“When will my vision come?” Curly wondered.
Curly became aware of just how tired he was. His eyes burned. For a moment he lay back against the side of the protective rock niche. He felt himself drifting into sleep. He forced himself awake. Curly felt in the dark for stones, the sharper the better. He would spend the night resting in discomfort. He must stay awake if his vision was to come.
+ + +
Curly did not sleep. His eyes were open when the first rays of the sun spread shimmering light across the lake below. The dark turned to a uniform gray. Slowly, the shadows began to appear, and the land began to take shape. Curly looked for Fleet but could not see him. He was glad. Worrying about his pony would help him stay awake.
He lay back on his bed of stones and studied the cloudless sky. A formation of ducks passed high overhead and circled back to take a closer look at the lake. Curly turned his attention from the distant sky to the nearby land. He looked for wildlife and soon spotted a lizard crawling to the edge of a nearby rock to catch some sun.
Curly spoke to the lizard and hoped that it would speak back to him and tell him the secrets of his vision. But the lizard did nothing but lie in the sun.
The day passed. Curly spoke often to the lizard. He sang to himself and the lizard every rhythmic tune he had learned. Occasionally, he looked below to catch a glimpse of Fleet. And then he repeated his day’s entertainment. Night fell again and Curly’s lizard crawled away. Curly was angry at the lizard for deserting him. He was vaguely aware that this made sense only to his sleep-deprived mind.
The second night seemed to be twice as long as the first. Curly felt himself growing weaker. As the sun rose once again, Curly could think of nothing but his hunger and thirst.
But he was growing impatient. He was here to receive his vision. His vision must come.
Just then, he heard sounds from below. Voices. Curly was glad Fleet was not in sight. Curly looked carefully. On the edge of the lake he saw a white man and a boy his own age with a horse. The horse was pulling a large travois burdened with animal skins. Curly recognized the look—a fur trader who must be traveling with a son. Then he spotted an Indian woman, following well behind the man and boy. This was a family, Curly thought. The boy must be part Indian, probably Crow. The timing was right for mountain traders to bring winter furs east to market. Curly knew many traders well and wondered if he had ever seen this particular trader before. He hoped that Fleet would make no noise and would stay out of sight. Curly thought of heading down the hill but was afraid his movement would bring notice. Besides, he had barely enough strength to stand. Curly stayed still and watched anxiously.
The trader stopped for a moment by the side of the lake. The boy was pointing to something on the ground, and Curly knew that he had spotted the evidence of Fleet. Curly watched breathlessly. The trader surveyed the lakeshore and looked up into the hills. Then Curly heard the same sound the family below could hear. Fleet had caught the scent of the intruders and was whinnying his alarm to Curly. The boy started to run towards the sound of the pony, but the father called to him. The boy returned with obvious disappointment in his bearing. Man and boy spoke and Curly could only guess that the trader was telling the boy that the owner of the pony, ptobably Indian, was doubtless nearby. They had best be on their way, causing no trouble. The trader and his family moved on. Fleet was safe.
Curly’s thoughts returned to his vision quest. He had now been three days alone in the hills with no food and no drink . . . and no vision. Curly thought back to how he had left camp without telling his father and without the blessing of the tribal leaders and he now regretted abandoning the tradition he knew so well.
Curly rose to start down the hillside. As he rose his head spun with the dizziness of hunger. He reached for the rock wall but fell back to the ground into a stupor.
Suddenly he saw a man riding out of the lake on a beautiful horse with colors changing with every step. The man was pale and simply dressed in buckskin. He wore one lone feather and had a stone tied behind his ear. Curly could hear him speaking, although his lips did not move. He was riding above the water and now above the land. The horse’s hoofs rotated in perfect motion, but connected with nothing below its feet. The rider was facing an enemy he could not see. Arrows and bullets were flying but evaporated without hitting any target.
Curly saw friends come up behind the horse’s rider and try to stop him, holding his arms. But the rider shook free and continued riding towards Curly, coming ever closer and silently shouting words of advice. “Curly, do not wear a war bonnet.” The pounding of hooves came closer. “Do not tie your horse’s tail.”
Closer still the horseman came. “Dust your pony before battle and sprinkle the same dust over your own body.” It seemed that the horseman would overtake him but Curly’s dream continued. “Do this and you will not be hurt in battle.”
And then the horseman gave one last command. “Never take anything for yourself from the field of battle.”
With these words a storm rose up all around the horseman. A flash of lightning split the air and Curly could see the horseman’s face. The lightning bolt left its mark there along with dots of hail. The storm ceased and from the distance more men appeared on horseback. This time they came from all sides and tried to close in on the horseman. Curly heard the scream of a hovering hawk and suddenly all was silent.
Curly lay quietly contemplating his vision. He was afraid if he moved too fast the dream would disappear from his memory. He lay on the stony hill reviewing the dream in his mind over and over again. He must not forget. Every detail was important. Finally, he opened his eyes to see the faces of his father and uncle.
“Conquering Bear is dead,” his father said. “You have caused us worry.”
Chapter 2
Michigan Farm Boys
Tom and Autie Custer were more than brothers; they were bosom friends. Both worked hard on the family farm, taking turns with the farm chores.
Autie liked caring for the livestock the best.
Emanuel Custer, the boys’ father, was the best blacksmith in Monroe County, Michigan. Farmers from all the nearby villages brought their horses to the Custer farm. After Emanuel repaired the horse’s shoes, Autie would ride the horses back to their owners’ homes. There wasn’t a horse in the county that George Armstrong Custer had not ridden. At the age of 13 he was already a master horseman.
Tom was nearly three years younger than Autie. There was a brother Nevin, between them and they had a little brother, Boston, who they called Bos. They had a bunch of doting half brothers and sisters from their parents’ previous marriages, but all were treated equally under the Custer roof. The Custers were one big, happy, rollicking family.
Tom and Autie shared a special camaraderie. Autie loved the role of big brother and Tom worshiped him. They spent most of their time together. Their friendship made a hard farming life bearable.
Today’s chore was tending the kitchen garden. It seemed like girl’s work to Autie and Tom, but everyone in the family took a turn. Corn, wheat, beets, potatoes, cucumbers, turnips, beans, squash, onions and greens would feed the family through the summer. Basil, parsley, rosemary, sage, thyme, mustard, horseradish and dill would add zing and help preserve food for winter. Any extra produce would be carted into town to be sold to the local inn.
The garden stretched from the house to the River Raisin, which emptied