull raised an eyebrow as his next question twitched his lip. “Do you know your spirit animal?”
“Spirit animal?”
“Yes. The Great Spirit has great spiritual power that interconnects all living things.” Sitting Bull stood to offer it to the stranger who didn’t notice horns tucked behind his eagle feather. He watched the stranger inhaled the ceremonial pipe and his ears drooped. “Cows are not like buffalo. And white man is not Cherokee.”
Written for Globe Soup
Prompt: Transformation
Genre: Alternative History and Fantasy
Krista Gamble | K.M. Hasling 