Wili

Something had been gnawing at Wili's mind since the Colonel's visit in February. He couldn't figure it out. He loved the sled and he really liked the Colonel but something about the Colonel just hadn't been the same.

Wili had probably felt most loved when he was a small boy when he had been cuddled in Mama Ilsa's or Papa Dieter's lap. When Wili first became an Indian, he realized that Indians didn't do that with boys his size. He loved Papa Abraham and Mama Fern but he had to admit that, even as a ten-year-old, he missed the cuddling. That's why he had so looked forward to the Colonel's visits. The Colonel always wanted Wili to sit on his lap and he would hug him and kiss his ear. He would always tease the Colonel by greeting him with, "I won't go," and run away. The Colonel would run after him. Wili allowed himself to be caught because he loved to have the Colonel throw him over his shoulder, tickle him and then sit and hold and hug him. Wili liked that and even after he'd been an Indian for a long time. He still didn't feel like a baby. He felt loved.

But the last time the Colonel was there, they did the teasing, chasing, throwing over the shoulder and tickling things but not the sitting on the lap thing. Wili missed it at the time but decided that it was probably because he was eleven now and maybe white people stopped doing that when you were eleven.

Wili still got his cuddling. Abraham and Fern had seen what it meant to the boy and they had started to do it, not only for Wili, but for the girls too. Of course, Mama Fern couldn't do it now except for Sadie. Sadie was all she had room for. The baby in her made her belly too big. But his Papa still did it and Wili didn't care if it was baby stuff like Billy Hawk had said or not. He liked it and he would sit on his Papa's lap as long as he wanted.

The baby in his mama worried Wili. He remembered what happened to his first mama when she had had a baby in her. He talked to his papa about it and his papa said not to worry. His mama had a real easy time having babies. Wili worried anyway.

Wili didn't really worry about the Colonel. Wili could tell that he loved him and after having gone through what he had, Wili needed to know he was loved. Wili seemed to need to be loved by many people. Wili was pretty sure that Billy's mama and papa loved him and he knew that Buck and Dee (her Indian name had been Chickadee.) Schwartz loved him. Perhaps somewhere in Wili's mind he thought that since he had lost some people who had loved him it was possible that he could lose others and needed some spares just in case.

Wili didn't worry about the Colonel but he wondered about him. The Colonel seemed to have needed to hold and hug Wili as much as Wili needed to be held and hugged. Just because he was eleven didn't seem like a good enough reason for the Colonel to stop doing what he obviously needed to do.

John Reid would have been saddened had he known Wili's concern. He did love the boy and would never intentionally do anything to cause him discomfort. He had needed to hold and hug Wili. He needed to give and take love and, when holding Wili, he knew that the boy loved him. Wili did not know he was giving the Colonel love but the Colonel did.

John Reid definitely still loved Wili but he now had a resident giver of love. Every evening after their supper, Declan crawled into his Pa's lap. It hadn't started out that way. At first, Declan would flinch and even run away when John reached out to tousle his hair or to in some other way caress the boy. Even gestures of affection from Mrs. Bartlett, John's long time housekeeper and now Declan's de facto grandmother, gave the boy pause. It was several weeks before an even slight, unconscious, quick hand movement on the part of the adults did not startle the boy. It was two months before Declan would, of his own volition, sit in his Pa's lap but when the boy had been infused by the love that position engendered, it took almost a four horse team to get him off that lap. That little red-headed lump of joy had become a real cuddler.

Once he understood what was going on, Declan devoured his Pa's love just as Paddy had. Declan loved to hear his Pa tell that story. He could empathize with Paddy. All Declan had known his entire life had been privation, neglect and abuse. Declan could envision Paddy - dirty, emaciated and half naked, a truly repulsive sight. Declan would not have known those words but he knew and, in most cases, had experienced the conditions. Beside that, Paddy was a whore-boy. But his Pa had loved that boy.

Just as he had with Paddy, his Pa taught Declan how to love and be loved but his Pa must love red-headed Irish boys the best. He had to. Even though he had been on the streets for two years, Declan had never met Paddy's plight. Perhaps it was because he was so tiny and frail looking or perhaps he was better at stealing or perhaps he had just been lucky but the boy had never had to trade his body for food.

