After a time, when his patience wore thin, Logan left his car and walked with soft steps to the first car blocked. Standing on the berm, well away from a wild animal that might whirl and gore him in an instant, he spoke in quiet, singsong Shoshone to the lead bison. It was what his great-grandfather would have done.
In the odd, five-note range of his chant, he shared tales of how important its ancestors had been to the Native peoples. How it had provided warmth, clothing, and shelter with its hides, food, and horn from which Logan’s own ceremonial knife had been carved. It was why he’d been given the name Buffalo Knife in his secret naming ceremony.
I honor the mighty buffalo, but it is time to leave the road that wears down your hooves with its hardness. Graze on the sweet grasses below instead and slake your thirst with fresh, cold waters from the flowing river.