Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

another night. The thin, hard mattress didn’t faze him, nor did the cold, sterile white walls and matching sink and
stool. The metal bars were another matter. He hated being penned; needed to feel the warmth of the sun on his
face, breathe fresh air. The onslaught of a hard-driven rain chilling him to the bone would be preferable to
caging him like an animal.
Next year he’d spend his vacation in a friendlier city, and one closer to home -- Washington, D.C. He
thought about his job as Assistant Curator at one of the finest museums in the country. The position provided
him with the opportunity to see and touch everything he cherished artifacts of the Cheyenne people.
He’d have a lot of explaining to do if his superiors found out he spent two nights in jail again. Hell, by now a
copy of the police report from that minor scuffle in Deadwood last year would be in the Judge’s hands. One
road-bump at a time, he told himself while limping about his cell.
Despite what it looked like, he’d try to convince the Judge he didn’t go looking for the fight. The judge
would ask him what brought him to Montana. Easily explained. He never missed the yearly powwows or a
chance to shake hands with old friends, watch the ceremonial dances, and smoke the pipe.
A fickle breeze snuck through the barred window in his cell. Jesus, he could barely tolerate his own stench.
What he wouldn’t give for a change of clothing and a bar of soap before he appeared before the Judge. At the
moment, a transient moving from shelter to shelter put him to shame.
His only visitor had been a geriatric doctor scrounged up from God knew where. Arthritic fingers had poked
around his torso and head before he delivered his assessment to the sheriff. “He’ll live.”
Damn, he shouldn’t have stopped in this flea-bitten town for a cold beer, and he should have kept minding
his own business when the platinum blonde with the big breasts sidled up to him at the bar. She’d asked for a
light before three men surrounded them—blathering idiots well into their liquor and itching for trouble. A flicker
of fire sparked in the man’s pupils, so fleeting most wouldn’t have noticed. Ethan’s life, however, depended on
his ability to recognize danger.
The woman knew the cowboy, had called him by name before she warned the bowlegged saddle-jumper to
stay the hell out of her life. The feral beast awoke in Ethan when the man lunged and wrapped his hands around
her throat.
Cowboy shouldn’t have done that.
Chairs flew through the air, and next bodies. By the time the fisticuffs ended, it looked more like a firestorm
had blown through than a bar fight. Ethan had dusted himself off and strolled to the bar to finish his drink. The
next thing he knew, a freight train roared in his head and white lights exploded behind his lids. He’d awakened in
this damn jail cell with the cold-fingered doctor poking around his bruised body.
Ethan stopped his pacing long enough to cock his ear toward the hallway. Yep, as suspected, the soft
padding of footsteps, moccasins to be exact.
Moments later, the sheriff stood before the iron bars, unable to hide his smart-ass smirk. “You got company.
You also got ten minutes before you appear in front of the Judge. Make it quick.”
Ethan knew about his visitor the moment the woman stepped through the sheriff’s front door. Stands-In-
Light, the ancient medicine woman of the Cheyenne, wrapped her spiny hands around the bars when the man
walked away. “Heightened senses come in handy now and again.”
“It’s good to see you again so soon, Esteemed One.”
The same yellow blanket she wore at the powwow clung to her slender shoulders, and today her long, silver
plaits were braided and interspersed with colorful beads. Her face looked the same though, still time-worn after
eighty years beneath a pitiless sun.
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She scanned the jail cell. “In any event, the spirits call out for
you, I Am The Wind.”
Ethan had lived the last ten years of his life between this world and another. At twenty-five years of age, the
Council considered him a seasoned veteran. He knew why he’d been chosen—his love for the Cheyenne and
family connections.
His brother, Noah, was a time wanderer, his grandmother a member of the Sacred Council of Arrows. Even
without the family associations, he wouldn’t have questioned his duty to the People. Never. He’d do whatever
the Sacred Council asked for his People, his grandmother’s People, one and the same.
He often wondered if the blood of his ancestors triggered his violent streak, so forceful at times he thought