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When the war ended, would she no longer be Usher’s slave? How that made her battered soul rejoice, sending tiny shards of light against all the darkness of her gloom. Not that she saw anything to change in the way things had worked out for her: getting took off that farm of theirs in Missouri was probably the best thing after all—what with Jonah killed by the Yankees and her unable to do a lot of the work it took a man to do. Better that she was took by Usher now that Jonah was dead.

Only regret she had was those children of hers dying so young.

As sure as she was about anything, she would be going to hell eventually—if this wasn’t it already.

This heat. This singing, buzzing, hot air. This endlessness. This despair and lack of any hope. Where she was, it must surely be hell.

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

The first day of the Moon of Green Grass. Already the endless, rolling waves of it were growing tall against the legs of their ponies.

Tall One had never dreamed he would see so many warriors together, all riding north by west, nearing the earth-lodge settlement where the buffalo hunters gathered. A wildly independent tribe, never before had the Comanche banded together in numbers anywhere near these. And with them rode the fiercest of the Kiowa and Cheyenne.

First they would strike the buffalo hunters there at the earth lodges, then spread out like the fanning tail feathers of an eagle as war parties leveled one after another of the white settlements they found trespassing on buffalo ground. How glorious would be this ride behind the war chiefs for him and Antelope!

It was to be the last summer of the white man in the land of the Comanche.

They were timing their arrival at the white man’s earth-lodge settlement, wanting to get there when this first moon of the summer had grown full and fat. Beneath the silver light of that moon they would charge in and club the hide hunters while the white men slept in their beds.

As decided by the war chiefs, the many wandering bands came together a few days ago at the mouth of Elk Creek on the North Fork of the Red River. It was there, within the boundaries of the Kiowa-Comanche Reservation itself, that the shaman Isatai had commanded a sundance lodge be erected. By the hundreds The People had come until there were more than any could ever remember celebrating this ancient ritual. Even avowed peace chiefs Horseback and Elk Chewing came south to the great sun—praying with their bands.

And after that celebration of dancing to the sun for renewal of their People, the chiefs of those warrior bands held their council of war. Kiowa under Satanta and Lone Wolf. Shahiyena under Medicine Water, Iron Shirt, and Gray Beard. Each of them came carrying the war pipes sent them by the gray-eyed Kwahadi war chief.

Still, there were holdouts. Like the Shahiyena Little Robe, who upon hearing the talk of war immediately fled with his people back to the agency. Fearing most what everyone knew was coming, the Shahiyena Stone Eagle sat arguing with himself about what path he should set his feet upon.

For the rest, the path lay clear and straight.

They had come to believe in the prophet called Isatai, come to believe that this shaman might truly be more than a mere magician. Perhaps through this powerful medicine man the Comanche finally could drive the white man from their ancient hunting ground, for all time to come.

So it had seemed most fitting, before they undertook the bloody work of war, that the Comanche chose to immerse themselves in more of the frenetic symbolism of the sun dance, excusing themselves from most of the “formalities” practiced by the Kiowa and Shahiyena. That symbolism of the sun dance had for many generations been unequivocally tied to the buffalo. And now more than ever the threat posed by the white buffalo hunters had become most real.

If the buffalo disappeared—the Comanche would be next.

At Elk Creek the bands had gathered the poles and branches for the great sun-dance arbor. At the center they raised a tall, forked ridgepole, and ringing the outer circle stood the twelve shorter poles, each one connected to the center with long streamers decorated with scalps of their enemies and scraps of fluttering calico and trade cloth. A newly killed buffalo calf, its body cavity emptied, then stuffed with willow branches, was raised to the top of the huge center pole. There it would gaze down upon the dancers, granting them its buffalo magic.

Masked clowns smeared with mud cavorted and swirled among the gathered villages, throwing mud balls at the unsuspecting and lending a carnival atmosphere to this important undertaking. These were the Comanche “Mud Men,” the sekwitsit puhitsit, a comical diversion to an otherwise deadly serious occasion: invoking the power of the supernatural to bring about the salvation of a dying way of life.