“Because of the red clay near the sacred warm springs. The People used the clay to paint and ornament their bodies and other things.”
Grandfather pointed at the three smears. “This was put there by Victorio, to mark it as his. We know this as the mark he used.”
“I’ve never read that anywhere.”
“Hah, read it, you say. Our history has more unwritten than written. This is one of many that we passed down only by mouth. There’s much that our people will never share. It is for us to know, and no one else, because it can still be used against us.”
“Even today?”
Grandfather said, “Even today, in the twenty-first century.”
Randall squatted, Indian style by the saddle and ran his hand along the polished leather. It was a strange feeling, touching this saddle where his famous ancestor sat. He lifted the leather flap and put his fingertips in the air over the ocher colored marks where the Apache leader drew his three fingers. He didn’t touch them but let his digits hover an inch above them. Their fingers appeared to be the same size, Randall thought. So close to him. Separated only by time. He thought that, a minute earlier, an hour even, and it would be the same as this; still only time. Not space, not distance. Randall felt closer to his Apache ancestors than he had in years, as if Victorio himself was leaning over his shoulder, watching him and approving.
Grandfather said, “You know he’s here.”
Randall stood, “Grandfather…”
“It’s okay. I know you felt him, and not as a bad spirit, not a Chinde. Some things about the white people I like. The fact that they believe the ghosts of ancestors can also be good. The pinda-likoyee did all right with that one. I choose to believe it.”
Randall knew Grandfather called them white-eyes, in his native tongue, but Grandfather often lapsed into using phrases or Apache words in his English sentences. That was just him, a man of two worlds, and too old to change, or want to.
Grandfather said, “This will be yours when I’m gone.”
“Thank you, I value it already.”
The old man grinned and walked by Randall to return to the living room, saying as he passed, “I’m glad you didn’t think about doing it like the last saddle I gave you.”
“I was eight. I didn’t know that cutting off the stirrups was a bad idea, I thought it would make me faster.”
“I’m glad you remember.”
Randall shook his head and grinned. This century-old man still had his wit and sense of humor. But now, it was time to talk. He motioned toward the sofa. “Let’s talk about things for a while, okay?”
“Sure. It’s time, and you need to know that what’s comin’ is the scariest thing I’ve seen in my lifetime.” He sat at one end and propped up his feet on the coffee table, then pointed at the cabinet above the stove. “There’s some whiskey and glasses up there, and ice in the fridge. I don’t want to get hoarse while talkin’.”
Randall fixed them drinks; Jack Daniels and water, and when he sat on the sofa, Grandfather began his story.
“I’ve been getting signs for a while now. Like in the mornings last week when I went outside to watch the sunrise. Two snakes were mating by the woodpile, and the next morning, two bucks fought by the driveway, really clacking horns and going at it. Then a black bear charged them and all three ran into the pines.”
He took a small sip from the glass and waited some seconds before continuing. “The third morning, a big bull elk stood under the big pine and watched me. It didn’t graze or move, just watched me. In the top of the pine was a red-tailed hawk, biggest one I ever saw. It had a rattlesnake in its talons and the snake was wrapped around it while they struggled.”
Randall asked, “And it means something, you think?”
Grandfather looked sad for an instant, then said, “Wait here, I’ve got something else for you.” He walked into his bedroom and rummaged around, then came back to the couch. He had two hand-sized leather pouches. Opening one, Grandfather pulled out a loop of handmade cord three feet in diameter. “Izze-cloth,” he said. “I saw you don’t have the one I gave you a year or so ago.”
“I lost it,” Randall said, thinking about the terrible fight with Prendell Taylor and his men. “I’m sorry.”
Grandfather waved it away, “It is okay. That one served its purpose. This one I’ve been making you for a while.” He handed it to Randall.
The entire loop consisted of three strands of hand-twisted strings, with each strand half the thickness of a small, round shoelace, but longer. Tiny shells and bits of petrified wood were interwoven in the loop and regularly placed along the length. A small leather pouch the size of Randall’s middle finger was also attached. Yellow grains were on the strands, and Randall pointed at them and asked, “Hoddentin?”
“Yes, cattail pollen. It’s in the pouch, too. I’ve strengthened this every way I know. I want you to wear it when you return to Florida. You remember how, right?”
“Over my right shoulder and on my left hip. Under my shirt.”
“Good, good. And attach the tzi-dalti to it where that loop is on the pouch. Now that you have these, let me tell you what I’ve seen in my dreams, and what Dahteste said.”
Grandfather talked through the afternoon, and as the sun dropped below the hills, they built a campfire outside and then he continued. When he finished, Grandfather said, “You have any questions?”