Chapter 13

Horses knew nothing about farming and showed the same reluctance most of his kinsmen held for scratching in the dirt, so I put him in charge of caretaking the riding and trace stock, including Yellow Thunder, the palomino gelding I’d ridden home from Pine Ridge, and Wind Rider, the flea-bitten gray that had been Matthew’s horse. Bird had rescued the animal at Wounded Knee and ridden him ever since. When either Bird or I came in from the range, Horses immediately took care of rubbing down and feeding our animals.

I learned little more about this strange young man except to become convinced he shot the white officer in the forlorn hope it would raise his standing with his kinsmen. Instead, the clumsy way he committed the act left him as estranged as before. I wondered what the future held for Plenty Horses and considered asking him to remain with us on the farm. That thought evaporated the day my brother-in-law rode in for a visit to his family.