But, he knew many boys who had and he knew what people thought of those boys. If his Pa could love a whore-boy and a dirty, skinny little Street Arab, that probably meant that Irish boys were the best to love. Declan knew one thing for sure, Colonels were the best to love.

Declan understood love before he understood socially acceptable means of obtaining sustenance. He had never before had so much to eat that his belly almost hurt but it had been hard to shake his street-learned get-it-while-the-getting's-good mentality. He had been marched back by his Pa to some aggrieved store-keeper with a pilfered apple - or whatever - several times before he completely understood that one doesn't take things just because one can. Declan would vociferously explain to his Pa in a very Irish manner that it was actually the store-keeper's fault. He should watch his stuff better. It took a while but Declan did eventually understand the difference between community and private property.

It also took a while for Declan to learn that it was not necessary to approach bigger boys with fear and smaller boys with aggression. In the process of Declan's education on that matter, John also learned which of his neighbors were kindly understanding and which were pompous bigots. Declan was not physically aggressive but his unique vocabulary and the ferocity of its delivery so frightened Lester Brown that the six-year-old wet his pants. The boys eventually became friends but Lester's uppity mother deeply resented her son's insistence on playing with this thing that to her would never be anything but a New York Street Arab. But, what could she do. The dirty little urchin lived right next door and she couldn't watch Lester all the time. After all, she had teas to attend and one could not find reliable help - or at least help as self-important as she was. The boy's father thought that Declan Reid had become a "nice" little boy and thought him a good playmate for Lester. It nearly gave her the vapors.

John was pleasantly surprised that he and Declan had to deal with few other self-styled Brahmins. In fact, most people with whom they came in contact were kind and accepting and a few were so mawkishly sympathetic that John had to gently advise them to be more realistic. If Declan were to learn propriety, he had to be respected, not pitied.

The road to the middle class for Declan was initially rocky but it was surprisingly short. The boy was intelligent. He understood quickly what it took to please his Pa and to avoid the ire of the general public. It was a rather quick trip intellectually but a little longer one emotionally. Declan learned reasonably quickly not to display his innate Irishness in public but in the security of his home, confident of his Pa's love, he would, over time with decreasing frequency, prove his heritage. He was never physical and had quickly eliminated offensive words from the script but he could, in a very dramatic manner, perform and project his ill state of mind.

It almost disappointed John, as the boy more and more became master of his impulse to emote. When Declan had stood on that wagon, he was, in fact, only eight years old. He was tiny and frail and such huge emotions issuing forth from such a little body in such a bombastic manner was just plain funny and cute. John knew that it would not be cute in a year or so and that probably it was cute now only to those who loved the boy so he took satisfaction from Declan's improving comportment but it was a kind of disappointed satisfaction.

Since age nine was all they had to go on, John decided that the day Declan had become his son emotionally would be the boy's birthday. The legalities of their relationship were dealt with expeditiously but the legal adoption was not as significant to either of them as the day John had snatched Declan off that wagon. Actually, that day was not far off. Declan's actual day of birth was only a month later.

Declan had not started his formal schooling that fall. He had made surprising reading and numbers progress under the tutelage of John and Mrs. Bartlett, but his knowledge fell short of what other children his size and "age" knew and while socialization was important, John remembered kids and their propensity for teasing. By the time school would have started, Declan was only about half way through his journey toward behavioral self-control when offended. John didn't want his boy to get a reputation as a troublemaker. The fact that he had been a street kid would be a large enough albatross for the boy to carry. He did not need to also carry the label of dummy. John had gone to school. He knew that teachers gossiped. Those kinds of labels were not easy to erase. Teachers tended to get what they expected from a child and if Declan went through school labeled a dummy, he would, indeed, be a dummy and because he was Declan, a very angry dummy.

Just as had Paddy, Declan learned quickly and just as had been Paddy, the boy was very intelligent. John seethed at the thought that many very good minds were being wasted because of unconcern and neglect. Declan understood how important this learning to read and do numbers was to his Pa and the dramatizations of his pride in achievement were as funny and cute as were his outbursts.

John felt the boy ready for formal schooling after the Christmas break and that proved to be the case. Declan adjusted quickly and well both to the demands on his behavior and his relationship with learning. When the boy brought home a good report, there was always that "Declandrama" that brought chuckles from the adults and cuddles for one very proud little boy.

