Valley Of The Warrior's

story of a old indian crossing the dessert

The day is void of wind or cloud, its heat a vicious attack on the senses. Two vultures circle high above the canyon. The terra cotta vista is nothing more than baked red-clay. A saguaro cactus gives the landscape a splash of color. It is a strange sight to see a lone bobcat perched so tentatively on the saguaro’s crown waiting for a chick to peek out from the safety of its hovel. Meanwhile, two black scorpions battle in the shadows of a rock.
 
There is no moisture in the air or water in the cantina. Even the old rider is void of sweat as his skin of leather cures beneath the day. The dessert underneath his feet radiates a burning heat felt through the souls of his moccasins. His mind is filled with a gliding haze that is visible upon the ground below and clouds his vision.
 
Hell dances upon the desert floor, in hopes to drink in the old man’s soul, a moist refreshing morsel. Cloud-Dancer, his old gray Mustang, is spent, but love bids him to take another step. He is decorated for this journey with feathers, and beads worked into his mane.

The two are going to the valley of the warriors. A sacred place where the great chiefs go to give up the ghost. The chief’s head-dress tells many stories. Each feather of flight is a battle won, and each feather of down is a member of his tribe.
 
  A low rumble is felt; as it grows more pronounced, he can hear this eerie disturbance. He knows it is not a hallucination because his old horse lifts his head to look. The wind holds its silence as a great wall of dust follows this mighty rumbling. Clouds of death leave his mind, as old instincts kick into play. His Henry-Repeater is quickly in hand. In the days of war and wrath, he liberated the repeater from a blue-coat, but today, his only concern is to reach the valley without complication.
 
 There are no visible signs of life in the desert except a few silent predators that lay-in-wait for a meal, so any and every sound is magnified. The rumbling is like the gates of Hell opening up to greet him, and in truth, maybe it is, for the canyon carries the sound of four hoofs charging furiously.
 
  With his last bit of energy, he slides off Cloud-Dancer lifts up his front hoof until the horse submits to lay upon the burning earth. The Choctaw Chief, who has seen eighty and one summers fades into the rocks. His heart tells him that death rides to steal him from the valley of the warriors’.
 
 Just moments before, two vultures were high in the sky riding a thermal, but now the sky holds two dozen or more. A foul smell of sulfur pierces his nostrils, and the rider’s pace hastens. The timeworn Mustang breaks in a panic and runs; the old chief is certain death is rushing upon him.
 
 He blinks his eyes in hopes of clearing his vision. His hand is steady though his patience is thin. A blue roan crowns the horizon with four black stockings and face; his eyes are pitch dark, his teeth protrude through his heavy breath, and he is the face of hell. The beast is bones in motion, and the rider is a sight to behold. Topped off in a light-brown Stetson that is stained in tones of the grave, a mighty figure sets top of Hades his steed. His shirt is ripped and tattered, just as is his trousers. His appearance is more of bone than flesh. The old chief lays down his rifle, for you cannot battle death with tools forged by man.
 
 He begins climbing face-of-rock in hopes he can make it to the valley just on the other side. He glances over his shoulder to see a herd of wild horses running alongside Death and Hades. Their steps are silent, but in their mist is a whirling wind. The grey man is halfway up the rock formation when he sees the herd of racing beast catch up to his old Mustang. The wall of dust conceals Cloud-Dancer from view, and when the shadowy mob passes, only his bones remain, and one more horse appears on the horizon running with Death and beating feet to his side.
 

 He is weak from the day and from many moons of battle. Truth has been made clear as he sits on the crevice of the mesa. He kneels on his perch, and on the stone that frowns, he watches. Knowing he cannot cheat death of victory, he sits and sings his death-song. 

 The day is yielding up the sun; colors of battle bleed across the sky and with it, so he will yield up the ghost and with an endless calling. He will chase the hoofs of Hell from the moon to the setting of the sun.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

This is such an extraordinary and superbly written story! The language seems absolutely true to its theme and some of your sentences are so clear, so real, ' The grey man is halfway up the rock formation when he sees the herd of racing beast catch up to his old Mustang. The wall of dust conceals Cloud-Dancer from view and when the shadowy mob passes only his bones remain, and one more horse appears on the horizon running with Death and beating feet to his side. ;

If there's more to this tale, then i'll be back to read and read .. the words contain lessons and that's how writing can be, if the creator decides .

[NotUsinganymore]

I really love the detail of this. I enjoyed it the images were vivid.

