Caleb’s breath was heavy and uneven. Wind whipped the grass around him. Every so often, the long blades of grass would slap the wound from the arrow sticking in his thigh just above his knee.
           
Wind would catch the bloody grass and spray Caleb’s blood against his face.
           
His horse, shot out from beneath him, lay silent on the slope immediately above him. His dead friend, no longer wrapped in a buffalo hide lay strangely frozen as rigor mortis had set in while he was arced over a pack horse in transit. The pack horse had long since galloped away.
           
Behind Caleb was a rock outcropping. That and his horse were his only protection from a band of Indians who he once called friend.
           
The rock had several new chips in it from errant shots. His horse had three arrows stuck in it since he found himself in this condition. His hat lay about 10 feet away with a pair of bullet holes shot through it. One bullet knocked it off his head grazing his scalp. The other was a mistaken shot thinking it was still attached to Caleb’s head.
           
Caleb was alone save for his attackers who surrounded him at about 50 yards out, inching closer with each passing minute.
           
He had a six-shot revolver and a belt full of bullets, a double-barreled shotgun and three shells and a Winchester rifle.
           
Caleb knew as long as he did not bleed to death from the wound in his leg, he could hold out at least until the sun went down.
           
It was June and the sun did not set for a long time now.
           
Thirty minutes ago, Caleb broke off the arrow’s shaft about an inch from the wound. It hurt like hell, but he wanted to try to communicate with the Indians.
           
He ripped off a portion of his sleeve and tied it to the shaft of the arrow. He waved it above the corpse of his horse hoping for a parlay. An Indian sharpshooter shot the flag out of his hand.
           
He laughed and thought, “That’ll teach me to not wear a white shirt.”
           
When there were shots, Caleb could almost forget about the writhing pain in his leg.
           
When it was quiet, like now, he laid there in agony. Agony not only brought on by the pain of the wound, but the agony of not knowing how many attackers were making their way toward him for the final kill.
           
“Why is there never a cavalry around when you need one? Did you hear that Injuns? That’s called sarcasm! Bet you don’t even know what that word means! My friend here would tell you though, if he weren’t dead and counting on me to get him to his final destination!” Caleb yelled out. Part of him hoped the Indians would think he was mad and leave him alone. A larger part of him wanted to communicate why he was where he was.
           
“My friend here would say, ‘that’s Greek to me,’ and we would have a big laugh. And you know what? He’d be right. It is a Greek word. I bet y’all didn’t know that, did ya? Yeah, well that sums up the bulk of my schooling and pretty much the only sentence he could string together in my tongue.”
           
A couple of Indians looked at each other. They knew some of the white man’s tongue, but couldn’t figure out what Caleb was saying; the wind broke up the words.
           
“You know what else? My friend here, if he were still alive, he’d walk over to you and settle this matter in about a minute. Don’t you know who I am? Damn it, I’m your friend!”
           
Caleb got no response, other than three more shots careening off the rock behind him.
           
He lifted his revolver and fired off two shots in the general direction, but from his prone position, the shots flew high above the head of the Indians crawling slowly up the hill to the east.
           
The sun was roasting Caleb’s forehead. He thought he might have a fever.
           
His leg burned, and then fired off pulsating shots of pain up his leg into his back.
           
His mouth was dry; his canteen dangling off his saddle on the other side of his horse was out of reach.
           
He was hungry, having not eaten since leaving the Indian council the night before.
           
He was warned there might be trouble, but if he kept out in the open, the Indians would recognize him and let him pass without harm.
           
He told his friends that he worried more about the reaction of the settlers when he came to ask to bury his friend on their land than any hostilities from his friends, the Nez Perce.
           
It was a time of great tension between white settlers and the non-treaty Nez Perce.
           
It was 1877; Caleb had traveled down White Bird Canyon about half way on the eastern slope when he was attacked. He was only a few miles from his destination. Only his Indian attackers knew of the hostilities that had broken out the day before, for they had avenged several wrongs in a short amount of time.
           
An hour or so of thinking about a drink of water, Caleb could take his thirst no longer.
           
Caleb worked his shoulders up against his horse. He pushed up with his arms and one good leg and turned to face the upslope.
           
He leaned on his right hand as he lay on his right leg. His left leg was of no use.
           
Caleb inched his hand along the horse’s belly. Then his hand ran along the strap of his saddle. He reached as far as he could without exposing more than his left forearm and hand. Then he felt around hoping the canteen strap would find its way into his hand.
           
He couldn’t find it.
           
“Aw the hell with it,” he said to himself. He pushed himself up exposing his left shoulder and a quarter of his head. He peered over the horse to see his canteen strap. He reached for it.
           
BANG!
           
He couldn’t feel his left arm anymore.
           
The shot shattered his shoulder. The brief instant he couldn’t feel his left arm, soon ended.
           
He cried out in pain as he slumped down to his position out of harm’s way.
           
Blood gushed out of his shoulder. Caleb felt the life flowing out of him.
           
He tried to gather his thoughts, but they raced. He was tired or was that the spirit leaving his body? He didn’t know.
           
He stuck his revolver up over the horse and fired off the four remaining shots in the gun.
           
“That ought to hold them at bay for a while,” he thought.
           
