Rose Eagle by Joseph Bruchac Page A

unnoticed by most and knocked down when the door was opened. There were also three more sticks laid flat on the ground right in front of them. I carefully lifted those sticks up. The letters LCD, scratched into the dry dust beneath those sticks, had not been disturbed.
    Phil was shaking his head.
    â€œMan,” he said, “Your Uncle Lenard is something.”
    Holding my shotgun — which had long ago been reloaded — I just gestured for him to open the door. He did as I asked, spinning the wheel and stepping back as he pulled it toward him.
    The large single room that it disclosed seemed empty of anything living. I scanned the space carefully, though. I saw two wide sleeping benches recessed into the far wall. On the longer wall to my right was a wide console area with two chairs pulled up in front of dead viddy screens and other electronic stuff.
    I looked back at the door we’d come through. There was a way to lock the wheel and thus secure it from the inside.
    Right in the middle of the room was a campfire area ringed with rocks brought from outside. The metal roof vents just above it had been screened with heavy wire. Smoke could get out, but nothing larger than a fly could get in. The pile of firewood stacked next to it was plenty big enough to last us through the night and beyond.
    Not only that, there were supplies stacked on shelves along the wall to my left, well back from the fire area. We didn’t need anything right now, but it was good to know it was here in case we needed supplies on the way back. I put down my packs and walked over to see what was there. Dried rations, plastic jugs of water. Uncle Lenard had just about stocked up for a siege.
    It made the place feel cozy. And I found myself smiling.
    â€œShall I shut the door?” Phil asked from behind me.
    â€œYes,” I said. “Go ahead.”
    * * *
    Darkness came quickly outside. The light filtering in through the roof vent and the cloudy windows vanished. A horned owl hooted, the sort of sound an owl makes when it is feeling secure, ready to hunt. It wasn’t the call my old people always recognized as a warning that something dangerous was prowling the night. I wondered if it was the owl we’d seen back in that cottonwood stand — but that was miles behind us. Probably not. Only the seven crows had come this far with us, as far as I knew. I hoped they’d found a safe roost for themselves.
    We pulled the chairs up next to the fire pit. Phil made a fire, heated up food, made tea for us. I leaned back in my chair and was soon half asleep, listening to the crackling of the fire.
    â€œWant to hear a story?” Phil’s voice was so soft that it blended with the sound of the fire.
    â€œI’d like that,” I said.
    â€œIt’s how crows got to be black,” Phil said. “Long ago they were all white. That’s what my grama said who told me the story, at least. And there was this man, he was a hunter. One day when he was out, he found a crow. Its wing had been hurt, and a bobcat was about to jump on it. But the hunter drove that bobcat away. He picked up that little crow and took it home. He nursed it back to health.
    â€œThat crow was so grateful that it stayed with the hunter. It flew everywhere with him. It would fly ahead and scout for game, finding deer and buffalo herds. It would warn him if there were enemies ahead. Before long, that man became famous because he was such a good hunter and always knew where the enemies were. It was all because of that crow.
    â€œBut there was a medicine man who got jealous of that hunter. He made bad medicine and then sent word to the hunter of what he had done. He told the hunter that before long he was going to be struck by lightning and killed.
    â€œWhen the hunter heard that, he spoke to the little white crow.
    â€œÂ â€˜My friend,’ the hunter said, ‘I am going to be struck by lightning. I know it