THE TRIBE

by wmburrow
19august94

It was an odd gathering, this tribe which came to know me as Greyhawk.

There was a middle-age cowboy, married to a young maiden called Willow Woman, who had placed his soul in the care of the mystical Comanche grandfathers. Two Knives truly sensed the touch of Native American history on the being of modern man. He once shaved his head in the traditional Mohawk style and then clipped the outline of an arrow into the hair of his unknowing family dog. From time to time he would drink a little too much, paint his face as a warrior, tie on the feathers and show up on a friend's doorstep beating a drum. He could be a wild and crazy indian at times like these, even though beneath the paint and adornments, his skin still remained as white as his birth.

Two Knives was always a wandering spirit. He had to own horses and, yes, he did tie feathers in their manes and ribbons in their tails. There was even, from time to time, a bold streak of lightening, in white shoe polish, that ran from the steed's upper neck down to his powerful withers. Once there were red handprints on each side of the horse's stout ass. At times like this, with a few quickly sipped beers under his gut, old Two Knives would swing upon his bareback pony and kick him into a fast run as he yepped and hollered like a lone "raiding party" through the back forty of the pasture. Some people thought this guy was just plain nuts. But the tribe liked him just the same.

I chose to sit at counsel at the camp, staying in the shade on these hot Texas days, rocking in the tree swing, and sipping on a soda as the indians played. Greyhawk was just too old for this crap but did enjoy watching the merriment of it all. It was a good way to pass the time. And, while it really wasn't a good day to die, it was a good day to kick back and enjoy the feel of the other life...the life of the trail...the life of the real people in the old days when crap mattered and brotherhood really did mean something. We had fun together, Two Knives and I, as we rode this trail together through modern times.

And, of course, there was Many Horses, at the time of this tale the woman of Greyhawk. Many Horses was a name, given to her by who else but Two Knives, in a moment of indian inspiration and deep thought, that couldn't have fit her better. She loved horses, always had, and at this moment of her life, had only seven of them...all precious ponies that helped keep her tettered to the earth and sane. She rode every chance she got. She rode whenever she could, wherever she could, with whoever she could. Her smile was never larger than when she put her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself aboard. It didn't make any difference if she was just riding in the front yard. The woman loved horses. And I know she loved the tribe, because these "indians" liked to ride too.

God, the adventures that tribe had. Some of them, in the cold of winter, would pack up their stuff, load those poor horses on trailers, and strike out through the bitter wind, ice and snow and trek off to New Mexico or Colorado, or some such place, to really get down and serious with the "indian way." Two Knives would even hunt on horseback in these places. He also sought visions on mountain tops and told of rolling around naked in a field of sage that could be found out there. It brought him back to the earth, he said. Well, I guess so. You know, naked on the ground is about as close to the earth as one can get these days.

Many Horses, in her other life, was a teacher. She had a group of her high school students out to the ranch one time for a cookout at the campsite. As the dark, cloudy, barely moonlit night descended upon the plains, she took this group of streetwise little rascals on a leisurely hike through the back pasture. As they walked, she started telling them tales about indian things and of the souls that once tred upon these lands. There was silence as the wind blew through the thick cedars. And then there was this sound. In the distance, a lone indian brave started to whoop and holler. The group drew tighter around Many Horses. She hadn't heard anything, of course, and they continued to walk toward the cedar break. Then the drum started to beat, quietly at first and then louder and louder and louder. Finally Two Knives came hurling from the dark stand of trees and those who were being educated about the people of the past, scattered every which away into the night. And for Two Knives, for a moment, the warrior had lived again.

It was just proper for members of the tribe to always strive to do things "the indian way." It was certainly in keeping with this tradition, that on certain occasions, we gave things to one another...things that had meaning...and things that were intended to please.

The giving started one hot, hot Sunday afternoon at the ranch campsite, which by the way was located near the barn and horses, and trailers and pickup trucks and such, beneath a clump of giant oak trees that had somehow managed to survive Texas. This was one of the favorite places that the tribe liked to gather. This was usually where cookouts were held, with steaks fried and cobblers made the cowboy way over an open fire, but certainly that didn't have anything to do with the tribe always wanting to congregate there .

And what's so strange about it is that "the giving" started with two large sticks. They were remnants from the time Greyhawk was going to get rich making handcrafted walking canes and hiking sticks. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, after a feast that left even the toughest warrior laid out on the ground, I got the calling. It was almost an act of God when I thought about those walking sticks stacked away in storage in the deepest recesses of the barn. I remembered two of them in particular that were about six feet tall. Sanded cedar, preserved with a polyurethane finish, a feather or two tied here and there to make them appear even neater, they had lived in storage for almost a year wrapped carefully in a couple of old bed sheets. Without saying a word, I left the campsite and walked slowly toward the horse house. A few moments later I returned with these two linen wrapped presents. Then, these hiking sticks quickly became lodge poles, and I gave one to Two Knives and one to his friend, who is now my friend, Tom. You would have thought I had given them each a precious gem.

Those lodge poles were kinda like chain letters. I give away a stick, I get a present. It was the darnest thing I have ever witnessed.

A day or so later, I walked into the alleyway of the barn and discovered a beautiful antler horn hunting knife, in handmade sheath, with rawhide, feathers and beads attached. You've guessed by now, I'm sure, who gave me that.

The gifts always just showed up at the barn. There were feathers, awesome feathers, wrapped in delicate paper with obvious care, just left there. And coon tails, three of them, uncleaned, that I tied a string to and hung on the barn wall. They stayed around until they rotted and fell in pieces to the ground. But it was the thought behind these little things that mattered.

Many Horses and I and a couple of friends were at a horse auction one Saturday. When the tribe didn't ride, they were always on the lookout for new mounts. I went along to sit on the wallet and keep Many Horses' hands out of the air. Somebody had to.

But, darnit, then it happened. It happened so quick I didn't even realize it had happened. Christ Almighty!

They brought this little jackass (it was really a tiny female donkey) into the sale ring. She had a belly that almost dragged the ground and a face that only a mother could love. This was one of the ugliest animals I think I have ever seen.

The auctioner was getting it on, I tell you, spotting a bid here and a bid there. And, as a joke, I looked over at Many Horses and the others of our group, smiled real big and stuck my hand high into the air. "Sold for $60," the auctioneer shouted as he asked for my name. I must have turned fourteen shades of red as I sank into my seat and meekly responded. Needless to say, Many Horses and the others thought that was the funniest darn thing they had ever witnessed.

I sat in quiet disbelief. I had actually bought a jackass!

But that wasn't the worst part. She wouldn't lead, she wouldn't buldge. She wouldn't do a thing until she wanted to and that included getting in the trailer. Maw, as we came to call her, was one of the most stubborn, determined "animules" ever.

When we finally got her into the two-horse trailer, I took two ropes and anchored her firmly to the front. We headed toward San Antonio and home and had only managed a couple of miles when the commotion started. We quickly pulled to the side of the highway and ran to the back of the trailer. There she was, turned around, with her front hoofs on the trailer door, about to leap out to freedom. Several minutes and a few choice words latter, I had her hogtied and ready for travel.

When we finally got back to the ranch, I untied her and she jumped out of the trailer. "Hey, that's neat," I thought. But I thought that shortly before it took me 47 minutes to get her to walk the fifty feet from where she landed to the corral. I slept real good that night.

In fact, it was during this period of sound sleep that I had my first "indian" vision. In this vision it became clear to me that I had to give this jackass away. When I awoke the next morning, for some strange reason, I just couldn't wait for Two Knives to come visiting us at the ranch.