But it was the boy, not just his foibles, which John loved. As is true of any child deprived of love, Declan reveled in it now that he had it and the boy's adoration pulled love from John. This is the life John wanted. This is that future that looked so promising when he was nine. At least it was part of it.

For nine years, John had lived a life of unrequited love. He relished the memory of his love for Paddy but Paddy was dead. He cherished his love for Dora and Johnny but to them, he was dead. Until Declan, none of John's loves could love him back. Declan could and did. That Irish intensity of emotion that manifested itself in outbursts also manifested itself in a sweet, tender yearning to love and be loved.

John would always be pained at not having the love of Dora and Johnny but he thanked God for Declan. John was still a legally married man. He felt it illegal to wed again and he had no inclination to do so. He loved Dora as deeply as he had the day he married her. She had learned to live without him and from his mother's letters; she was happy and well cared for. Sadie Reid's most recent letter to "Fredrick Leichty" contained more photos and a passing comment that Isaac had a mild case of the flu but he seemed to be getting over it. Johnny was growing and happy. He was almost thirteen now and a good sized boy. John wished that the art of photography were as highly developed when he was Johnny's age. He remembered himself to have looked much as Johnny did when he was thirteen. But there were no photographs so hazy memory would have to do.

Sadie Reid had somewhat annoyed Dora by her insistence every six months that photographs of the boy be taken. To cover her subterfuge she included the girls in some of the photos. John had all the photographs, those of Johnny and those of Johnny and the girls on the wall of his office. Even though none of his biology was involved, those girls were part of Dora and he loved them. The photographs had been both a blessing and a bane to him. The bane had not been completely eliminated but it no longer gripped John as it once had. Declan was now here.

John was not only intelligent; he was also a very contemplative man. Adversity tends to make one introspective. He knew there was no answer but the "why" of his inauspicious life made him a searcher. He knew that he would never answer the universal question but he was driven to find some rationale for himself. He read philosophy. He read the Bible. He read the works of theological thinkers. And - he thought. He concluded that God had created man to love and be loved. For a man to be complete, there must be balance - both entities being present in equal degree. To love and not be loved was anguish. To be loved and not love was arrogance.

One could control anguish or let it control him. John was satisfied that he had controlled his. John became convinced that much of the evil in the world resulted from persons who had not controlled theirs, from persons not having the occasion or the capacity to be loved. He had known of situations in which an evil life came out of an apparently loving home. Was that evil person arrogant? Did he not have the capacity to be loved? Or was that person loved or just indulged? Anguish and arrogance can turn to venom and venom to dastardly acts. It seemed to John that evil resulted from the absence or misuse of love. Love was the fulcrum of life. Properly used, it made life wonderful. Improperly used or misunderstood it led to chaos.

All of that may have just been "sound and fury; signifying nothing" as the Bard so aptly put it. But the thinking had served John well during his anguish. John still thought about the "why" occasionally but not nearly so often. He had Declan.

Wili was too busy to give much thought to John's unusual behavior during his last visit to the village. When the early spring cattle work was finished, they had another month of school. Wili liked to learn, particularly now that Siegfried was their teacher. He was really smart. The other Indian kids had a little trouble understanding him. English was relatively new to them and Siegfried's pronunciation was certainly not what they were used to hearing. Wili again was pressed into service to make things clear and, in exasperation, occasionally would admonish Siegfried to, "Learn to talk right!"

Wili was also doing well at learning to read German. It wasn't that hard but they made a lot of their letters funny.

Echo Mann refused to take an English name. He was proud of his name - proud that it meant that he was like Thunder Eagle. He now had a fairly good grasp of the idea of love and knew that he had loved Thunder Eagle. Echo missed Thunder Eagle and saw his name as a kind of monument to his dead "brother". Anyway, Echo had had an English name and he certainly wasn't going to use that one. He thought it dumb and it carried too many bad memories.

Actually they had started in about February and by the time school was out at the end of May, Wili, Billy and Echo had wheedled from their parents' permission to make an extended visitation expedition to all their friends who had moved away from the village. Had they reckoned time in values other than seasons, they were asking to be away from home for about two weeks. Echo may have been thirteen. Billy was twelve and Wili eleven. But Echo, in a sense, had brought himself up and was quite self-sufficient. Billy and Wili were intelligent and responsible and, although there was some trepidation, their parents thought the boys should learn to take care of themselves. They would ride no more than ten miles between each visit and the plans included picking up a boy at each stop.

