The shaman strokes his chin. “Well, if you have nothing else to add…”

Someone rings the doorbell.

“Ramala ding dong.”

“Ramala ding ding dong.”

“Finally someone noticed my doorbell!” Shakiro says happily. “Come in, whoever you are!”

“Were you expecting someone?” Man Mountain asks.

But the shaman is already waiting, staring at the door.

A Native American man enters the tent. The shaman’s eyes sparkle like Las Vegas against a moonless sky.

“Wild Horse, what a nice surprise!”

“Hau, my old friend Shakiro! Can I join you guys?”

“Of course!” the shaman exclaims. “Blue Arrow, please, scoot over so Wilde Horse can join us.”

The dream catcher moves to the left, and the chief does too.

“So, tell me, Shakiro, did you see my smoke signals yesterday?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. The sky looked like a digital billboard all day.”

“I figured. That’s why I came in person.”

“I appreciate it. So, tell me, what is that so important you have to tell me?”

“My men spotted palefaces just 200 miles from our village,” Wild Horse says, placing his hands on his knees.

The shaman's face grows worried, "How many?"

“Just a few at first. But two passing clouds later, a whole lot of wagons crossed the riverbank.”

The shaman turns to the chief. “What do you think, Man Mountain?”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he says, shaking his head slightly.

“I agree,” the shaman says, turning to Wild Horse. “Any blue uniforms with them?”

“That’s the thing: General Casper was at the front.”