>Bad news!  Paint, his little Appaloosa, had picked up an old arrowhead, was limping badly and freezing rain had started to fall. Already Will's beard was frozen, his hands and his feet were getting numb; worse, he still had not found a place to make camp for the night.
He led his pony forward along the trail that wound through the mountain range, still looking for a cave, an overhang, anything to offer some protection against the wind and rain.
Suddenly, out the corner of his eye, Will saw something leap from the rocks above him.   Paint neighed, reared and jerked free,  bolting back down the mountain.
The mountain lion followed in hot pursuit.  Will watched in desperation as the two disappeared from view.  His rifle, his bedroll, and his provisions, all gone in an instant.
With sinking heart, he knew the mountain lion would probably win; his horse was gone.  At the same time, Will was thankful the pony had distracted the lion away from him.  
He would have to go back down the mountain in the morning, hope he could find his horse and retrieve his provisions and his rifle.  But right now, survival was a bigger concern.  
Looking around, Will still could see no place to get out of the cold.  His clothes were soaked, ice caked his beard and eyebrows, he could no longer feel his feet through his boots and his hands were not much better.   It would be dark in another fifteen minutes.
Will began moving slowly up the trail. He lost track of time; he was so sleepy. His mind wandered. He wasn't sure if he was on the mountain or back on the farm near Denton with Melindy and the kids. Melindy kept telling him to come to bed.  Maybe he would lay down with her for just a few minutes...
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Standing Stick's mood was black. He and fifteen warriors had left the reservation near Ft. Sill. Now, they were camped at the north base of the big mountains where the water comes from the rocks.

There would be no cattle drives until summer. They would have to cross the big river, find a farmer, attack at dawn. With luck, they could carry off some women, grab two or three cattle for food, then hightail it back to the reservation where the lawmen from beyond the river could not touch them.

Their Cheyenne brothers to the north were so stupid. They really believed the white man was going to be fair. All the white man wanted was to steal the red man's land.

For now, though, Standing Stick was trapped in his tepee until this big storm from the sky god passed. He and Crooked Finger smoked their pipes in front of the fire, building drug-induced courage for the massacre to follow.

He had wanted to bring Looking At Rain but Meadow Bird had refused to allow his son to go with him. The old men on the reservation were pressuring her to send Looking At Rain to the Indian school at Concho.

What did his son need of reading, writing s and learning the white man's language? Standing Stick could make his mark; and he was the fiercest and bravest of all the Apache warriors. Making his mark was all Looking At Rain needed.

The boy was 12 summers now. It was time for him to take his first scalp, to learn how to be an Apache warrior.

Standing Stick wondered if Meadow Bird remembered her time in the white man's school. She had been brought to the tribe when she was eight, after her entire family had been killed in a raid. The warrior who saved her wanted her as a gift to his squaw whose womb was barren.

She was treated with love and gentleness and soon became an Apache, hating the white man as much as he did.

From the moment he had watched from behind the tall grass as Meadow Bird bathed in the creek, she had possessed a mysterious hold on him. Standing Stick began to grow hard in his loins remembering that day. He had taken Meadow Bird as his squaw that very afternoon as she stepped naked from the stream.

The only person in the Apache Tribe who dared to tell Standing Stick "no" was Meadow Bird. Anyone else who crossed him would find a knife buried in his heart.

Standing Stick thought of the old chief, Running Wolf. He had been a great chief but now he was soft like a woman. He listened to the lies of the man named Wilson who had been sent from the big man they called President in the city far away.

Soon, he would die; then Standing Stick would be the new chief. Who would dare oppose him? Running Wolf's son listened too much to the old chief. He would be easy to overthrow. If necessary, Standing Stick would see to it that one of his followers slipped into Dripping Water's tent at night with a long knife.

They would leave the reservation then. They would live free once more on the plains, following the buffalo. Perhaps they would have to migrate back to the north and west to find the buffalo again. The guns of the white man had killed the buffalo here, leaving their carcasses rotting across the plains, wanting only the hide.

Standing Stick hated the white men. He wanted to kill them all and hang their scalps from his bow for what they had done to the sacred buffalo who were the red man's friend. The red man revered the big animals.

The red man only hunted the big buffalo twice a year, using every single part, even the guts, which the squaws dried for laces for the tepees and moccasins. The hide they used for their clothing and their tepees. The meat of one buffalo fed their camp for many moons. /p>


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