Boys who are self-sufficient, intelligent and reliable are still boys and the parents had talked among themselves about the wisdom of allowing up to seven unsupervised boys loose on the Kansas prairie. Endemic in boyhood is a playful, mischievous nature which, as their numbers increase, can become rambunctiousness and folly. But, the prairie had withstood thousands of years of storms, huge herds of buffalo, Indian wars and occasional drought. Seven boisterous boys could probably not turn it into a barren wasteland in a fortnight.

The three intrepid travelers set off at dawn heading south. Their bearing was that of dignified responsibility. After all, their parents were watching them. Well out of their parents' sight, however, their true identity emerged. They became giddy, excited boys: whooping and wanton, riding at full gallop until the smell of their lathered horses reminded them that they were responsible for the beasts' welfare. There's something pleasant, nostalgic and invigorating about the smell of a sweating horse. It's the smell of adventure or achievement or conquest - the smell of exploration, of a hard day's work completed or a battle won. But for our three little Arapaho today, it was the smell of joy, freedom and yet responsibility.

They walked their horses, rode side by side and made great, heroic plans. As is true of all boys, they knew these plans would not come to fruition but the thrill was not in the execution. It was in the making, the imagining of brave deeds, the thinking of big thoughts, the pretending to be the men they would someday be.

It is a good thing for a boy to think big thoughts. A healthy imagination can build confidence in a boy. If he learns to believe he can, when he is a man, he probably can. As he matures, he learns that not all of his grandiose imaginings are rational but he holds to those that are and in so doing, he becomes a man. Longfellow knew that when he said,

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Longfellow as a man lamented his lost youth as, probably, all men do. Men tend to remember the long, long thoughts and regret the reality of life outside a boy's imagination. Boys have the freedom to think those thoughts and revel in them and today our three brave little Arapaho were, indeed, reveling.

The horses sweat was not completely dried but the boys had wearied of being responsible. These were good, strong Indian ponies, not large but with incredible stamina bred into them. The impromptu game would not overly fatigue them.

The boys found a large feather, perhaps from a turkey's tail, but to them it was a noble eagle feather and it became the highly prized focus of a game. A proud warrior was chosen, in this case in deference to his age, Echo. Echo's hair, a kind of dirty blond, none-the-less was in the long braids of the plains Indians. The feather was stuck into the hair at the back of his head and the object of the game was to snatch the feather from him. Echo's job was to keep the feather from being snatched and, therefore, surrender the distinction of being the proud warrior to the snatcher.

After a round or two, an additional ruled had to be made. No grabbing braids. That made getting the feather too easy to get. A braid was much easier to grab than the illusive feather so you pulled the braid with one hand and grabbed the feather with the other. It was no fun that way. It was too easy.

It was a good game. It showed and honed the boys' level of horsemanship as well as the agility of the horse. Wili had the feather most of the time partly because he was the better athlete but mostly because he had the best horse. One probably shouldn't say that Abraham spoiled his boy but he certainly saw that his son had the best of everything. But that was Abraham. He knew that in order to be the best one could be one needed to have the best - be it equipment or knowledge.

They arrived at the cabin of David Whitetail about noon. The ten mile ride should not have taken six hours but there had been games to be played and sites to be explored. It had only been a week since they'd seen David at school but the reunion, invigorated by David's excitement at the prospect of joining the expedition, injected zest into what would have otherwise been only the Arapaho equivalent of, "Hi."

The Whitetails had moved well into the new ways but David's mom decided to add to the boys' adventure by making the noon meal as her mother had. She had ground corn with a pestle and made flat bread on a hot stone. That was all there was to the meal but it was old time Indian and it was good.

All of the members of the White Buffalo Calf Clan now had spendable money over and above their government stipend. Such staples as corn, sugar, salt, even ground flour were available from the huckster. The huckster, proprietor of a kind of general store in a horse drawn wagon, worked out of Goodland. He would stop, usually weekly, generally with the items ordered the previous week but always also with some new item of cloth, hardware, or just some gewgaw that his customer just could not do without.

Most of the White Buffalo Calf Clan had been killed at Sand creek. Tall Man and Broken Bough were really the only surviving members who had actually been involved in the fighting. Most of what was left of the clan were adolescent and younger children. Determined to hold the clan together, Tall Man and Broken Bough recruited families from other clans that had been decimated. To Broken Bough's dismay, most favored the new ways.

