A Real Name

Jim Razzi

The Great Plains, Early 1800s:

Dreamer kicked his pinto into a trot and followed the hunters chasing the buffalo herd in the distance. He sniffed the wind that bore the scent of wild roses and crab apple and looked at the bright circle in the clear blue sky. Its warmth and the feel of his strong pony excited his senses. He smiled at the sprawling prairie before him.

Dreamer, not yet 20, was strong and lean as a young wolf. His first time as a full-fledged Sioux hunter, he wore only breech-cloth and moccasins, and carried his bow in hand and his buckskin quiver at his shoulder. All in all he couldn't be happier that morning if it wasn’t for his name. He was called Dreamer because his mother had claimed that she had dreamed that she would have a boy. Members of the tribe were given nicknames at birth but did not get a real name until something extraordinary happened to them. Dreamer hated his nickname and longed for a real name with all his heart.

His thoughts were interrupted when Red Feather, his “kola” or best friend, came riding alongside. Red Feather was only five winters older but already respected in the tribe as a good hunter and provider for the people. Dreamer felt honored to be his kola.

“Your buffalo pony looks sleek and fast,” Red Feather shouted. “You have trained it well.”

As if in agreement, the wiry pinto shook its head and worried its jaw rope. Dreamer loosened the reins that slipped through its dark mane and gave the animal its head. Quick and alert, buffalo ponies were trained to swerve away the second they heard a bowstring twang. A wounded buffalo was dangerous, and a horse had to be nimble to avoid the beast’s slashing horns. Dreamer and Red Feather watched the lead hunters greet the grazing herd. Now close enough to attack, the hunters urged their ponies with small, sharp kicks riding at an angle to the herd. Dreamer knew they were going to make a surround.

The hunters had approached from down -wind, but already an old bull, alerted by a yipping wolf pack nearby, sniffed the wind and flicked its tail in alarm. In moments the whole herd moved away. Sluggish at first, they loped faster and faster as each beast took up the terror of its neighbor. The earth seemed to shake as the panicked buffalo thundered across the prairie, bellowing in fear. With need for caution gone, the warriors yipped and whopped, kicking their ponies into a mouth-frothing gallop. “We must go now,” cried Red Feather.

As they rode, Dreamer prayed the hunt would be good. It was late In the Moon of Calves Growing Hair. The bright circle in the sky was still hot, but winter was near. Without a good kill, the hunters would have to work the snowy months looking for moose yards where moose, elk and deer packed together trampling snow to make it firm. Indian snowshoes would replace the horses. Chances of a winter kill were slim. Moose yards were rare and Buffalos scattered here and there - their snow-matted bodies hard to see against the whiteness everywhere.

The hunt could provide fur robes to cover the lodge floor. Furs warded off the sting of blizzards whipping across the prairie and cutting into the villages, chilling both body and soul. For Dreamer’s people to survive as the earth slept under its soft robe of white, the hunters had to have a good harvest now. With all this mind, he headed for the buffalo.

The hunters had now caught the herd, and their whoops and yells came back to him, high and thin on the wind. Forcing the lead buffalo inward, the herd spiraled in on itself and the circle became tighter and tighter until the buffalo went round and round in a wild stampede. The surround complete, the air filled with the noise of the hunt - the twang of bows, the hiss of arrows, the whoops of hunters, the bellowing of buffalo.

Above it all came the thunder of hooved animals, ponies and buffalo pounding the earth, caught up in a life-and-death struggle of the hunter and the hunted as a dust cloud made it hard to see which was which.

Dreamer was last to reach the herd and through the dust, he spied a fat cow. He reached for an arrow just as his pony stumbled in a hole, pitching him forward against its neck. He clung to the pony’s mane as they plunged into the path of stampeding buffalo. The pony whinnied in fear desperately looking for a way out but there was none. He and his pony became drawn deep into the heart of the seething mass of buffalo; some bulls so huge he couldn’t see over their humped shoulders as they thundered past.

He again reached for his quiver, but he found he had only one arrow left, since the rest had fallen out when he had lurched forward. He gripped it between his teeth, and tried to pick out a likely target. Suddenly there appeared one that Dreamer had only heard of: a white buffalo! His heart thudded in his chest almost in time with his pony’s hoofbeats. Even in this terrifying danger he felt a sense of wonder at the sheer beauty of the huge beast. He remembered campfire stories the elders told about the beautiful White Cow Maiden who changed herself into a buffalo to bring good luck to the people.

Was this buffalo the enchanted maiden? He smiled at his little fantasy but nonetheless the beast was a good omen. The hunters would surely now have a good hunt. He whipped his pony closer. What a magnificent beast the white buffalo was! Its robe would be wondered over, painted, then given back to the earth as was good with such sacred things.

But his mind raced as rapidly as his pony. Should he bring it down? What a Coup if he did! He neared striking range when the white buffalo broke away to pound out of the circling herd and run alone. Dreamer urged his pinto through the opening the buffalo had created.

He had made his decision and he soon gained on the giant beast. The three of them raced across the grassy plains, leaving the herd and hunters behind. Little by little Dreamer came closer. He marveled at the sheer power of the thundering beast. For all its bulk, it had a smooth rhythmic beauty to its stride.

Now the distance was no more than the length of his pony. He whipped the pinto on faster. Blood sang in his head and he knew he couldn’t miss at this range. He handled the bow, his legs gripping his pony’s flanks, and aimed just behind the creature’s ribs. Now! he pulled the bowstring and released it - there, I have you! But the albino thundered off, unharmed.

He shook his bow at the fleeing white beast and grinned, his last arrow still clenched between his teeth. He’d had no intention of using it. The chase had been just a contest between the hunter and the hunted.

Just then, Red Feather galloped up to him.

“ I saw what you did, Dreamer. ” he cried out. “You have proven you are a skilled hunter; but it was good you let the white one live. It will bring good fortune to our people. And I will sing your praises at the campfire tonight, to tell everyone you deserve an honorable new name – White Buffalo!”

Dreamer felt a tingle go down his spine and he sat straighter on his pony. “White Buffalo,” he repeated. It was a good name for a hunter. Whooping loudly, he and Red Feather turned their horses to join the others.

He didn’t get a buffalo that day, Dreamer thought; but now he will have something better – a real name!

He lifted his face to the bright white circle in the sky and yelled “Yihoo!” as the wind caught his hair and streamed it behind him like a tattered black banner.

END