Ride the Moon Down by Terry C. Johnston Page B

and they were strong. Rotten Belly’s mountain band of the Crow required a vigilant defense. For a man like Arapooesh that meant more than sending his young warriors into battle—it meant leading them himself.
    Rotten Belly had been killed in battle against the Blackfoot.
    Waits-by-the-Water’s parents welcomed them into their lodge that first night of celebration and homecoming. Grandmother and grandfather could not take their eyes and hands off little Magpie, playing and talking with the child until she grew hungry and ready for bed. Across thefire, Bass did his best to join in with their talk from time to time—but for the most part he sat silent, staring at the flames, listening to the crackle of wood and the wolfish wind howling without the buffalo-hide walls. He wondered on Rotten Belly’s spirit. Where it was on its journey. Would he have already reached the end of that long star road to spend out the rest of eternity with the likes of Zane, Hatcher, and McAfferty, even with all of those Arapooesh himself had killed in battle?
    That first night he awoke, fitful and damp. Slipping from beneath the blankets, Bass sat up in the dull red glow of the coals in the fire pit where he laid some small pieces of wood and watched the low flames till dawn when Magpie stirred, awakening her mother.
    “I must go away for a few days.”
    “We only arrived,” she said, lifting the baby to her breast.
    On the far side of the lodge her parents stirred. The old couple sat up, but remained silent in the dim light, curious. Waits stared at her husband’s gray face, his sleepless, red eyes, trying so hard to read something there that would allow her to understand.
    With his empty hands gesturing futilely before him, Bass said, “I must do something.”
    “Give yourself a few days to rest,” she pleaded. “You have worked so hard, been on the move ever since we left the place where all the white men gather.”
    Wagging his head in despair, Titus tried to explain. “I am torn. I do not want to leave you and Magpie—but something tells me I must be alone with this terrible news we were given last night.”
    “Is this your heart crying out in hurt for He-Who-Has-Died?” she asked, referring to the departed without speaking his name.
    Staring into the fire pit, he admitted, “Yes. I must go away to mourn for him—”
    “Stay and mourn for him here,” she begged, patting the blankets beside her. “Ever since last summer my people … his people have mourned for him in his own camp. It is good to shed the tears among others.”
    He crabbed closer to her, leaning against her shoulder. “My grief comes easy.”
    His wife’s parents stirred. Her father, Whistler, left their blankets to scoot next to the fire. His black hair had only recently begun to show the iron of his considerable winters. He said, “Mourning does not belong only to women.”
    Crane, her mother, added, “Tears should never frighten a strong man.”
    With her free arm Waits-by-the-Water pulled Bass’s brow against her cheek. “My father speaks good words. Your tears tell me you are a strong man, strong enough to show how much you miss He-Who-Has-Died.”
    “I raised my daughter to show her heart,” Whistler said. “But she must realize that we all grieve in our own way. If you believe you must ride into the hills to mourn, then that is where your spirit calls you to go.”
    Waits tried to speak for a moment, but ultimately admitted she was not going to convince her husband that he should stay. “I will miss you. Hurry back to us.”
    She turned away quickly, a gesture that tugged plaintively at his heart. Scratch knew she hoped to hide her face, those sad eyes, from him. He watched her back as she settled upon their blankets and gathered the baby to her breast.
    He laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “I have lost so many in my life, friends. I don’t want to lose you, lose even your love.”
    She laid her hand upon his, finally turning to gaze up