Apache Chief-Honoring A Warrior: Named Mike

Chief Charging Bull abruptly found himself floating above his own motionless body, sprawled across a brown buffalo rug. Was he asleep? Dead? "No!" he shouted, willing himself back into his flesh—but nothing happened. Panic overtook him, spreading like wildfire across the dry prairie, a thundering stampede with no hope of escape.

Instinctively, he tried to shield his hawkish, wrinkled face and drop to his knees, hiding from phantom beasts thundering through his mind. But his hands passed through empty air. His body below remained perfectly still—entirely beyond his control. The day had been long, filled with tense planning and council debates for the battle at sunrise—a struggle destined to decide the fate of the Apache Nation.

Battle-hardened U.S. Cavalry soldiers held the low ground, but Apache warriors controlled the heights. The War Council’s plan was set against the blue-coated invaders. Victory finally seemed within reach.

His spirit caught sight of something approaching through the air. Was it an eagle, a hawk, or a buzzard circling for prey? Could it be the sky god himself, descending to carry him to the spirit world? "Not before the battle starts," he pleaded silently. If death must come, let it be in battle—not like this, not now.

The object hurtled closer. The chief struggled desperately to move, but his body remained frozen. In moments, it hovered before him—not a creature or bird, but a peculiar-looking man clad in the strangest clothing the chief had ever seen. Shock and bewilderment crossed the chief’s face.

The chief demanded, "Do I know you?" He stared into the man's dark eyes, waiting for a reply that never came. Suddenly, the stranger turned to stone before him. "Speak! I am chief," he thundered, his voice rebounding off the hide walls of his tepee. Silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring, thick with menace. "You dishonor me—I’ll take your tongue before your life!"

The man reached for the chief; their skin touched. Terror widened the chief’s eyes. When the stranger’s cold hands grasped his callused palms, the chief let out a guttural moan that echoed like a wounded deer. He writhed in the stranger’s grip, desperate and helpless. Unexpectedly, the stranger and him merged together in one spirit and soul.

Below, the chief’s muscular form heaved—sinews taut, joints groaning—like his body was in agony. Then a different sensation surged through him: raw, primal anger. An inner fire raged through his soul like molten lava, as if some ancient, malevolent force had been unleashed from the sulfurous depths where the wicked dead dwell in torment.

Chief Charging Bull watched the cavalry below. At dawn, the attack would begin. He would split his braves into four groups: left, right, center, and reserve. The left would charge with war cries, the right would flank in silence, the center would strike the heart, and the reserve would strike where needed.

The Chief sat tall and deliberate on his unsaddled horse. His war bonnet—brilliant with feathers and intricate beadwork—seemed to reach for the sky. War paint covered his face in bold, dark lines that swallowed the morning light.

His mind drifted to last night—the stranger’s warning of defeat in the chaos of battle. I will die gloriously! The stranger pointed to a map that was unusual. "That’s how far the white man will spread," he said. "Your descendants will live on barren, rocky, and unforgiving land. Most will hunger and eventually die. Firewater will become their god."

Chief wondered: Who was that stranger? Was it a warning of disaster to come? No, it must have been a dream—a riddle, or perhaps a vision. But if it was true, what should he do? It felt like a warrior’s test—a glimpse of the future, a challenge of leadership.

He kept silent about the meeting. One word could cost him his place as Chief; his people hungered for battle! Not even his woman, the mother of his sons, was told. War plans belonged to men, and the council decided the tribe’s fate. Yet in the small hours, he could not shake the unease. Only his woman might understand the heavy burden of doubt he bore in silence—the fear that lingered in shadows despite his unflinching facade. Sharing even a fragment of that fear felt like a risk, but the longing for her understanding flickered like a distant campfire offering warmth against the cold night.

But this was different, wasn’t it? This wasn’t about sharing war plans with his woman—this was about a vision that might or might not be true. A dream that haunted him, whispering doubts about what to say to her, or whether to speak at all. If I say nothing, will I regret it later? I—

The drums fell silent. The Chief slammed his war spear into the ground. Chaos erupted—hooves thundered, warriors surged forward. The thunder god guns, striking his front line hard. One fourth fell, wounded and horseless. Cannons kept firing. His warriors, bloodied but undeterred, pressed on with fierce determination, the ground shaking with every hoofbeat.

Arrows flew true; bullets struck his braves. Someone lied to him; the soldiers had more fire-breathing wheeled guns than he was told. The chief knew the battle was lost; tears began streaming down his face. He thrust his hand skyward and brought it down sharply. "Charge!" He roared above the chaos. His men surged toward the cavalry. Charging Bull never felt the rifle bullet that struck him square in the forehead, sending him backward yet still astride his horse. His back pressed against the stallion trained for war—then the horse bucked, flipping the chief to the cold, hard earth.

As his slow and unwanted trip out of his body began, he looked down and saw his dying body squirming and kicking like the night before. His head... his...oh my god, my head is a jumbled mush resembling a ruptured pumpkin. I killed them all—just as surely as if I had fired the bullets! Continuing higher, his spirit stopped suddenly—what is that? It’s, it can’t be...but it was the strange man again.

The stranger called out to the Chief, his voice echoing through the void: "Do not fear. What happened was always meant to be. I am you, Chief Charging Bull—your spirit, one hundred and fifty years from now. We are the same, bound together across time. We will meet again, for we are one soul, eternal and unbroken."

As his ascent continued, the Chief heard a haunting, strangely familiar melody—an anthem of future warriors, The Green Berets: "Fighting soldiers from the sky—fearless men who jump and die!"