​The Indian Rider

Sometimes the rains come in April, filling the millions of crevices that the earth had opened, dying of thirst. Then thousands of seeds buried beneath the surface, burst to life, flooding the air with their sweet fragrances.

Yet, always on the first day of May, as if nature had its own May Day. And all the hunters sharpen their claws against the tough barks of the thirsty tree trunks. The endless pounding of hoofs shakes the land as the herds return home. In a large parade of buffalos, deers, wild goats, and huge elephants.

August, this is August and the open, dry terrain is filled with living skeletons, driven by thirst. The wells have run dry, and the town’s leadership has been forced to deliver water to the citizens. The town would die if the rains stayed away.

He was just sitting there, on a huge grey stallion, without a saddle. He wore a crisp tilted cowboy hat, and a plaid long-sleeve shirt tucked neatly into his blue jeans. He wore tall boots, that seemed to be made of leather but could be of any buffalo or cowhide.

He rode up to our house, passing the bare field, the small grain shed, and sat once more without calling out. He had come here before, but on another footing. He was bareback riding on a stolen pony, escaping from a politically driven bounty hunter, who wanted to eliminate all resistant Indians.

The revolt of the Indians had taken the small city by surprise, but the chief had refused permits for gold mining, near the Belvian Indian shelter. Kamu had ridden into our farm looking for a shortcut to the shelter. My Dad hid him for more than a week.

We got to know each other then. He was a young lad, trying to stay alive, and I, just a little girl, intrigued by his tales. He would talk endlessly about his hunting expeditions for buffalos or reindeer. He counted the eons of time that he came in close contact with lions, cheetahs, and crocodiles.

After a week the revolt came to an abrupt end, with a new treaty between our leaders and the Shelter. There would be no more mining projects in that territory. Kamu left us then, promising to return when we most needed him.
Here he was now, strutting slowly up to our door. Dad came out and they exchanged salutes. They chatted for a while, then he lowered from the horse and went inside with Dad.

‘Where is Bridget? Is she still as beautiful and charming as she was back then?’ Dad gave him a pat on the back.

‘See for yourself. Kamu’, He called out to me from below. There was a note of eagerness in his voice. I floated down the stairs. Kamu bowed and I tilted my head as was his custom. He was more handsome now. A scar remained over his left eyebrow, and I wondered which of those selfish and envious townsmen was guilty.