The clan had not reformed until most of the Southern Arapaho had been sent to the Darlington Agency. Those who chose to stay had had to convince John that they were interested in moving to the new ways and willing to work hard. All who had stayed had to be considered successful. Some a little more than others, but those differences had more to do with luck than effort or ability. Too much or too little rain, too many dead cows, illness of the rancher so that he could not work - the kinds of things that had plagued tillers of the soil and herders for centuries determined success. But, they had proved John right. The Indian was not a mindless savage.

That is not to imply that those who were forced to the reservation in Indian Country were any less intelligent or industrious. Probably all men are held in the grip of ethnocentricity. Some are able to dilute those feeling with desire to change or the acceptance of reality. The reality was that the old ways were gone and those who went to the reservation knew that. For them, reservation life was their new way. They accepted its indignities mostly because there were not enough Johns to advocate for them or because they feared moving into the white man's ways would offend the spirits and they would lose the power of the Flat Pipe. The reservation was definitely "bondage" but they were still allowed the Sun Dance, the Peyote and - their medicine, the Flat Pipe.

"In the beginning, according to Arapaho accounts, the First Pipe Keeper floated on a limitless body of water with the Flat Pipe. He fasted and prayed to the Creator, who inspired him to send the duck to search beneath the water's surface. The duck emerged with a little bit of dirt, which the First Pipe Keeper put on the Pipe. Then he sent the turtle to the bottom, and it too returned with dirt. The First Pipe Keeper put this dirt on the Pipe and blew it off toward the four directions. In doing so, he created the earth. He then made the sun and moon, man and woman, vegetable and animal life, followed by day and night and the four seasons. He then taught the first people the religious rites they would need. The duck and the turtle were placed with the pipe into a bundle. The Arapaho - descendants of that first man and woman - have been responsible for them ever since, symbols of the creation and their custody of a sacred trust."¹

The actual Flat Pipe was safe with the Northern Arapaho in Montana but for all pious Arapaho it was the most powerful medicine.

Most members of the White Buffalo Calf Clan revered the old religion but no longer practiced it. Some, however, weren't taking any chances. That's how Keechee picked up some extra business.

There would be beef for the evening meal but the 'old ways bread' both intrigued and satisfied the boys. The afternoon was passed in a vigorous, rough four man game of lacrosse. Wili ended up with a black eye and Billy a bloody nose. Even though you knew that getting hit on the head with a lacrosse stick was an accident, honor required that one punch the hitter and honor required the hitter to punch back. It made no difference that the one you were punching was your best friend. And it was of no consequence. You knew he would remain your best friend after the altercation.

The boys continued south almost to Big Sandy, sleeping under the stars and picking up a new member at each visit. Simon Blue Jay's mother made them some pemmican, a mixture of pulverized dried meat, dried fruit, preferably cherries, and highly rendered animal fat. Pemmican had been the traditional "travel" food for most of the North American Tribes. It wasn't something you'd want to eat every day but it wasn't that bad and it was old ways Indian food and - it kept well. They still had some left when they got back north to the Republican River.

After Simon joined the group, they angled back northeast to Goodland. Five unaccompanied Indian boys in a white town would not have been wise so their fathers had arranged for Cyrus Newfield to meet them and show them the town. Some of the boys had never been to a town. They bought candy and Cyrus went into the saloon and bought them some sarsaparilla. Cyrus had some very animated little Indians on his hands. Wili, however, was not impressed. Towns held nothing for him anymore. He loved the prairie.

From Goodland, they worked their way north, picking up two more boys, until they got to the Republican River. Now it was to be about three days of watery fun. The river could get high and fast in the spring but it had been a light snow year in the Colorado Mountains. The water was cold but the river was just the right depth and flow so that the boys could safely be "boys around water".

Wili, having lived by the sea, was an excellent swimmer. All of the boys were adequate but swimming was not the primary activity of choice. There were some races but after three or four, Wili was disqualified. He won all the time. Wili was too active and too stubborn to be left out. After some negotiation, it was conceded that Wili would be first but the real winner of the race was the one who finished next. That was fun and it occupied some of each day but dunking, splashing, diving under grabbing feet and occasionally some more vulnerable parts, giggling and just exuding joy were the favored occupations. Any normal boy, regardless of ethnicity can think of a million things to do in a body of water unless, of course, he was raised in a desert.

