I’m here.
And I ain’t the only one here, neither. The road’s crowded with folks. Osage. A lot of dark hair and eyes, wide noses. The men are big and built like tanks in blue jeans, cowboy shirts all tucked in. The women, well, they’re built just like the men, only in dresses. The people travel in beat-up, dusty station wagons and old vans. Some folks are on horses. A tribal policeman rides along on a camouflaged four-wheeler. Looks to me like these people all packed up for a big ol’ camping trip that might not end. And that’s wise. Because I have a feeling it won’t.
It’s instinctual, I think. When you get the tar knocked out of you, you beat a trail back home soon as you can. Lick your wounds and regroup. This place is the heart of our people. The elders live here year-round, tending to mostly empty houses. But every June, Gray Horse is home to I’n-Lon-Schka, the big dance. And that’s when every Osage who ain’t crippled, and quite a few who are, haul themselves back home. This annual migration is a routine that seeps into your bones, from birth to death. The path becomes familiar to your soul.
There are other Osage cities, of course, but Gray Horse is special. When the tribe arrived in Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears, they fulfilled a prophecy been with us for ages: that we’d move to a new land of great wealth. And what with the oil flowing underneath our land, and a nonnegotiable deed to the full mineral rights, that prophecy was right as rain.
This has been native country a long time. Our people tamed wild dogs on these plains. In that misty time before history, dark-haired, dark-eyed folks just like the ones on this road were out here building mounds to rival the Egyptian pyramids. We took care of this land, and after a lot of heartache and tears, she paid us back in spades.
Is it our fault that all this tends to make the Osage tribe a little snooty?
Gray Horse sits on top of a little hill, bounded by steep ravines carved there by Gray Horse Creek. The county road gets you close, but you got to hike a trail to get to the town proper. A wind farm on the plains to the west spits out electricity for our people, with the extra juice going up for sale. Altogether, it ain’t much to look at. Just a buzz cut on a hill, chosen a long time ago to be the place where the Osage dance their most sacred dance. The place is like a platter lifted up to the gods, so they can watch over our ceremonies and make sure we’re doing them right.
They say we been holding the I’n-Lon-Schka here for over a hundred years, to usher in the new growth of spring. But I got my suspicions.
Them elders who picked out Gray Horse were hard men, veterans of genocide. These men were survivors. They watched the blood of their tribe spill onto the earth and saw their people decimated. Did it just so happen that Gray Horse is in an elevated location with a good field of fire, access to fresh water, and limited approaches? I can’t rightly say. But it’s a dandy of a spot, nestled on a sweet little hill smack-dab in the middle of nowheres.
The clincher is that, at its heart, I’n-Lon-Schka ain’t a dance of renewal. I know because the dance always starts with the eldest males of each family. We get followed by the women and kids, sure, but it’s us fellas who kick off the dance. Truth be told, they’s only one reason to honor the eldest son of a family—we’re the warriors of the tribe.
I’n-Lon-Schka is a war dance. Always has been.
The sun is falling fast as I make my way up the steep trail that leads to the town proper. I hike past families lugging their tents and gear and kids. At the plateau, I see the flicker of a bonfire tickling the dusky sky.
The fire pit is in the middle of a rectangular clearing, four sides ringed with benches made of split logs. Embers leap and mingle with the fresh prickles of stars. It’s going to be a cold, clear night. The people, hundreds of ’em, huddle together in little clumps. They’re hurt and afraid and hopeful.
As soon as I get there, I hear a hoarse, frightened holler from near the fire.
Hank Cotton’s got a young fella, twenty if he’s a day, by the scruff of his neck and he’s shaking him like a rag doll. “Git!” he shouts. Hank is over six foot tall easy, and husky as a black bear. As an ex–football player, and a good one, people out here put more stock in Hank than they would in Will Rogers himself, if he popped out of the grave with a lasso in his hand and a twinkle in his eye.
The kid just hangs there limp, like a kitten in its momma’s mouth. The people surrounding Hank are quiet, afraid to speak up. I can tell this is something I’m going to have to deal with. Keeper of the peace and all.
“What’s going on, Hank?” I ask.
Hank looks down his nose at me, then lets go of the kid.
“He’s a damn Cherokee, Lonnie, and he don’t belong.”
Hank gives the kid a light shove that nearly sends him sprawling. “Why don’t you go back to your own tribe, boy?”
The kid pats down his ripped shirt. He’s tall and lanky and wears his hair long, nigh on the opposite to the barrel-shaped Osage men who loom around him.
“Settle down now, Hank,” I say. “We’re in the middle of an emergency. You know damn well this kid ain’t gonna make it out of here on his own.”
The kid speaks up. “My girlfriend is Osage,” he says.
“Your girlfriend is dead,” spits Hank, voice cracking. “Even if she wasn’t, we ain’t the same people.”
Hank turns to me, huge in the firelight. “And you’re right, Lonnie Wayne, this is an emergency. That’s why we need to stick with our people. We cain’t start letting outsiders in here or we might not survive.”
He kicks the dirt and the kid flinches. “Git, wets’a!”
After a deep breath, I step between Hank and the kid. As expected, Hank don’t appreciate the intrusion. He pokes a big ol’ finger into my chest. “You don’t wanna do that, Lonnie. I’m serious now.”
Before this ends badly, the drumkeeper speaks. John Tenkiller is a rail-thin little fella with dark, wrinkled skin and clear blue eyes. Been around forever, but some kind of magic keeps Tenkiller spry as a willow branch.
“Enough,” says John Tenkiller. “Hank. You and Lonnie Wayne are eldest sons and you have my respect. But them headrights of yours don’t give you free license.”
“John,” says Hank, “you ain’t seen what’s happened down there in town. It’s a massacre. The world’s coming apart at the seams. Our tribe is in danger. And if you ain’t in the tribe, you’re a threat to it. We’ve got to do whatever it takes to survive.”
John lets Hank finish, then he looks at me.
“With all respect, John, this ain’t about one tribe ’gainst another. It ain’t even about white, brown, black, or yellow. There sure as shit is a threat, but it don’t come from other people. It comes from outside.”
“Demons,” murmurs the elder.
A little stir goes through the crowd on that.
“Machines,” I say. “Don’t go talking monsters and demons on me, John. They’s just a bunch of silly old machines and we can kill ’em. But the robots ain’t playing favorites among the races of man. They’re comin’ for all of us. Human beings. We’re all together in this.”
Hank can’t contain himself. “We never let any outsider into this drum circle. It’s a closed circle,” he says.
“This is true,” says John. “Gray Horse is sacred.”
The kid chooses a bad moment to freak out. “C’mon, man! I cain’t go back down there. It’s a fuckin’ death trap. Everybody down there is fuckin’ dead. My name is Lark Iron Cloud. You hear? I’m as Indian as anybody. And y’all wanna kill me just cuz I ain’t Osage?”