A Whisper In The Wind Read Free

mountain.”
    “The mountain?”
    “I wish to climb Mo’ohta’honaaeva to pray before I go to meet the Creator.”
    Michael shook his head. This trip was getting more and more complicated all the time.
    Two hours later they were mounted on a couple of rented hacks. The old man’s suitcase was lashed behind the saddle of a big gray gelding; supplies and sleeping bags were strapped behind the saddle of Michael’s chestnut mare.
    Michael knew he’d made a mistake before they’d gone a mile. He hadn’t been on the back of a horse in over ten years, and every muscle in his body knew it. He was pretty sure Yellow Spotted Wolf hadn’t been on a horse in quite a while, either, but the old man rode easy in the saddle, his frail body moving in perfect rhythm with his mount. Indeed, his great-grandfather seemed to grow stronger with each passing mile.
    Perhaps all the old man had needed was some fresh air and a change of scenery, Michael thought optimistically.
    Despite a growing numbness in his backside, Michael felt a sense of wonder as they rode across a vast green meadow watered by a shallow, winding stream. Tall pines lifted their branches toward a clear azure sky, the Black Hills rose in the distance like an island of granite peaks afloat in a prairie sea. He had never seen such magnificent country in his life, and as they rode deeper into the sacred ground of the Sioux and Cheyenne, he felt as though he had stepped back in time. He had never been a fanciful man, yet he could clearly visualize how it must have been a hundred years ago when thousands of buffalo roamed the plains and the Cheyenne lived wild and free in the shadow of the Black Hills.
    They saw wildlife now and then, an eagle soaring high overhead, a small herd of deer grazing in the tall grass, ground squirrels and chipmunks, a lizard sunning itself on a rock, a bird dusting its feathers.
    They rode until dusk and then made camp alongside a shallow stream. Michael prepared a quick meal of canned corned beef, canned potatoes, and canned peaches, but his great-grandfather had no appetite, and after drinking three cups of coffee heavily laced with sugar, Yellow Spotted Wolf crawled into his sleeping bag and was quickly asleep.
    Michael poured himself a second cup of coffee, then sat cross-legged beside the dwindling fire and gazed into the distance. The hills drew his eyes. They rose tall and quiet, dark silhouettes against the darker night. A mild breeze sighed out of the north, whispering secrets to the lofty pines, waltzing with the tall grass. Frogs and crickets lifted their voices in songs of good night; he heard the soft swish of wings as an owl passed overhead in search of prey.
    Draining the last drop of coffee from his cup, Michael extinguished the fire and slid into his sleeping bag, but sleep would not come.
    Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared up at the night sky. Millions of stars winked down at him, twinkling like tiny Christmas tree lights strung across a black velvet pine.
    An hour passed and the wind freshened, its voice like the sound of rushing water as it moved through the branches of stately ponderosa pines and lacy aspens.
    Welcome home, the North Wind seemed to say. Welcome home.

 
    Chapter Three
     
    Michael woke to the sun in his face and the cry of a hawk ringing in his ears. Opening his eyes, he gazed up at a clear blue sky. The air was clean and sweet and cool, and he sat up, unaccountably pleased to be in this place with Yellow Spotted Wolf.
    Stretching, he glanced over to where his great-grandfather lay sleeping, felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at Yellow Spotted Wolf. The old man didn’t seem to be breathing, and Michael felt a sudden fear that his great-grandfather might have died in the night.
    Rising, he hurried to the old man and knelt beside him. “Grandfather? Grandfather!”
    Yellow Spotted Wolf’s eyes flew open in alarm; then, seeing Michael, he frowned. “You do not have to shout,” he