Colonel John Reid laid the letter on his desk, sighed and chuckled. At least he did not have to face the ire of Wili Fox any time soon. Each time he had gone to the village, the first thing Wili had said when he saw the Colonel was, "I won't go!"
John had wondered why he had not received a response from Horst Slatz. His letter to Horst had told of Dieter's death, of Wili's temporary living situation and of the care of the money. It had also requested Horst's prompt response so that final custody for Wili could be resolved. John had, indeed, taken some rather heavy criticism from local bigots for allowing an innocent white boy to live with savage Indians.
Horst, however, had gone back to Germany to be married. The letter had been forwarded, unopened and, just now, after several months, had John received a response. The family had learned of Dieter's death through correspondence with the Coors family. They had assumed that Wili had died with his family. They were elated to hear that the boy was alive and were, surprisingly, quite satisfied with his current living situation.
Horst, in the short time he had known Wili, had learned the boy to be - well, thoroughly German: intelligent, hard-headed, outspoken, independent but quite unGermanly wild - not poorly behaved, rather adventuresome and daring. America had not been kind to the staid German nature so far as Wili was concerned. The Indian life probably suited the boy just fine and the family was comfortable with it. They had been assured by John that the boy was happy, well cared for and would be educated. The Slatz's horses and wagon had long since been returned to Abraham and the money safely deposited in a Denver bank. That money, the letter instructed, was to be held in trust for Wili and John was assured that Wili would also own the value of the New Bedford facility at the time of his father's death. He would also be entitled to a percentage of future business as interest on his holdings.
John was surprised at the family's trust in him. They did not know him but then, they had little choice. They were too far away to investigate John or make other arrangements and the tone of John's letter put them at ease. The current situation would continue for several months, possibly more than a year. Horst and his wife would "honeymoon" several months in various exotic European locations: Monaco, Spain, the Black Sea, etc. Horst would then come to Golden to assume management of the new cooperage, jointly owned with the Coors family. A cousin, Wolfgang, would manage the New Bedford and the new Philadelphia Slatz facilities.
John was now very sure that he had made the right decision regarding the boy. Wili loved and was thriving in his Indian life. He loved Abraham and Fern and they loved him. John knew that if he had taken the boy to live with him, he would have loved him and, just as he had lost all his other loves, he would eventually lose the boy to Horst.
Actually, John had learned to love the boy. He was so - well - German. He was so much like all his childhood friends. But he had also become very Indian and a strong influence in helping the clan move more quickly toward the new ways. He was so popular among the children of the clan - the exemplar who melded the old and new. He loved being Indian and had easily adopted much of their life style. But he was so accustomed to living "white." His two cultures blended. He was definitely Indian but he was a "new" Indian. By virtue of who he was - strong, daring, witty, confident and intelligent - he had become the titular leader of his peer group and so the children of the clan began to live as Wili lived. They had become "new" almost by accident. There was no teaching, only example. Demands that they change would have probably been met with some resistance. But there were no demands. There was only a respected leader - so the children glided easily into the new ways and often their parents followed them.
The best example of the subtle and not so subtle changes was names. Almost all the clan had now chosen white man's names. Often they were variations on their Indian names. Tall Man, for example, had become Paul Mann. Perhaps, however, the best example of Wili's creativity was Buck Schwartz.
When Black Buck had asked Wili's help in choosing a name Wili first came up with Schwarze Buck. Wili knew that when Indians spoke of "white man's talk" they usually meant English talk. But Germans were white too, so German was also white man's talk. Schwarze is the German word for black. But when Wili had gone with Papa Dieter to Philadelphia and Allentown, there were some people there with names like Jacob Schwartz and Amos Schwartz. Wili decided that Schwarze made a better last name than first name so he gave the name the Pennsylvania Dutch twist and Black Buck became Buck Schwartz - probably the first and very likely the only Teutonic Native American.
Wili had also, at the tender age of ten, found himself forced into the teaching profession. Speaking English was an important part of the new way. Learning to read English became a passion.
Colonel Reid had sent a soldier to live in the village and be the teacher but since Wili already knew most of what the teacher was teaching; most children would rather learn in a kind of play setting rather than in that "box" the soldiers called a school. The children went to school but had problems paying attention in a box. Outside - with only the air and mother earth - their natural habitat where their learning had always taken place, they could and did pay attention. Wili often found himself "holding classes" on the creek bank or at the council circle. The soldier teacher soon caught on. When it rained, the "box" was used. Most of the schooling, however, took place outside, in the arms of Mother Earth.
