Ancient Forces Collection Read Online Free Page A

It jutted up against the sky like a gnarled, clenched fist.
    “That’s Starved Rock,” Little Creek explained. “That’s where the village gets its name.”
    “Why do they call it that?” Ryan asked as they moved closer to examine the big boulder.
    “Back in the 1880s, a hundred braves made their last stand in this place. They were surrounded by cavalry, but instead of the soldiers coming up the mountain and fighting like men, they merely stopped the braves from escaping . . . until each and every one had died of starvation.”
    “That’s awful,” Ryan said.
    “Yes,” Little Creek replied. “It is said that their spirits still cry out from these rocks at night.”
    “No kidding?” Scott asked.
    “It’s all very sad,” Ryan said, shaking his head.
    Little Creek hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “All Indian stories are sad. I learned early not to ask my grandfather the meanings of the names and locations of things. There were always sad stories behind them.”
    “If you didn’t ask your grandfather, then how did you learn them?” Ryan asked.
    Little Creek laughed. “Grandfather told me, whether I asked or not. We Indians are very big on oral history, you know. It’s another one of our traditions.”
    “So what about these spirits that are supposed to cry out at night?” Scott asked. “Have you ever heard them?”
    Again Little Creek shrugged. “Yes and no. It could just be the wind. No one is certain. Dark Bear claims that they are spirit voices. He also claims that he is the only one who knows what they are saying.”
    Scott and Ryan exchanged looks. Scott knew they both were remembering the eerie sounds they had heard in the wind on their way up to the village.
    “Who’s Dark Bear?” Scott asked.
    For a moment Little Creek said nothing; then he took a deep breath and answered, “He’s the tribal shaman, a very powerful medicine man. I don’t know if you guys believe in that kind of thing, but . . . Dark Bear is the one person you should avoid contact with in our village.”
    “Why?” Scott asked.
    Little Creek cleared his throat nervously. “Because he has the kind of magic that can kill.”
    “You’re not serious?” Ryan asked.
    “Oh yes, I am very serious. Not only does he have the kind of magic that can kill . . . but he does not hesitate to use it.”

4
    S wift Arrow walked quickly through the heat of the day. He prayed quietly, thinking and meditating as he crossed the canyon floor. He passed a dried-up riverbed and saw the skeleton of a long-dead coyote. He wondered if the animal had died of thirst. Perhaps it had crawled for miles to reach the river, only to discover that it was bone-dry.
    Swift Arrow stopped and looked down at the skeleton. His body grew tense. Carefully, he stooped down onto one knee for a closer look. There was something about the pattern of the bones on the sand . . . It was the same jagged pattern that he had seen in the lightning.
    Suddenly anxiety filled him. He couldn’t explain it, but the need to return to his village seized him. He needed to return at once. Swift Arrow stood and started for home.

    As they moved along the ridge, Little Creek entertained Scott and Ryan by telling them various legends and stories. One of his favorites was the legend of Buffalo Cry, a very strong brave who lived over a hundred summers ago. His tribe sent him to bring the peace pipe to his enemies, but on the way a rattlesnake bit him. As he lay dying, he chanted to the eagle god. After he died, his spirit entered an eagle, which came and took the peace pipe from his hand and flew with it to the enemy tribe. When the rival chief saw the eagle carrying the Apache peace pipe, he declared peace between the two tribes. The peace lasted many years.
    “So you really think Buffalo Cry’s spirit entered the eagle?” Scott asked.
    Little Creek shrugged. “The eagle did exactly as Buffalo Cry wished. Man cannot order a wild eagle.”
    “I suppose not,” Scott agreed.