From the Improvement Era, August 1969 –

Put a Star on Shadow Mountain

By Carol Clark Ottesen

“It was him, Stanley!”

Two Indian boys, 12 and 15 years old, crouched in a patch of scrub oak and yellow chamiso, their eyes squinting against the setting sun of the Painted Desert. They scanned the horizon for a flash of reddish-brown and white and listened like transfixed animals for a telltale whinny.

“He came from the canyon. I know it was him,” repeated Reynolds in a coarse whisper.

The younger boy closed his eyes against the glare and thought about his horse. He had been thrilled when Uncle Fitz found that mustang, trained it, and gave it to him to help herd the sheep. Last fall when Father had gone away on his construction job and he and Stanley had gone to foster homes in Los Angeles to go to school, they had had to let the horse go. Nobody was left to ride him. Then, too, it was hard enough to get food for the family through the winter, let alone to feed a horse. So they had taken off the stallion’s rope bridle and watched him streak away toward Shadow Mountain. A horse can get pretty wild in a year.

Reynolds sighed and moved from his haunches to a cross-legged position in front of a tree. “He’s gone again. I can’t see or hear anything.”

“Let’s just leave him, Reynolds. We go back to California next week anyway.”

There was a pause and then a stolid announcement. “I’m not going back!”

“Not going back! How come? The Stacey’s— I mean, I thought you liked them. You had everything you wanted—”

“I know. But— well, there’s so many rules with them. Here I am one of the Dineh. I can ride my horse for miles with the wind in my face and my knife at my side! No haircut, no bath, no bed to make, no hard lessons to do!”

“But you have to go to school.”

“I’ll go,” Reynolds conceded. “I’ll go to Tuba City Boarding School and come weekends to my horse.”

“Well, I’m going back,” confirmed Stanley as he stood up, following a jackrabbit in the sight of his .22 rifle. “Have to, if I’m going to be a doctor sometime like Chee Begay.”

“Who needs the white man’s language and school when I can shoot that rabbit 50 yards away?” Reynolds spit into the dust and ended the conversation.

The boys just sat. Stanley rested while Reynolds twirled a stick in the dust, remembering how it was when he went to Los Angeles last fall on the big silver bus. . . .

First of all, he sure did Stanley a favor by smashing his glasses before they arrived so Stan wouldn’t be embarrassed to meet his new parents. He just wished he’d done away with his straw hat too, because when they arrived at the big gym at the church nobody was wearing such a thing.

The church hall was big and busy, with lots of lines to stand in, a dozen (he was sure) shots in the arm, swarms of strange faces trying to be friendly, new food that tasted too sweet, a chorus of noisy cars with anxious foster parents in them coming to pick up their children— all clanging together like a million crickets.

Just don’t kiss me, he thought, as he waited in the big room for his name to be called.

“Reynolds Napa,” called the caseworker in a voice that electrified him.

He walked slowly to the small room to meet his foster family, forgetting even to say good-bye to Stanley. He hesitated at the door until the caseworker motioned him in before a mother, father, two brothers, and three sisters. He looked quickly away from their gaze, wishing he were a groundhog and could drop suddenly into a hole. The mother put out her arms, but he said, with his best frown, “Indians don’t kiss.” Her hand was soft as she shook his, and then she smiled, smelling like something sweet that made him want to sneeze. The father’s arm felt warm on his shoulder as he took him to a long green car and drove to a house bigger than some of the big houses in Flagstaff.

Reynolds’ head swam with all the strangeness, but right off he found out about the rules and limits. There was a bike to ride, but you had to be careful of cars. You could run a block, but you had to stop when the light was red. Haircuts were every other Wednesday—music lessons on Tuesday— Scouts on Thursday —church on Sunday. And the air always smelled of gasoline! He had longed for a whiff of sage and the sharpness of the fall air on the desert, even if he did have a brand new Scout uniform!

School was also hard. Everybody knew more than he did. The teacher talked fast and used words he didn’t understand. He thought all the time of how smart he had been in boarding school and how dumb he was in California.

Yet— he would miss Eric. Eric was vice-president of the students, and everybody liked him, but Reynolds smiled when he thought how he could wrestle his white brother to the floor of their bedroom. Eric had put a big gold star on the map of Arizona, right on Shadow Mountain, and every time Reynolds looked at it his mind drew a picture of home. Home. He thought of the special work of the Navajo for their homeland and said to himself, “Dinetkak—here is where I belong!”

Reynolds ended his reveries as he rose abruptly and started in the direction of Shadow Mountain. “I’m not going to California, Stan. I want to be free— really free— to run until my chest hurts and tell time by the sun!” He broke into a run. “I’m going after my horse.”

Stanley followed, partly to humor his younger brother and because he, too, was exhilarated by the thought of a chase and capture. Resides, Reynolds couldn’t get the stallion alone.

They hiked until dark to the foot of the huge black mountain and sat to rest near a clump of yucca. The white cactus flowers rose like tall candles from their green candlesticks, lighted by a huge unobstructed moon.