The teacher found that he had a twelve hour work day. He taught the children during the day and their parents insisted that he teach them in the evening. The White Buffalo Calf Clan was moving quickly into the new ways. In rainy weather, they even held the councils in the school building. Broken Bough was not happy about that but he had become resigned to the new ways.
Wili had been a good but not outstanding student in New Bedford but now being in the "teacher" position, he took this education business much more seriously. He was not the hard task-master he had known the teachers to be in New Bedford, but he could run out of patience if he felt one of his "students" was not paying attention or putting forth appropriate effort. He really did not have that much trouble. Wili was their friend so his "students" wanted to please him. Like any good teacher, it was his person, not severity, that motivated.
Wili taught but his primary occupation was still happy child. Abraham would take him one or two days a week to the herd and Wili enjoyed that. He had a saddle now and Levi breaches - but only for "work." When working with his Papa, britches did not seem like oppression. But during play, it was naked and bareback and yipping and yelping like the wild little Indians they were.
As the months passed, the boys became bolder and rode farther and farther from the village. To the north, they found white ranchers grazing their cattle south of the Republican River. The Colonel said anything south of the Republican River and north of Big Sandy Creek from a north/south line through Goodland to the Colorado border was government land only for the use of the White Buffalo Calf Clan. The men would curse and threaten the boys, accusing them of "scouting" their herds so that their father could rustle cattle.
Wili, being Wili spoke right up. He told them that this was Indian land and they were to get their cattle across that river."
"First off, boy, you ain't no Indian. You should be livin' with white folks and not them savages."
"You want to see a savage, go home and look in a glass."
"Like I told that damn Indian-lovin' Colonel, you livin' with them animals, you be actin' like 'em. You need good Christian livin', boy. And this is government land. Colonel Reid ain't the whole government and he ain't got enough soldiers to watch everywhere. We'll graze here anytime we damn please.
"What you gonna do about it. Them goddam Indians go to try chaisin' us whites off, all we have to say is that them Indians was attackin' us. The government will put them were they belong, on that reservation in Indian country for botherin' white folks. Indians ain't s'posed to be in Kansas no more. Damn Colonel thinks he such a big shot. More way than one to skin a cat. Them Indians be gone in a year and you be livin' with decent folks.
"Want to live with me? I need me a good boy for chore doin'. My woman cooks good."
"You probably haven't had a bath in a year and you stink. Why would I want to live with you? You can't even talk right. My Indians are more civilized than you. I'll stay where I am."
"What's civilized? Never heared of sich a thing."
"That's what I'm trying to say. You're too damn dumb for anyone to live with."
Rub Miterding turned his horse toward Wili. Wili was off like the proverbial shot. His Papa had given him a good, fast horse.
When Wili told his Papa what had happened, Abraham went to talk to the Colonel. "We knew, Abe, we'd have some problems. Try to keep the boys and the clan's cattle away from the river for now. If Rub and his "gang" start grazing much father south, I'll send some men out but I'd like to avoid a confrontation until I get some things settled. You'll keep your land - all the way to the Republican River, I promise you that. For now, do your best to avoid any conflict."
If it hadn't been John Reid making that promise, Abraham Fox would have felt like Red Fox listening to the white man's promises he knew they had no intention of keeping. But, he trusted his friend. John had kept all his promises and Abraham had learned that he never made a promise unless he knew that he could keep it. Most politicians and Indian agents sided with the white men. If they had their way, the clan would be in Indian Territory. But John always seemed to get his way. Abraham knew that the General Officers respected John's judgment. One of the generals had told Abraham that John should be a general, that he had been offered a commission but had turned it down. Abraham knew enough about white men's ways to know that you don't get offered a commission as a General Officer unless someone in Washington wants you to be a General Officer. John wasn't dealing with local politicians or the Indian agents. He was up to something with Washington again. Abraham wasn't worried.
But something John had said did concern Abraham a little. John had asked Abraham not to come to Denver for the next few months. There was a sickness in the east, a white man's sickness that could make every Indian in the village sick and some might die. People from the east came to Denver all the time and they could bring the sickness with them. Was it the white man's sores again?
