Wrapped in misty dawn, the painted warriors mounted painted ponies, slowly circling dying embers of the fire, that fire which painted dancing shadows on the darkened canyon walls the night before, while women, wailing songs, songs which brought the bison to their waiting men for ages past remembrance, wept the tears that showed their loss of faith, tears of awful knowledge that the songs had lost their power. All the songs are silent now, the singers mute and lying still in dreadful circles ‘round the fire, the children intertwined with mothers, silenced all in dark of night by creeping braves who, weeping, slit their throats to rescue them from worse, from slow starvation, winter cold, and deep despair, in need abandoned by their gods to pain, to loss of hope, to wondering why their songs were met with anger. Ponies prance and paw the frozen desert earth, while frosty mists wreathe flaring nostrils, painting steamy auras in the air like white men’s iron horses bringing greedy hunters, hunters shooting all they see, hunters piling skulls of buffalo in little mountains, leaving rotting flesh that could have fed and clothed this tribe and hundreds more, thousands who are faced with death from gnawing hunger. Sunrise paints the canyon walls with desert golds and blazing reds, with brilliant orange streaks that echo warpaint on the sun-bronzed riders’ cheeks; they urge their ponies forward, slowly first, then at a trot, toward the hunt the hunters know (but not the ponies) hunts not bison in the flesh, but spirit buffalo; the silent hunters sing no longer songs that once protected them from danger. Moving swiftly now, the ponies carry grim-faced hunters past familiar canyon walls, sweeping left and right in high, forbidding cliffs that narrow like a funnel, forcing cornered prey to flee, flee into a twisting pass that opens on a cliff, high above a plain where jagged rocks lie mingled with the sun-bleached bones – bones of fallen bison from those past successful hunts, those hunts retold and hailed by tribal elders. Now, the bison gone, the hunters chase their ghosts into the trap; their ponies gallop, trained to trust their riders – plunging off the cliff, pawing air in panic, solid ground beneath them vanished – vanished as it did for bison they had herded here to die in dreadful headlong flight to rocks below, rocks that crushed the skulls of buffalo to feed the hungry, grateful tribe; so now, like hunted, die the hunters.
Written Apr 1999 by David L Brungart - © Copyright