****
As the sun came up in the eastern sky, the evil one complained about those who lounged in the trading room, asking with impatience, "Can't they stop their infernal racket?"
Maká'pato'si waved toward the twelve Pikuni men who were beating their handheld drums and singing.
"They are doing no wrong. They are merely singing and praying," stated Gray Falcon. "It is our way. We, you and I, have been engaged in our game throughout the night. It is now morning, and an Indian always says his or her prayers in the morning. Is it their prayers to the Creator you wish to stop? Or is it their happiness? Perhaps both?"
"Both," complained the evil one. He glanced over his shoulder. "And, can't you make this Injun who has stood in back of me all night long go away?"
"He is there, keeping his own counsel and to insure you remain honest. I think I will allow him to continue. It is your turn."
"I'm hungry," said Maká'pato'si. "And, I'm tired."
"I, too, have been here the night through and have kept gambling with you. I do not complain, but if you wish to enter a break into our game so we might eat, I do not object."
"I do so wish."
Gray Falcon nodded once. He was about to stand up, also, but he was prevented from doing so. Strikes Fast had quickly stepped toward him and had come up to his left side. Without saying a word, Strikes Fast placed a hand on his shoulder. Then, using his chin, Strikes Fast indicated three unshaven, dirty and unkempt white men who had stepped into the trading room. With them was an Indian maiden.
Gray Falcon gave them a swift glance and looked away. It was nothing to him. True, he might not like to witness an Indian woman keeping company with such men, but it was not his duty to intervene; unless, of course, the woman asked for his help.
As though Strikes Fast were aware of his thoughts, his friend again directed his attention toward the group, this time using both his chin and his lips to point. Gray Falcon took a closer look and saw…
He frowned. Was the maiden wearing his own shirt? Was the color of her hair—caught in two braids at the side of her face—a light brown?
It couldn't be, and yet…
Suddenly his stomach churned viciously before it turned over. Meanwhile, an adrenaline rush swept through his body.
The group disappeared into a back room of the trading house, and Gray Falcon sprang to his feet, intent on following them. But, it wasn't necessary.
One of the men—a tall, black-bearded man wearing a dirty and oil-slicked buckskin shirt—stepped out from the storage room in the back. He pulled the woman with him. Gray Falcon recognized his wife's distinctive walk first before her beautiful features swam before his eyes. He was about to speak to the ugly man when she began to struggle with the beast's hold on her.
The man moved quickly and raised a hand to hit her, but a kind of fury Gray Falcon had never before known swept over him, and he called out, "Unhand her! The woman is not yours! She is my wife! Bring her to me! Now!"
He saw his wife, A'sitápi, look down and then away from him, as though she were ashamed to be in the clutches of such men.
"She isn't your woman, boy," barked Maká'pato'si. "But, not to worry, I'll invite ya to the bedding of her in my room tonight. That is, if'n you behave yourself in this game of Cos-soó."
Without pause, a terrible energy and an exploding fire rose up within Gray Falcon. And, happening much faster than the time it takes to tell it, the tiny lightning strikes that were so much a part of him gathered into an ominous fire, begging him to release them. It was as though they were igniting his soul, offering him a means to free his wife. He'd never understood the little lightning strikes. And, although he didn't fully grasp where the sudden knowledge of how to use their power had come from, it didn't matter. Something within him clicked, and he suddenly knew exactly what to do.
As though he stood outside of time, itself, without explanation or acknowledgment of any kind, Gray Falcon grasped this power the Creator had endowed upon him. This, his power, was his strength and had always been with him. Calmly, as though he had all the time in the world, he realized why he was a medicine man: if he could control the volume of this power and energy, the Creator could operate through him to heal others. This insight had always been there; he simply hadn't understood it…until now. He knew exactly what to do.
Slipping back into the general time stream, Gray Falcon stated clearly, calmly, to the black-bearded one, "I said unhand her."
The big man smirked, his laughter as ugly as the man, himself.
Boom!
Lightning, as fast and as deadly as any to be seen in a darkened sky, struck the floor in front of the man who was holding A'sitápi. The ugly bearded one jumped back, releasing A'sitápi, then he pulled his shotgun forward to take a shot at Gray Falcon, but it wasn't fast enough.
Blast!
Another bolt of the lightning struck the bully in the chest, blowing him backward. Boxes and blankets from the shelves above fell down, covering the ugly bearded one's face and body.
Suddenly, David Mitchell and every other engagée who had been lounging in the trading room took to their feet and fled from the room, their speed so quick, they reminded Gray Falcon of scattering rats.
Medicine Man!The words were whispered in the air by the quickly disappearing white men.