There was some concern in the village. They knew that the British had given blankets to Indians in the east, years before that were infected with the smallpox virus. There were rumors, later proven to be true, that the same had been done by the Americans with smallpox and other "European" diseases to plains Indians. Native Americans had no opportunity to build immunity to diseases such as smallpox, measles, chicken pox, typhus, typhoid fever, dysentery, scarlet fever, diphtheria and cholera. Entire villages had succumbed to such infections. The White Buffalo Calf Clan trusted Colonel Reid. They knew that he would not intentionally infect them. In fact, he had warned them but news of any white man's disease worried them. No one from the Clan would be going anywhere near Denver until the Colonel indicated that it was safe.
Wili and his friends were warned not to go near the Republican River. Abraham knew his son well enough that he used the danger of disease if there were contact with a white man rather than the possibility of conflict. Wili's months as an Indian had not cleansed him of his German blood. So far as Wili was concerned, south of the Republican River was Indian land and he wouldn't have cared how angry it made Ruben Miderding, Wili would have been inclined to challenge him.
Abraham loved the intrepidity in his son but he knew that in Wili, at ten, it could become impetuousness. He had to teach the boy the difference between courage and folly. Indian children had, for generations, been allowed to learn prudence by the consequence of not having used it. In this situation, however, the consequence of impetuousness would impact much more than just one boy needing to learn a lesson. Wili would be allowed to make his mistakes in much less volatile situations. Abraham spoke more firmly than he had previously spoken to his son. Wili got the point. He stayed away from the Republican River.
But, he did not lack for adventure. After much cajoling and an agreement to take two fourteen-year-old boys with them, Wili and his peer group of five were allowed to go down by the Big Sandy and camp just like plains Indians had for centuries. In the past, it had been hunting or war parties but this expedition would be just a plain old raucous boy party.
It would be a day's ride to the Big Sandy and they had permission to camp for two days. If they weren't back on the evening of the fourth day, there would be some Indian yipping and yelping but it wouldn't be a celebratory dance going on. It would have to do with bottom soreness caused by other than too much time on a horse.
When Broken Bough learned of the boys' proposed expedition he saw an opportunity to teach some of the old ways, to help the boys remember their traditions. It took some convincing. This was supposed to be a boy thing, a test of their bravery and maturity and, it was supposed to be carefree fun - not a kind of school. But Broken Bough was so exhilarated about the idea of honoring the old ways that he made it almost a duty for the boys to honor their past. Wili, who had read Indian stories, wanted Broken Bough to go with them. Wili loved his life but it was not the wild, migratory, primitive life he had read about and expected. He wanted to learn and usually what Wili wanted soon everyone else wanted. Three more boys, the oldest sixteen summers, joined the group that rode south at sunrise leaving their less anxious parents. Boys of their generation had not had the occasion to learn prairie skills, as had their fathers. Having an experienced, honored brave with them made parents much more comfortable with the whole thing.
Broken Bough was, in the minds of the boys, very old. Actually, he was fifty-five - the oldest member of the Clan and, for the time, elderly. But he was far from feeble. He had accepted Wili, actually he had come to like the boy, but he tenaciously held as much as he could to the old ways. He would not, for example, choose a white man's name; he would not build a cabin. He felt that those members of the Clan who had were getting soft. The Arapaho had wintered in tepees since the first time the sun rose. Oh yes, many children had died in the winter but that was the choice of the Great Spirit. Broken Bough was no longer angry and had learned to live with his grief but he worried about what the Great Spirit might be planning for those who left the old ways.
Broken Bough remembered being a boy and he let the boys be boys. He did not hold "school" but would subtly point out things of importance: a clump of slightly different prairie grass which could serve as a marker to find their way back to the village, a particularly green area which meant that water was not too far below the ground - that sort of thing.
Whether Broken Bough was exceptionally wise in his choice of "lessons" or simply a traditional Plains Indian was not clear. What was clear was that within hours, the raucous playfulness of boys had become almost a reverent, rapt attention to what Broken Bough was teaching them. There was some sense of heritage among the boys but it was also just plain interesting. They had no idea that you could tell that a rabbit had run through the grass less than half hour ago by the slight bend in the grass and you knew that it was a rabbit because of the length of the bend from the ground made by the rabbit's hind legs. A rabbit lays his hind legs on the ground from its knees to its feet so that it has more leverage to hop. The boys had seen rabbits but had never given much thought to the physics involved or to the advantage that physics gave to a tracker.
