We Hear Chants

Chayton, the falcon, Tyler’s arch-nemesis careered toward him with his spear pointed at Tyler’s heart, hungry for revenge. His lips were twisted into a sneer. Panic rising inside him, Tyler squared his shoulders and turned to face Chayton. The small, blunt knife in his hand was unlikely to cause much damage, but he would go down fighting. Prepared to embrace death, Tyler steeled himself as Chayton approached. Wincing with pain, he grabbed the club in his uninjured hand and swung it with full force, cutting a neat arc. The blunt end of the weapon smashed the side of horse. Chayton was flung off his horse as it fell to the ground. Propping himself up on his elbows, Chayton gawked at his horse’s limp body lying on the ground, its neck twisted at an awkward angle. The cacophony of sounds surrounding Tyler tapered to a low murmur before dying down completely as the Oglala ceased fighting and gaped at their fallen leader. Glancing around, Tyler saw Wambleeska and Ian staring at him with bewildered looks on their faces. Slowly, a ripple of terror spread through the tribesmen. Those on foot quickly mounted their horses, turned them around, and began galloping back toward their village. Chayton rose to his feet and hollered at them to stop, but his commands and insults went unnoticed as the Oglala scampered away from Tyler and the others. His admonitions falling on deaf ears, Chayton turned around and glared at Tyler. “This isn’t over,” he said through gritted teeth. He swung his arm, seizing a horse rider cantering by and yanking him off his mount. Straddling the horse, he cast one last look of pure loathing at Tyler before whipping the reins and riding away. The man Chayton had dismounted bolted behind him, looking terrified. Wambleeska and Ian limped toward Tyler, awestruck. Wambleeska raised his hand, planting his palm against something solid and invisible, and gave Tyler a look of disbelief. “How did you do that?” asked Ian. “I have no clue,” Tyler croaked. His throat was parched, and he had become acutely aware of the throbbing pain in his arm. Gripping his injured arm, Tyler closed his eyes. Tyler stared at the leather bracelet on his wrist. Blood trickled down his arm in rivulets, staining the leather band. He fumbled to take it off, his fingers slippery from the blood. Michelle and John emerged from behind the trees, their mouths hanging open. Ian, Kenneth, and Wambleeska rushed toward Tyler as he winced in pain. Wambleeska took a small bag tied to his belt, pulled the drawstrings at its mouth, and poured water onto Tyler’s wound. “I need something to use as a bandage,” he said, prompting Ian to take off his overshirt and hand it to him. Wambleeska tore it into strips that he used to wrap around the cut on Tyler’s arm, and Michelle sank to her knees beside him as Wambleeska tended to his wounds. She tenderly stroked Tyler’s cheek, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I heard a scream,” Tyler mumbled. “It was nothing,” she said. “One of the tribesmen found us hiding behind the trees, but John took care of that.”