[roarke]

Nice prose Cherrie. I got thirsty reading this. The Native American culture is rich with mythos and spirit, and this is a sincere homage.

[Cherrie Palmer]

Thank you, i need to polish it up and add part three to this story.

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

This tale touched me as, in fact, being a very poetically spiritual story set in the days of the old west at a time when Native Americans still had some land to fight for, sought to live in peace all their days, and ended their lives within the traditions and customs of their ancestors as a people who respected nature and the world around them ...

I stumbled across a review below where apparently you entered this narrative tale in some sort of a contest ...

I do not do contests, for I have seen from experience that the holder of the contest, all too often, already has their favorite authors, and so the outcome is decided before the entries are ever submitted ... And besides that true point, I, personally, write when I am moved to write by the inspirational muse of a good story idea ... I don't write for contest prompts, whatsoever ...

In taking note of the contest holder review, allow me to politely say that I disagree with that reviewer's assessment of this story ...

Obviously, this reviewing person may be a wonderful story writer, but they have not an iota of poetic breath within them or else they would lovingly view your words, " his skin of leather," as a beautifully poetic expression of the old man's complexion and the condition of his weather and sun worn skin ... The term leathery skin does not do justice to the imagery you are conveying here ... "Black like pitch, is another such poetic expression that creates strong imagery out of simple and vague terms like pitch black ... In hopes is yet another of these unusual but very poetic expressions ...

Your reviewer seems to be unaware of the Native Culture and its customs and natural expressions placed upon people and objects that are used to express attributes or feeling held about them, and so the perfectly fitting Native American expression: "Stone that frowns." ...

Yes, as is the plight of any serious story writer, I did see a typo or two, and a couple of sentences that merely lacked a bit of punctuation (maybe a comma here and there) to cause them to flow in the poetically beautiful way that your heart intended ...

Any writer that does not suffer from the typo virus that seems to regenerate the little critters no matter how many of them you correct, or who never is guilty of a lack of punctuation, has done very little writing and is living in a writer's fantasy world of perfection ... No offense intended towards that person ... Just my two cents and I tell it the way I see it ...

Very enjoyable, inspirational, and touching story ...

Marvin Thomas Cox Flynn

[Cherrie Palmer]

:) thank Sir, for such a grand review. I don't mind to confess that I hate to edit my work (bad habit it's true) I'd rather keep writing .
any who, thank you Marv

[Sesame]

Hello Cherrie,

Thanks for entering the competition. Alas not a winner this time. I do not have the time to provide a detailed critique on all the submissions, but a few remarks:
- I could envision the scenery because of your descriptions: well done
- the story needs some more time-framing in the beginning: when and in what time is all this happening?
- there is an inconsistency: "There is no life in the dessert except a few silent predators" -> but you also mention scorpions and chicken..
- "The terra cotta landscape is nothing more than baked red-clay" -> yes, this is basiccally what terra cotta is, isn't it? The addition is superfluous
- there are some awkward sentences/word combinations: "his skin of leather" -> leathery skin, "eighty, and one" -> eighty one?, "black like pitch" -> pitch black?, "in hopes" -> hoping?, "the stone that frowns"? stonees can't do that, "face-of-rock" -> face of the rock?

Anyway, I enjoyed reading this! Keep writing.


Regards,

Sesame

@followsesame on Twitter

www.themagiccave.com

[Laughing-Bear]

My Dear Writing Friend,
As a First Nations person I rather enjoyed your story. You were able to bring to me a visual that was clear and I could hear the sounds. Well done!

Blessings, Laughing-Bear

[Cherrie Palmer]

I am a little Cherokee myself and here where I live is a rich supply of stories.

Thank you so very much :)

[lee von cleef]

We have forgotten how to die ,I think we can learn a lot from your Indian's struggle.

[lee von cleef]

Strike microwave, Strike him,(that have lived before. is plenty) he slides of ? a blue ROAN,Rifle, Climbing ?a towering,a ragged,a obliging ? face-of- rock.

Good focus ,love last sentence . And Emma likes it too, Big time pat on the back.

[Cherrie Palmer]

thank you :) should I stike the entire 'microwave' sentence

[lee von cleef]

no just microwave, and the others are just spelling or how it reads out loud. but i feel the dry ,tiered west, the indians struggle to end on the right side of death, Death herd taking his old pony is well imaged.good job

[Larry Dyson]

well done...and I will be reading the next installment...fodder for a good book here.knowledge of the NA race and life..well told.

[Ed Hart]

you decorated this page with a finely drawn account of desert and man, of parched life and the hunter coming home from the hill