As they came closer to the Big Sandy, Broken Bough began to point out signs of larger game. There were deer and antelope track and scat. Broken Bough, hoping to provide meat for supper, decided to track a deer. He found, however, that teaching stealth to boys whose current life style had never impressed them with the importance of it was impossible. He'd get his deer but he'd have to do it alone or perhaps with David Elkhorn, the sixteen year old.
David was old enough to remember Sand Creek. He had been seven summers at the time. He and his parents had escaped but an older brother and sister had not. At seven summers, David had absorbed a sense of the old ways and he was older and less apt to be overtaken by the giddiness of the younger boys.
They got to the Big Sandy and within minutes, there were eight very wet Arapahos and one very wet Arapaho of German decent. Broken Bough told the boys that he and David would go looking for supper and that the boys could play but also needed to collect firewood. Where there was water in western Kansas there were also trees and dry, dead branches were not numerous but also not extremely hard to find. Broken Bough reminded the boys of the campfire stories of prairie fires and admonished them not to try to start a fire. He would show them where and how when he got back.
Broken Bough was more than a little anxious. He had the reputation of never having gone on a hunt and coming back empty-handed. But it had been almost nine summers since he had hunted. Did he still have his skill?
Broken Bough was a traditionalist in every sense of the word. As far as he was concerned, rifles were for war. The bow was for hunting. He had become a good shot with a rifle and had proven to be a brave warrior but he thought it unsporting to hunt game with a rifle. As far as he was concerned, if you couldn't get close enough to get your quarry with a bow and arrow, you weren't an Indian.
Broken Bough got his deer. It was a nice yearling buck - a two pointer. The meat would be tender and sweet. For the first time in nine summers he felt like a proud Arapaho should but he was also very sad. Life when he was a child was good. Buffalo were plentiful and the entire world was their home. As game became scarce or if they just got tired of where they were living, they found a new place to live and for a boy that meant new places to explore and new chores to do. Actually, the chores were the same but one had to learn the most economical way to do them in a new place. The water may have been farther away and the place where the grass was short enough to dry the buffalo chips had to be found. Broken Bough's boyhood had never been boring. It was always new and exciting and there were skills to be learned, hatreds of other tribes and the white man to be learned and nourished so that one could become a courageous and vicious brave. It had always been the way of the Cheyenne and the Arapaho. Why did it have to change? But, it did change and Broken Bough was learning to live with that. He was also learning what everyone learns as he grows older: what used to be always seems to be better than what is now.
The fire was to be built on the river bank at a spot closest to the river and farthest from the tall grass. Very dry wood could be used to start the fire but the fire must be small and well watched. Dry wood burned too fast. It crackled and sent sparks flying, sparks that could start a prairie fire. When they had coals hot enough, greener wood was added. The green wood would be dried by the hot coals and would burn hot enough to cook the meat but not so quickly that it sent sparks flying.
Wili had never seen an animal butchered. It both fascinated and disgusted him. He was familiar with the term, guts, but he had never before seen any. They disgusted him but he was an Indian now and he did his best not to show it. He didn't completely succeed. It is ubiquitously known that one does not harass a boy in the presence of his father. Abraham, a highly respected leader in the village, was not there so one of the fourteen year olds did what fourteen-year-olds do. He teased his son. He teased Wili but he also learned a lesson. By the time he got his nose to stop bleeding, his inclination to fight back had passed. The white boy may be squeamish around offal but he was an Indian in every other sense of the word.
Cooking meat on a spit over an open fire was not new to the boys, making the spit from only the materials Mother Earth provided was. Broken Bough walked more than a mile to find just what he wanted. All of the boys followed. He needed two green forked uprights at least two inches in diameter, a minimum of three but preferably four feet of straight shaft before the fork. For the spit itself, he wanted four feet of perfectly straight shaft. Green wood might taint the flavor of the meat a little but it was needed so that it would not dry out and catch fire before the haunch of venison was thoroughly cooked. The spit should be three feet above the fire so a four foot upright could be buried a foot and make for a very stable standard. A perfectly straight spit would make for easier, even turning. The boys watched in fascination and admiration as the old, experienced and now for them, more honored warrior patiently explained each step as he prepared the evening meal. After the long ride and rather long preparation time, it was late and dark when they ate. The meat was good but probably not as fully appreciated were the boys not so tired. Going to sleep quickly under the stars was no problem for ten very tired little and not so little Indians and one much reinvigorated, nostalgic old warrior.