The boys actually made a successful fish trap. Jacob Dove's mother had sent some beans and jerky but most mornings the boys had fish for breakfast. Traditionally, Indians ate only two meals a day and that old ways custom was fine with the boys. They were too busy to stop and eat in the middle of the day. They did well preparing themselves food. Broken Bough's lessons served them well.

Jack Raven, a relative of the great Arapaho chief, Little Raven, was the most accomplished with a bow. During their three days at the river, he got two rabbits. Not enough to feed seven lively boys but enough to earn him some bragging rights and a taste of rabbit for everyone.

It had been the plains Indians custom to choose names for their children from natural phenomena. It was generally believed among the whites that the name of the first thing seen by the child's father after the baby's birth became the name. That may have been true in some cases but names were frequently chosen because the father admired or prayed to the spirit of some natural phenomena. Names were frequently chosen simply because the parent liked that name.

Native Americans had not traditionally used surnames. Many, the clan included, were beginning to take on the white man's custom of having two names and passing on the father's surname to his children. They also accepted the custom of the wife taking the husband's surname. Jack's father had chosen to honor the great chief, his distant cousin, by taking Raven as his surname. Little Raven had been chief at Sand Creek. Even after that debacle he was a voice for peace with the white man. Little Raven never gave thought to staying with the clan. He was chief of all the Southern Arapaho and was more than a little offended that the clan had left the tribe. He remained cordial with them, however.

The last night at the river was approached with ambivalent feelings. This had been a great adventure and great fun but they were boys and for many of them it had been almost fourteen suns since they'd seen their parents. All of the boys were anxious to get home but none would admit it. They talked well into the night of such things as wishes that they could go up to Montana and see the Northern Arapaho. They knew there was still fighting up there and some rather unkind things were said about white people. Echo thought nothing of it. He hadn't known what he was until he became Indian but Wili was confused.

He had heard the stories of Sand Creek. He hated that Colonel Chivington. At least he thought he did. He was Indian now and he thought he should. He knew about Colonel Custer and the massacre at Washita in Oklahoma. Not as many died as had at Sand Creek but Custer's men killed the peace seeking Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle and most of his sleeping village. Black Kettle had been promised land in Indian Country. That promise had not been kept. He had just gotten back to his people after talking to an army general about peace and protection for his people. He had been turned down. The man was trying to be peaceful. He was doing what the white man asked. It made no difference. He and most of his people were slaughtered in the middle of the night. The story of Washita spread quickly among the tribes and that would not bode well for Custer a few years later at the Little Big Horn.

Wili hated Custer. At least he thought he did. He wasn't sure what hate was. He probably never would understand hate. It wasn't part of his nature. He thought what had happened at Sand Creek and Washita deplorable but he could not generate the rage of several of the other boys.

These boys were talking about white people as if they were all like Chivington and Custer. Wili wasn't like that. Echo wasn't like that. Siegfried wasn't like that and the Colonel wasn't like that. For the first time since he'd become an Indian, he almost felt like he wasn't one.

Had Wili not been just eleven he would have realized that that conversation actually proved most explicitly that Wili was an Indian. He was one of them and they would never intentionally hurt his feelings. Punch him when tradition and honor prescribed but hurt his feelings, insult or otherwise denigrate him - never! They spoke as they did because Wili was their friend. He was not thought of as white. He was not thought of as a white Indian. He was thought of as an Indian.

The boys woke with the sunrise. They prepared the morning meal and assembled what little gear they had and prepared their horses for the trip south. At various times a boy would go into the high grass to answer the demands of his body. Prairie grass was course and not kind to tender bottoms. Since water was close, there was no reason to cause oneself pain for the sake of hygiene. A quick morning swim both refreshed and cleansed. The boys came and went as the situation demanded and no one gave particular notice to who was right there and who wasn't. The fire was doused. The horses were loaded and ready. The boys mounted up - all except Wili.

They called and looked. Wili was nowhere. There was no fear that Wili had drowned. The current was not strong and Wili was a powerful swimmer. But what could have become of him? The boys were confused and frightened. After about an hour, Jack Raven rode for his father and older brother. By nightfall, Wili had not been found.

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¹ Information for the Arapaho came from the book "Arapaho", by Loretta Fowler, Chelsea House Publishers, New York.