The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.52 Rage

April 18, 1851

Drouillard heard the horses before he saw the young men that were driving them. And at that moment, cold tendrils of despair crept over his heart.

Tuilla sat behind him as he stared out into the desert. On her small cushion, outside of their wiki, Tuilla was weaving grasses they had gathered into the baskets that she shared with the tribe. At seventy, it was all that her frail and gnarled fingers could still do. He could hear her humming as she worked, but he did not turn around. The dust cloud from the herd of horses was rising in the distance, and now he could even hear the whoops and the hollering from the young men who rode them.

The fools, he thought to himself.

Leaning hard upon his staff, Drouillard felt all of his eight decades of life bearing down upon him. He turned to his wife.

"Put down your basket. We must make ready and leave this camp."

Tuilla calmly looked up and followed his gaze into the desert to the north. Their camp was just beyond the second mountain range that separated the endless deserts from the valley of the Great Salt Lake, where the white men called the Mormons had now settled. She placed her half-finished basket in the sand and climbed to her feet. She was proud that she still rose and sat much quicker than her husband.

"What do you see?" she asked.

He pointed to the dust cloud on the horizon and knew he didn't need to say more. They had both been afraid that this moment was coming, ever since the elders' meeting where the young men had pounded their chests and talked boldly about stealing the white men's horses.

"I told them it would bring disaster on us," Drouillard said, leaning heavily on his staff. "And it is disaster that I see riding in from the north."

Without another word, his wife went to gather the other members of the tribe.

Luckily, this wasn't the home camp of the Goshute people. The chief was not here, and they numbered just over thirty in total, including the small children and the elderly. This small encampment had been hunting and gathering in the foothills for some weeks, while the main camp was much further south. If what was coming was as dire as Drouillard expected, he was grateful that most of their people were not there.

By the time the herd of a dozen animals thundered into camp, everyone had gathered, and they stared at the three young men and their stolen horses. If they had expected a thunderous welcome, they must have been disappointed.

"You fools!" Drouillard yelled at the first, who pulled up next to him on his unsaddled horse. "Were you seen? Don't you know they will kill us if they catch us stealing their horses?"

"Bah! They are only horses!" the tallest of the young men laughed. "They have many. And we can make use of them."

"You ridiculous child," Drouillard snapped. "Horses have no value to the Goshute! The horses and the cattle of the white man do nothing but destroy the young shoots of the plants that we gather. You did not steal these horses because they would be of value to our people. You stole them out of pride! Out of defiance!"

"Yes!" the young man hissed, leaning down from his mount to point a dirty finger at the old man. "You, Wanderer, have long told us that the white man is a plague. You have warned us that they are rolling towards us like a deadly wave. If anyone has reason to hate them, it is you, who was driven from the north like a whipped dog. This will keep them back. This will tell them that the Goshute are not so easily frightened!"

"No, it will only lead them to us with their guns. It will only give them a reason to slaughter..."

"There!" one elder cried, pointing back along the route the horses had come. At first, Drouillard thought that what he was seeing was just dust from the stolen herd that was slow to settle. But it quickly became clear that this dust was new. And was being kicked up by another group, who was riding furiously.