They heard coyotes in the night. Broken Bough had expected them. He did not sleep until he had killed one, opened a vein and dragged the carcass around the sleeping area and the tree high into which he had placed the remaining venison. Smelling the blood of their own kind usually kept coyotes away. It did that night.
Breakfast was beans that had been soaked overnight. Broken Bough assigned some of the older boys that cooking chore. The younger boys were in the water almost before they were fully awake. They had brought no hoop and lance or any of their other usual pastime items. Broken Bough had insisted on this. He taught the boys how to make a kind of missiles of tightly wound grass - wound is such a way that one end was heavier than the other. If a stone was available, it was wound into the heavy end.
Actually, it was fun. One had to toss the clumps of grass at a target (a stick) from about fifteen feet. The idea was to see who could get it closest. Broken Bough taught them the scoring that had been used in his boyhood. While a few were involved in the organized game, most were just frolicking: wrestling, running races, playing in the river until they got their turn at the game. Broken Bough did not interfere. The day had turned out as the boys had hoped, a carefree, and even with Broken Bough there, an almost unsupervised adventure.
About the middle of the afternoon, a small party of Army troopers rode up to the camp. They were on a routine reconnaissance mission just checking out the area. They were under the command of a Lieutenant who had them spread out in a line - no farther apart than shouting distance and were making a casual sweep of the area. A startled trooper thought at first he had come upon a band of renegades. He was petrified. He was alone and his fear infused mind saw a hundred blood thristy braves. He fired his pistol to attract the attention of his comrades.
Before others arrived, he realized what really was there. He was surly and bellicose wondering what these Indian kids and that old man were doing off the reservation. They were almost four hundred miles from Darlington Agency Reservation.
Wili didn't like being spoken to in that manner. He forgot everything his father had told him about courage and folly. "We are not reservation Indians. Our village is up by Goodland and you're on Indian land. Get across that river and off our land."
The trooper was off his horse, dropped the reins and ground-hitched his horse. He grabbed one of Wili's braids and yanked hard. He was angry at this little savage's impertinence and impulsively fell back on his native tongue. He said in German, "You little savage. I'm ...."
The trooper dropped Wili's braid but it was the shock of hearing Wili's response. Wili had said also in German, "Get your dirty hands off me!"
There continued then a rather animated conversation in German - shocked on the part of the trooper and angry on Wili's part.
"How did you learn German,"
"You're in America. Learn to talk American."
"I can talk English. But we just came from Germany. I couldn't find work in Boston so I joined the army."
"Dummy! German people don't go to Boston. Colonel Reid says they go to Pennsylvania."
"The trooper was collecting his wits. Still in German he said, "Papa is going to teach at Harvard. Since Harvard is in Boston don't you think it makes sense that we would go there?"
"What's Harvard?"
"It's a college but I wouldn't expect a little savage like you to know that. How did you learn German.?
"The same way you did, from my mama and papa. I was German before I was an Indian."
By now, the rest of the troop was there wondering what the hell was going on. Only the Lieutenant had heard of this little German Indian. He also knew that Colonel Reid really liked the kid.
"Back off, trooper. I know about this boy and I know about these Indians. They are not reservation Indians. They are not a problem. Let's move out."
But trooper Martyn still wanted to know more about Wili. They reverted to German.
"If you are German, how did you get to be Indian?"
Wili told the story and what had been ire on the part of Trooper Martyn, became sympathy and curiosity. "So, you lived in New Bedford. That's not far from Boston."
"I know. I went to Boston with Papa Dieter."
"I'm sorry you lost your papa and mama. In a way, I've lost my papa too. He wanted me to go to college but I wanted some adventure. I wanted to work as a fisherman but could not find work - so, like I said, I joined the army. My papa is very angry with me. He won't write me letters. Mama does and she says he will get over it but it makes me sad that he is angry with me. I told him I would go to college after the army but he's a very stubborn man."
"Colonel Reid says all Germans are stubborn. I'm stubborn. Colonel Reid says he is going to make me live with my cousin, Horst, but I won't go!
"I'm Indian now and I got a new mama and papa and I love them and I won't go!"
