Free Stone Song by Win Blevins

power, swim in it, feel it like a big river in spring flood.” Spotted Tail smiled a big smile at his nephew. “That’s all.”
    He hoped Curly had the simplicity and the truth within him to accept this explanation, to feel its surfaces, to suck on it, to hold it in his heart. For there was nothing more to say, really.
    Curly sat. Words lit his face and went away. He struggled not to fidget. He stared off into space. Finally, he got to his feet, murmured, “Thank you,” and left.
    Yes , thought Spotted Tail. It’s hard to be young .
A DIFFERENT KIND OF WAR
    A quarter-moon later Curly awoke to the sound of the rain-slides-off-the-feathers bird, the owl. Two calls, he remembered now. Maybe even three.
    Without sitting up in his blankets he looked around the camp. It was half-shadowy, the first hint of dawn light.
    Another hoo-oo, hoo-oo.
    Other young men were stirring, reaching for their weapons. They heard what Curly heard—men imitating owls.
    Suddenly Spotted Tail burst out of his little travel tipi, brandishing his spear in one hand and his war club in the other. He yelled, “Who wants to fight a true Lakota? Who is man enough?” He dashed around like an incensed goose looking for someone to bite.
    Curly flushed with shame. His uncle was playing the fool and would get himself killed.
    It came from the gully, fast. Hit Spotted Tail. Knocked him down. Two bodies tumbled over the ground like boulders hurtling downhill. Arms thrashed. Blows, strangled cries, probably bites. The bodies poised, writhing, struggling.
    Curly ran toward his uncle, an arrow notched.
    A brawny chest rose up above Spotted Tail. A thick arm hefted a club.
    Curly knelt quickly and drew his bowstring.
    At that moment a dozen riders whipped their mounts into camp, bellowing their battle cries.
    Curly held the tip of his arrow on the brawny chest.
    Then he lowered it.
    The enemies were yelling in Lakota.
    A rider tapped him on the shoulder with a coup stick, very lightly.
    No Water’s thick arm plunged a knife into the dust next to Spotted Tail’s ear. Spotted Tail’s guffaw filled the camp.
    No Water’s face lifted to the sky above the mock-slain Spotted Tail. His voice roared in triumph. Curly couldn’t take his eyes off No Water’s hands.
    Spotted Tail gave a death rattle and then cackled.
    Then everyone sat down with stories to tell.
    No Water, the twins, Pretty Fellow, several other Bad Face youths, and some young Sahiyela had gone out looking for Two Circle ponies, too. Not until they saw the tracks did they realize the Sicangu and Hunkpatila young men had already had their fun with these people.
    “It’s nothing to brag about, whipping such unworthy foes,” said Black Twin, “but we want to hear what happened anyway.”
    Little Thunder spoke for his young men, Spotted Tail for the gang Curly was in. “We got some horses,” Little Thunder said, not making a big deal of it. “The ones you see there,” he said, nodding toward a rope corral. “The Pani know nothing about horses.”
    The chief was bragging by understatement. They had fifteen or twenty good-looking ponies.
    Spotted Tail told briefly about stealing the Two Circle ponies and the doubling-back raid. He mentioned Curly’s first coup. This was not a formal telling, like the one they’d have back at the village. Hump sat next to his hunka and looked at him happily.
    Curly hated to talk in front of groups of people, but it was necessary. He spoke simply. “We surprised the village, got five first coups and four scalps. When the Two Circle warriors began to shoot back hard, we rode off onto a little knoll to rest the ponies. It was then that my uncle, Spotted Tail, showed the strength of his spirit.
    “Invulnerable in his power, he charged his pony straight into the fire. He did not fire, because he had no need. He rode like a whirling wind, furious power but nothing to hit. He circled in front of the enemies, gave them his back to shoot at, and rode dancing back to us,