The thought was immediately replaced with the madness of getting up, throwing his dead friend over his good shoulder, and limping out of there.
           
“It might work, they might see me do this in my condition, and it might just scare the hell out of them.”
           
He had almost convinced himself the plan would work, but then he tried to adjust his position. The pain was too great; he couldn’t move much at all.
           
He tried to call out, but his voice was tired and weak.
           
His thoughts raced. Thinking was the only thing he could do fast. He reloaded his revolver; it took several minutes to complete the task.
           
His shotgun was loaded with two of his three shells. He had planned to buy some shells after he buried his friend. His rifle was fully loaded, but it was a stretch to think he could reach it as it lay two feet to his left.
           
Then Caleb heard pounding feet approaching from below.
           
He raised his head enough to see the head of three Indians running toward him, and then he could see their chests.
           
He raised his revolver. Took aim and fired, hitting one of the Indians square in the chest.
           
Another Indian raised his rifle and took aim at Caleb. He had a clear shot. But Caleb fired off a second round and clipped him in the shoulder throwing his shot off harmlessly into the sky.
           
The third Indian was approaching the rock. Caleb took aim and fired.
           
Caleb didn’t know if he had hit him or if at the last second the Indian dove behind the rock. Only time would tell. It was agonizing to think about it.
           
The Indian he clipped gathered himself and charged forward. Caleb fired again and missed.
           
The Indian rushed at him wielding the rifle like a club. Caleb fired again killing him as he stumbled to his death at Caleb’s feet.
           
“Well, that’s two, maybe three of them,” he thought.
           
He had only one shot left in his revolver. He placed it on his stomach and propped his shotgun up against his right leg.
           
He had eight more bullets in his belt and he struggled to get them out to load his revolver with his one good hand.
           
His thoughts raced again. He thought he was crazy for taking the time to reload his revolver.
           
He began to regret the promise he made to his friend.
           
“Rises with the Sun,” Caleb called out to his dead friend. “Had I known keeping promises I made to you would have been this hard, I would have parted ways with you the day we met,” he said.
           
“But no, you can always count me as your friend. Isn’t that what I’d say to you?” Caleb asked his dead friend.
           
“Now, here I am, there you are. I’m closer to you in death than you are to me in this world. And so long as there is a breath in me, I’m going to keep my promise to you. But is there any way you could say pause for a moment in that spirit world you are in and maybe come down here and tell these brave warriors that their fight isn’t with me, because my God man! I’ve tried.”
           
Then a voice came from behind the rock.
           
The Nez Perce warrior behind the rock had only been shot, not killed. To Caleb his words were impossible to understand.
           
Caleb and Rises with the Sun learned very little of each other’s tongue, but communicated well with sign language.
           
“Damn it, I knew I missed you,” Caleb said.
           
The warrior said something from behind the rock. Caleb couldn’t understand a word of it, but he could tell that the warrior had been injured as his speech was broken by gasps and moans.
           
“I don’t know what you are saying over there, hell I rode into the prairie yesterday with Rises with the Sun after we had been hunting and he died before we reached the council by the lake, he was old you know,” Caleb said. “I’m not sorry for shooting you, if you remember you attacked me.”
           
“You white men are the devil,” the warrior said from behind the rock.
           
“Well, that I understand. You ain’t no angel, so how about you and I work this out. I need you to know why I’m here, why Rises with the Sun is there and why this is a tragic mistake,” Caleb said as his voice weakened.
           
The warrior said something in his native tongue then moaned in pain.
           
“Well, at least you know how I feel,” Caleb said.
           
“I met old Sun there 13 winters ago. We hunted together; we traded goods with each other. He took me into his people. He was getting old and the thought of having to live out his life on the reservation Chief Lawyer bargained for you, depressed him,” Caleb said. “I really wish you could understand what it is I’m trying to say. Sun told me through an interpreter, he didn’t want to be buried on the reservation. He said the earth was his mother and that he should be returned to her where he was born.”
           
The Nez Perce warrior listened but did not understand a word out of Caleb’s mouth.
           
“I don’t know why he picked me, except that he probably figured if a couple of Injuns went to go bury him on some settler’s property, they would get shot or whipped or both. So he made me promise to take him back to where Mother Earth brought him forth and I said I would. Having this lovely afternoon to think on it, I think I made an error in judgment,” Caleb said.
           
The warrior moaned in pain.
           
“Not all white men are the devil, some of us want to keep you as our friends,” Caleb said. “I am going to crawl over there to you, I will not shoot you. It’s going to take a while, since you shot me, but give me a minute.”
           
Caleb heard nothing from behind the rock.
           
Caleb tried to move. It was too difficult. He then gathered his strength and willed himself to roll over onto his belly.
           
He rolled over from left to right. The pain was excruciating and he cried out. The broken arrow pushed into his leg as he rolled over on it. His shoulder throbbed in pain.
           
Using his right arm, he raised his head and shoulders and kicked with his right leg to move forward. As he slowly progressed, his body became visible to the slope above him. The sun was high and to the west and shown brightly upon his body.
           
A Nez Perce attacker who lay in the grass on the slope above was an excellent sharpshooter. He saw Caleb in the clear. He took aim.
           
His shot was straight and true. Caleb’s head was shot through, back to front.