Siegfried Martyn laughed and said in English. "Ya, I guess we are all stubborn. Probably if I weren't so stubborn, I'd have gone to college and my Papa wouldn't be angry with me."
"You can be an Indian. Broken Bough doesn't have any more children. They were all killed at Sand Creek. He could be your Papa.
"Do you want to be his Papa, Broken Bough?" That last was said in Arapaho.
"Tell Broken Bough, 'Thank you," but I'll stay in the army until my enlistment is over and then I will go to college. That will make my Papa happy.
"Sorry I pulled your hair."
"You should be. That hurt."
Siegfried Martyn tousled Wili's hair and mounted his horse. The troopers repositioned themselves and continued their mission. Siegfried turned and said to Wili, "Auf Wiedersehen."
"Talk American!"
Siegfried chuckled. Just like his little brother. Actually, probably just like he was at Wili's age.
The older boys were amazed. When they saw soldiers they were sure they were in big trouble - maybe even would be killed. They knew of Wili but they did not know Wili. Like teenagers since the dawn of history, they wouldn't give the younger boys the time of day.
The younger boys and Broken Bough, however, were not surprised. As far as his peers were concerned, Wili could do anything. Chasing off soldiers, as far as they were concerned, was one of Wili's minor feats. And Broken Bough - why should he be surprised? One as wise as Wili could probably make that river flow backwards.
They spent the rest of the afternoon gathering willows and watching Broken Bough form them into a fish trap. They helped place and secure the trap, had more venison and bedded down. There was considerable interest among all the boys and even Broken Bough about what that talk was that Wili used on the trooper. It had just been generally believed that there was Indian talk and white man talk. It made sense to them when Wili asked if all Indians had the same talk. They knew that each tribe had its own language but even Broken Bough hadn't considered that different white man tribes might have different talk. Broken Bough had heard of French and English but he didn't know anything about their talk.
There were fish in the trap the next morning. Wili knew about fishing but he had never seen a trap like that. He'd seen huge nets and lobster traps but still couldn't figure out that if the fish could swim in, it couldn't swim out. Broken Bough said that some probably do get out but most couldn't find the hole into which they swam. Wili wanted to know why if they could find it to get in, why they couldn't find it to get out. Broken Bough said that if he could talk two different kinds of white man's talk and Arapaho talk, he could probably do fish talk. Ask them.
Wili had eaten fish at most meals when he lived in New Bedford. This wasn't the cod or halibut he was used to, but it was OK. He was glad, however, that they lived far enough from the river that this kind of fish was hard to get. It was OK but it wasn't the beef he was used to - or even the venison he'd eaten the last two days.
Venison occupied much of their time that day. Broken Bough decided to jerk the remainder of the deer. It had been very hot yesterday and the meat was starting to turn. Cut into thin strips and left in the hot sun, it would not rot. It would dry and become jerky.
This was another fascinating lesson. Broken bough had the boys gather willow stalks. He taught them to skin the bark off the stalks, how to use the bark for binding and make a rack. Half the barked stalks were laid about two inches apart. The remainder of the stalks were laid at right angles about two inches apart. That, explained Broken Bough is what the finished rack would look like. The old man then set two boys to using the bark to bind the stalks together. He taught them how to wrap and how to secure the ends. There were sixty-four bindings to make and, although the boys changed off, it took half the day to complete.
Broken Bough supervised other boys in the cutting of the strips of meat. He was particular - not too thick nor too thin. Again, the boys changed off so that each got experience with all phases of the procedure. Current life was such that the boys would probably never need these skills but this whole adventure had become just what the boys wanted it to be. They were not just playing old time Indians. They were old time Indians.
After they got home, Wili found that he shared his teaching duties with Broken Bough. He was still often cajoled into helping someone with their reading but the expedition to the Big Sandy had engendered a deep interest in their history. Arapaho history lessons at Broken Bough's feet became even more popular than Wili's reading classes. That was fine with Wili. He was one of the more apt students in Professor Broken Bough's history classes.
And Broken Bough - his anger was completely gone, his sadness was still there but now buried beneath the exhilaration of being needed and openly admired again. He had appreciated the esteem of those who remember his bravery and skills in the old life but being needed, respected and honored by children was a euphoric thing. He could make the old ways live. Not in real time, perhaps, but in the minds and, more importantly, in the hearts of the next generation.