Follow the Wind
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Don Pedro Garcia was impatient; there were only so many forced marches the horses could endure. He was an old man now, and he wanted to see his son who, rumor had it, was alive among the Indians of the Great Plains. Don Pedro's lieutenant, Ramon Cabeza, was also troubled, for no matter how fast the search party traveled the Indians always seemed to know their movements days in advance. What neither man could know was that Don Pedro's son was alive, now a chief among the Elk-dog band--and that the feared Head Splitters were preparing to make war upon the intruders who had violated their lands.
The Spanish Bit Saga
Set in the New World of the early 16th century, Don Coldsmith's acclaimed novels re-create a time, a place, and a people that have been nearly lost to history. In The Spanish Bit Saga we see history in the making through the eyes of those proud Native Americans who lived it. With 6 million copies of his critically acclaimed books in print, Don Coldsmith is one of America's premier novelists of the North American Frontier.
here that did not ring true. The entire thing was too easy. Certainly, the story told by these savages fit precisely that which he had fabricated for the old don. That bothered him considerably to start with. How could any set of actual facts coincide with the series of falsehoods which came entirely from his own imagination? He shook his head in bewilderment. The others could not understand the hesitance of Sanchez. The entire membership of the Garcia expedition was jubilant. The slim chance
anywhere!” Heads Off smiled. He well remembered the surprise charge by the rebel Bloods which had saved the day for the People and brought them back together. Red Dog himself had led the assault, routing the enemy. There was no question of the bravery of the Bloods, only of their judgment. That would remain to be seen. However, the chief was inclined to think that the problems of discipline were behind them. Red Dog seemed a sensible subchief, although young. White Buffalo had reached the end
and he fell heavily, trying to free the encumbered leg. As he struggled, the other horseman circled and readied for the final blow. His heavy stone war club dangled, swinging, ready. The scene seemed only an arm’s length in front of him and Sanchez was frozen, immobilized by his inability to help. He kept expecting the bowman to loose his bolt. “Shoot, in Christ’s name, shoot,” he whispered. Still, nothing. He glanced at the other. The soldier slumped over his crossbow in precisely the same
side almost constantly, was dozing, half asleep. At the cessation of the rhythmic quiet sound of breathing, Heads Off came suddenly awake. The big dark eyes of Tall One looked deeply into his. “His spirit has crossed over, my husband.” Immediately, her clear voice rose in the Mourning Song. It was picked up and echoed in the adjacent lodge of Coyote, then by another and another, as the People came awake to mourn the loss of their chief’s father. The song would usher in the period of mourning,
the prevailing south wind at their backs. He picked out a blue hilltop in the shimmering distance. That would be their landmark for the day. Sanchez suddenly became aware that Don Pedro had repeated his question. “Which way, Sanchez?” The little man was exhilarated, almost drunk with the euphoria of authority. He stood in his stirrups and, with a long, sweeping gesture, pointed at the blue shimmering hill, days to the north. “We follow the wind!” 7 Sanchez, Garcia, and Cabeza squatted on