Free The Owl Hunt by Richard S. Wheeler Page A

Reservation, the prison fashioned by the white men to contain the People.
    Now there were Dreamers in every hamlet, and almost nightly they gathered in hidden valleys far from the ears of the Yankees, to dance the Owl Dance, to hear the flute send owl chills through them until they fell exhausted upon the dewy grass, still dreaming of the time to come whenever Owl should declare the moment was at hand.
    For Owl himself, it was all very strange. He was scarcely fifteen winters, but old men, seasoned warriors, battle-hardened scouts who had returned chastened from the Custer debacle, where a contingent of Shoshones had supported the bluecoats, all these now paid heed to this quiet, uneasy, sometimes arrogant boy. They called him Grandfather, the ultimate respect, yet he was barely into his manhood. They hung onto his every word.
    â€œI do not speak for myself,” he told them. “I speak only what comes to me, for I am no more than a bowl carrying the blood of life. I have taken the name of He who Speaks to the People.”
    He retained his humility, seeking nothing for himself, avoiding any declaration of his own authority, and because of that he fevered his followers all the more. For he was the vessel of great tidings for the People.
    He drifted into the hidden chasms of the Wind River Mountains, faded into distant camps, lived on high meadows, prayed incessantly to receive the word of the Owl, most dreaded of all the spirits. No white man saw him; no blue-belly army would ever find him. And yet the People somehow always knew where he was, many misty layers of foothills from the eyes of the whites. The Owl Dance spread, and now Dreamers danced it in every hamlet from one end of the reservation to the other, the flutes whispering the song of liberation, which somehow all the Dreamers learned and repeated and made into a ritual that swelled across the whole reservation.
    Owl himself was the principal Dreamer, and often took a blanket out to a breezy hilltop to listen, and always received new visions from the Great Owl. Sometimes those visions were slow to form in his mind, and then he supplicated the fearsome bird for direction. But sometimes he was transfixed, taken out of himself, floating through the night skies, so he could see his own resting body below. And then he received word. This he carefully conveyed to several trusted lieutenants, chief of which was Walks at Night, who spread the new understanding to the Dreamers, who now were located in every cranny of the reservation.
    The only unfathomable thing was the attitude of his own father, Buffalo Horn, himself a shaman, who glared angrily at the young man, as if he were committing sacrilege. But Owl simply stared back. Let the dead bury the dead; his was the true vision, the future brought to the present. And now many Dreamers had been given the vision.
    â€œHow do these visions come to you?” Buffalo Horn had asked him.
    â€œIt is not for you to know. It is my own medicine,” Owl replied.
    â€œHave you taken your visions to Chief Washakie?”
    â€œI have not. I will not.”
    â€œHave you called all the People together and told them of your vision?”
    â€œI do not share my visions. They are for the Dreamers, who also hear and dream.”
    â€œThe Owl is the most feared of all creatures. Because he is death, he brings death to the People,” his father said. “All the People fear the Owl.”
    His father’s gaze was unblinking, so the youth met it with his own unblinking gaze, and then the older man turned away.
    That was the only trouble to befall the young man.
    They were all waiting for the moment when they would drive the white men away from their home, and the buffalo would return, and they would be free to go wherever they would go.
    Then came word that the blue-bellies had formed into an armed column and were marching. Could this be war? Murder? The column marched out in the morning, its flags flapping, its