ANIMAS
The howl of a lone coyote broke the stillness at Palo Duro Canyon. Moments later, rifle fire echoed through the immense hollow. In the distance a rolling rumble of many horses running at a desperate gallop rose and choked the darkening twilight with a haze of dust. The disturbance faded as suddenly as it began and all was quiet and still again. The coyote sniffed the air, cowered against the rising moon, and scurried into the rippling buffalo grass. Miles down from the Canyon, Tizoc, a broad-shouldered Comanche, scanned the darkening sky. “The weather will hold in the Canyon for three days,” he said. “I will need to look for my horses.” But Little Bird cautioned: “If snow falls, you will be trapped in the drifts. Better to wait.” “I will track my horses along the streams and be back before the weather changes.” Little Bird held her husband’s arm for warmth. She was pensive as the two paced toward the ranch house. There was something—she had a feeling, a bad one. “I heard the call of the owl last night,” she said. Little Bird glanced over her shoulder toward the old barn then looked at Tizoc. “I fear it was a mark. It flapped by our window.” Tizoc, with impenetrable deep-set eyes, regarded his pretty Sioux wife without replying. She’s just making talk before I leave, he thought. The young couple strolled past their rusty jeep and climbed the steps of the unpainted frame house. Two days later, with night coming on, a rider followed a trail at a trot. Tizoc was high on the rim of Palo Duro Canyon leading five horses on a rope when something in the breeze startled him. Through the blustery wind chanting came to his ears. It caused him to jerk his head in the direction. Curiously, his horse slowed to a walk, then stopped. It snorted caution. Tizoc stretched high on his saddle, listening, straining to hear the chant again. His silhouette was still visible in the half-light of dusk. He slowly turned his head into and away from the breeze … there was something else! Something different floated in the wind—the sound of many horses running at a gallop. And rifle shots! With growing apprehension, his mind told him there were no horses in the Canyon. Not a whole herd. But the rumble got louder, the horses got closer. They were climbing. He peered into the dark valley of the Canyon below. A tinge of fear coursed through him. Before he could fully grasp it, the whinnying herd was upon him. Jumping from his horse to the foot of a boulder, he pressed his body against it to avoid being trampled. But his jaw dropped and his heart thumped at the passing scene: Indian braves riding astride and gripping rifles urged the beasts on! Clods of dirt and grass flew high in the air as the towering and powerful animals swept past him. He blinked, thunderstruck, for the horses ran as if on water—slowly gliding—not seeming to touch the ground. His terrified horses neighed; they bucked and sprinted away with the running herd. For long moments, a deathly silence engulfed the rim of the Canyon broken only by a prolonged rush of wind. Tizoc peered over the boulder. Something big was hurtling violently toward him! Two burning embers were streaking, swooping lower and growing larger. A blast of air whipped past him. Instantly, Tizoc felt a burning tear on his forehead. He caught a glimpse of two sharp talons and the burning eyes of a wide-winged bird flapping away—the largest owl he had ever seen. It disappeared into the cold and dark abyss of the Canyon from where it came. Tizoc sat terrified and panting on the ground before he dared to stand again from behind the bolder. He strained to see down the wide gravel-wash where the pounding hoofs of the horses had faded, and he searched the sky for the owl, his hands shaking. “Madre,” he uttered in Spanish, certain he had witnessed unearthly visions—evil spirits. They are signs, he thought—but of what? He wiped his forehead and felt oozing wetness. There was blood on the back of his hand. As darkness descended, Tizoc was filled with foreboding—miles from the ranch, without a horse, without gear, and with snow pelting the ground. He set out on foot—down the wind-blown mountain, past the gravel-wash where the horses had disappeared and where the owl had risen. Against the bitter cold, he fell and stumbled down from the rim of the Canyon. He trudged through the cold snowy December night glancing over his shoulder every few steps. The next day broke white with a foot of snow on the ground. At the base of a narrow valley two dark specks marred the sea of white—a ranch house and a barn. His spirit soared at the thought of Little Bird and the warm shelter that awaited him. Numbed from cold, he pressed on with trail-weary strides over the soft snow through the last painful miles. Much later, when Little Bird caught sight of Tizoc emerging from the mountain and struggling on foot, she rushed out the door, got two horses from the barn, and headed onto the snow to meet him, her face lined with worry. Reaching him after half an hour, she grabbed his arms. “You’re half-frozen, Tizoc.” She embraced him tight to warm him. “Can you mount the horse?” Tizoc nodded. She threw a blanket over him. “Let’s move quickly, Tizoc.” Arriving at the ranch house: “You don’t know the hours I’ve spent since the horses returned without you. This morning I was leaving to search the Canyon.” A heavy coat and a backpack with provisions were piled on the porch. “What happened to your forehead? It’s covered with blood.” Inside, Tizoc shivered in front of the blazing fireplace as he removed his wet jacket, boots, and outer clothing with numbed fingers. He wrapped himself in a dry blanket. “What happened, Tizoc?” Little Bird persisted. He answered between shudders: “Last night at dusk … I saw spirits, Comanche warriors of old … their horses … bigger than life, frightened my animals away.” He paused to catch his breath. “A giant owl flew out of the darkness and scratched me.” Little Bird studied her husband with unbelieving eyes. “The spirit of Comanche warriors? A giant owl?” “That is so.” Little Bird was troubled. “At dusk?” “Yes.”
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