how it’s done. The horse is no good if it’s too free. It won’t obey orders or let its rider ride. If it can’t be broken, then the horse is no good to its owner.”
I grunted.
Long minutes passed in silence. The sky eased from the gray of predawn to a stunning mix of reds and yellows. There was movement outside and somewhere a rooster crowed. The tribe was waking up and my head was starting to clear. The ache of fatigue and injury faded into the background of a life lived hard.
“The tribe needs you, son,” said Broadfeather quietly.
I raised an eyebrow.
“We do our best to follow the Hopi Way, from before the land was ruined.” The twinkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a grim expression. “It guides us in how we live and how we care for the earth. How the earth cares for us. Few of us remember anything. Stories of the Hopi have passed the generations by, and most of what we know is from the books. Word of mouth is much better, but there isn’t much left.”
“Agreed.”
“No doubt, you know of the Navajo.”
The Navajo and Hopi traditionally were rivals, but little of that rivalry had survived the ages. When America fell, the Navajo Nation asserted its own independence. They rejected the technology that changed Texas and since they lived so close to the Yellowstone caldera, Texas left them alone. Even the desert-dwelling Texans considered land too close to the Yellowstone supervolcano to be uninhabitable. Not the Navajo. When the supervolcano brought Americans to its knees, the Navajo survived. Then they thrived. The Navajo Nation was notoriously independent, even hostile to outsiders. Their people were spread thin along the Rocky Mountains, loosely organized but very powerful due to a fierce loyalty. With all its technology and power, Texas had never been able to stretch its borders too far to the northwest. Not that there was much will to do so.
“We need you to be our ambassador,” Broadfeather said.
I blinked.
“They will visit with a spiritual man in two days. They are bound by the word of this two-spirit and they would like us to send our spiritual leader.”
My jaw opened like I had something to say, but nothing became readily apparent that needed saying. The Navajo never visited Texas. They stayed to themselves and expected Texans to do the same.
“You’ll negotiate an alliance. We don’t need trouble.”
My head was starting to hurt again. A dull throbbing pounded on the backs of my eyeballs. Broadfeather’s walking stick tapped out an even rhythm as he made his way out the door. The laughter had come back to his eyes. Was this a joke?
“Spiritual leader?” I asked dully as the old man stepped outside.
He turned around and winked at me before hobbling on his way. It took me nearly an hour before I stood up. I dressed in some old jeans and a button-down shirt. My duster was ruined. Huge sections had been worn clean through, and a tear ran down its length. Tossing it onto the chair, I grabbed my glow cube and tried my best to find room for it in the pocket of my jeans. Eventually, I gave up and tossed the thing on the table. It was still blinking red, but that could wait.
My Smith & Wesson Model 500 hung on the wall. Heavily modified, but without an ounce of tech, it had always been my go-to problem solver. It was a big gun—a revolver with significant heft and enough stopping power to give pause even to armored foes. I kept it well maintained, but it had been a while since I’d shot anything other than coyotes or the occasional armadillo. The services I provided my tribe were nonviolent and I liked to keep it that way.
The gun’s heft felt good in my hand. Its balance, perfect. I’d been a lot of things with this gun at my side: a Texas Ranger, a lawman, a hunter. It seemed like the gun had been my partner my whole life. It had helped me be whatever the world needed me to be.
But a spiritual leader?
I hung the gun back up on the wall.
Chapter 4
The day passed in
I grunted.
Long minutes passed in silence. The sky eased from the gray of predawn to a stunning mix of reds and yellows. There was movement outside and somewhere a rooster crowed. The tribe was waking up and my head was starting to clear. The ache of fatigue and injury faded into the background of a life lived hard.
“The tribe needs you, son,” said Broadfeather quietly.
I raised an eyebrow.
“We do our best to follow the Hopi Way, from before the land was ruined.” The twinkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a grim expression. “It guides us in how we live and how we care for the earth. How the earth cares for us. Few of us remember anything. Stories of the Hopi have passed the generations by, and most of what we know is from the books. Word of mouth is much better, but there isn’t much left.”
“Agreed.”
“No doubt, you know of the Navajo.”
The Navajo and Hopi traditionally were rivals, but little of that rivalry had survived the ages. When America fell, the Navajo Nation asserted its own independence. They rejected the technology that changed Texas and since they lived so close to the Yellowstone caldera, Texas left them alone. Even the desert-dwelling Texans considered land too close to the Yellowstone supervolcano to be uninhabitable. Not the Navajo. When the supervolcano brought Americans to its knees, the Navajo survived. Then they thrived. The Navajo Nation was notoriously independent, even hostile to outsiders. Their people were spread thin along the Rocky Mountains, loosely organized but very powerful due to a fierce loyalty. With all its technology and power, Texas had never been able to stretch its borders too far to the northwest. Not that there was much will to do so.
“We need you to be our ambassador,” Broadfeather said.
I blinked.
“They will visit with a spiritual man in two days. They are bound by the word of this two-spirit and they would like us to send our spiritual leader.”
My jaw opened like I had something to say, but nothing became readily apparent that needed saying. The Navajo never visited Texas. They stayed to themselves and expected Texans to do the same.
“You’ll negotiate an alliance. We don’t need trouble.”
My head was starting to hurt again. A dull throbbing pounded on the backs of my eyeballs. Broadfeather’s walking stick tapped out an even rhythm as he made his way out the door. The laughter had come back to his eyes. Was this a joke?
“Spiritual leader?” I asked dully as the old man stepped outside.
He turned around and winked at me before hobbling on his way. It took me nearly an hour before I stood up. I dressed in some old jeans and a button-down shirt. My duster was ruined. Huge sections had been worn clean through, and a tear ran down its length. Tossing it onto the chair, I grabbed my glow cube and tried my best to find room for it in the pocket of my jeans. Eventually, I gave up and tossed the thing on the table. It was still blinking red, but that could wait.
My Smith & Wesson Model 500 hung on the wall. Heavily modified, but without an ounce of tech, it had always been my go-to problem solver. It was a big gun—a revolver with significant heft and enough stopping power to give pause even to armored foes. I kept it well maintained, but it had been a while since I’d shot anything other than coyotes or the occasional armadillo. The services I provided my tribe were nonviolent and I liked to keep it that way.
The gun’s heft felt good in my hand. Its balance, perfect. I’d been a lot of things with this gun at my side: a Texas Ranger, a lawman, a hunter. It seemed like the gun had been my partner my whole life. It had helped me be whatever the world needed me to be.
But a spiritual leader?
I hung the gun back up on the wall.
Chapter 4
The day passed in
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