Old Bear wondered if the young man were from the spirit world, come to guide him over the trail of stars.

No.

There was a rifle across his saddle. It would fire seven times, metal cartridges, before reloading.

There would be no white man’s weapons in the spirit world.

The saddle was made of wood, and Old Bear had not seen one like it in many years. The pommel rose more than a foot above the horse’s mane. The design, though Old Bear did not know this, might have been traced to Spanish saddles of more than three centuries before, used by conquistadores who had come to seek cities of gold and had lost their lives and horses.

Old Bear looked into the eyes of the man. They were as sharp and black as the hawk’s, as keen as the eagle’s. My eyes were once so, said Old Bear to himself. And the man’s head was held high, like one who rides over land that he owns, and his back was straight and proud. Yes, said Old Bear to himself, so young men used to ride, so did I too ride.

“I am Old Bear,” said Old Bear, “of the Hunkpapa.”

The younger man looked at him, and his eyes blazed between the bars of yellow paint on his face, blazed as though with victory. “It is good,” he said in his strong, young voice. “Good!” He looked proudly on the old Hunkpapa. “It is a strong sign,” he said, “for I am Kicking Bear-Kicking Bear of the Minneconjou from the Cheyenne River.”

“I am looking for the white buffalo,” said Old Bear, feeling that somehow he could tell this to the young man, and that he would understand.

Kicking Bear looked for a long time at the old man on the painted pony who sat across from him. Kicking Bear did not smile or laugh. Then he said, “The buffalo are coming back.”