“Fire the gun, Stan, and see if that does any good.”

The older boy stood and fired one shot into the air nonchalantly.

Then, suddenly, the brushes crackled, and from the dark shelter of a grove of pinion pine darted a brown and white mustang into a floodlight of moon on the open desert.

“It is my horse!”

With the spirit of his heterogeneous breeding, the small horse pounded past the boys, who were no less startled than the stallion. They sprang from the bush and ran like lizards over stone and brush after the horse. Stanley, with ready lariat, whirled the rope above his head and let it fly. It fell neatly around the horse’s neck, tightened, and brought the animal to an abrupt halt. His forefeet climbed into the air, his white mane billowed like flames on his neck, and a frightful whinny sounded against the distant canyon wall.

The horse’s captor, who was jerked to the earth, rolled and turned in the dust with the coarse rope grinding its way into his hands.

“Mount him, Reynolds, mount him!” Stanley spit dust as he called to his brother.

The younger boy stealthily approached the raging horse, speaking gently to him in Navajo. The horse calmed and eyed him warily, shying only as the small brown hand touched his flanks. The boy grabbed the rope, and with a quick leap he slipped onto the animal’s back. No sooner had his legs dangled than the horse threw back his head and reared up again. Reynolds grabbed the mane and hugged his body low, hanging on fiercely. Stanley, who had stood up, brushing off dust and burrs, pulled the rope toward the trees to secure the horse. With the feel of a taut rope, the mustang leaped forward and bucked, sending Stanley to the ground on his face and pulling the rope from his raw hands.

Now it was Reynolds alone as the horse galloped across the open land to the trees, pounding the turf as he reared to free himself of his small burden. But the slight boy clung tenaciously to the mane, sometimes nearly slipping off, but righting himself between bucks. The horse’s nostrils flared as he rose again with forefeet flailing, and the small brown boy slipped from the perspiration-soaked back of the horse and thudded to the rocky ground. He was stunned but still held the rope, and the horse stopped dead as the noose tightened around his neck. He strained as Reynolds jumped up quickly and tied him securely to the tree. Then the boy walked to the horse and laid his head against the slick white of the animal’s neck. Breathing hard, they silently communicated a mutual concession.

Stanley came running and waving, calling Reynolds by name. He withheld his awe and admiration with Indian (and brotherly) aplomb. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Reynolds, as he turned and fell unconscious to the ground.

The older boy looked down into his brother’s broad Navajo face and pressed his ear to his chest. Reynolds had only fainted, but a nasty cut had opened up on his head. Stanley parted the thick blackness of his brother’s hair and wiped the wound with his shirt-tail. “Not too bad, but he will need care.”

The horse paced, lifting and rearing to free himself of the rope.

“Stay here, szhlee; you have met your match.”

He carried his brother about a half hour before they reached the hogan they called home. The small conical dwelling, made primarily of adobe held together with brush and small logs, looked like an overturned dish with a small door and fire hole in the center. A small woman, dressed in the brightly colored velvet blouse and heavily gathered skirt of the Navajo woman, stood at the door and silently motioned them inside.

As she cleaned the wound with salt water and juniper berry juice, the boys told of their adventure, first one and then the other, speaking in animated tones and gestures. Reynolds lay awake after everyone had gone to sleep, listening to the soft breathing of his family and dreaming of tomorrow and the horse.

The next day, just as the sun first hit the red rock of the canyon, Reynolds was up, dressed, and on his way, sending several prairie dogs scurrying down their holes in his haste. He ran awhile and rested, ran and rested, until at last he reached the pine where he had tied up the horse the night before. Breathing hard, with perspiration soaking his headband, he looked unbelievingly at a four-foot long frayed rope and a patch of trampled weeds around the tree. Gone again! Hot tears stung his cheeks as he looked in every direction for the vagrant horse. Nowhere! Gone, as if last night had been only a dream! Gone, to roam the prairie with the coyote, fox, and other wild horses in the bitter struggle for survival in a desolate land! Why didn’t he want to stay? Why?

Reynolds took the long way home, still looking for the mustang, running up every rise for a better view and listening with an ear tuned to nature. Nowhere! The boy pictured him in a green canyon somewhere with other wild horses and half of a coarse yucca rope around his neck. He couldn’t blame the horse, really.

Nobody at home asked him what happened. They knew. But he thought about the horse all the way through a plate of fried potatoes and mutton pieces.

That night, the brothers lay awake on the floor of the hogan. The mother and two small sisters slept on a mattress on the other side of a small fire pit in the middle of the round shelter.

“Reynolds—”

“What?”

“Will you look for the horse next week after I go to California?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think? I’m going back to California with you.”

“How come?”

“Wild horses aren’t much good to anybody,” Reynolds said stoically, bringing up his knee and kicking Stanley off the rug.

Laughing and rolling over, Stanley called out his brother’s Indian name. “Nas’cha Yez’zi (Little Owl)!”

Their mother turned in her sleep, and the boys froze on their rugs as if they were woven in the fabric.