"Too many Dinéh are being taken for slaves," Manuelito said angrily, his dark eyes fixed on the distant north holy peak of Dibénitsaa, the Big Sheep Mountain. First Man had taught that a different sort of people lived there and in the other three holy peaks, and that they were intelligent people who performed magic. They were swift of foot and far--ranging, riding the rays of the sun and following the path of the rainbow. These Holy People, the Haaschch'ééh dine'é, were to be emulated. To do so meant walking in beauty.

But for all his desire to do so, Manuelito never could be like them because his turmoil forced him from the ways of inner harmony. The Holy People were immutable and felt no pain. Pain burned in Manuelito's breast and tore at him because of los ricos, because of the Ute and the Zuñi and the Biligáana, those ubiquitous whites pouring over the land like the incessant autumn rainstorms. All those enemies of the Dinéh stole his people for slaves, selling them in distant Mexico or keeping them for scut work as close-by as Santa Fé.

Manuelito continued staring at the cloud-capped holy mountain, considering his words carefully to influence the other headmen gathered around the guttering fire of fragrant piñon. How he wished he had the special powers of speech to sway others as had his revered father-in-law, Narbona of the Red-earth Streaked Clan, dead these twelve years after Colonel Washington murdered him in a dispute over a stolen horse. Narbona's victory at Copper Pass, Bééschlichíii Bigiizh, had not been as effective as his fine, persuasive words. Manuelito remembered well being taken into Santa Fé with his father-in-law to speak with the Mexicans, and how he had become bored quickly with the endless dark adobe corridors and honeyed words without meaning. Manuelito had enjoyed more sitting on the street and making the little Mexicans jump at the sight of a silent, six-foot-tall, powerful sixteen-year-old warrior of the Dinéh suddenly rise in front of them. They had yelped and run like rabbits, secretly pleasing him though his solemn expression had never changed.

Narbona had not been amused by this harmless pastime, chiding him for not learning the ways of peace as well as the thrill of combat. The Holy People, Narbona had said, gave the Dinéh their lifeways. They gave the Beauty Way to nurture inner spirit, allowing everyone to walk the world in harmony, in hozho. But for all those fine words passed down from a man he respected above all others, Manuelito yearned for a Blessing Way chant to protect warriors against their enemies in battle, an Enemy Way sing to infect their foes with ghosts. He wanted death brought to the enemies tearing at the corners of his world and stealing the lovely women and small children.

So much passion boiled inside that Manuelito felt powerless to convey fully what he felt. He was pulled between diplomatic, persuasive naat'aani wanting peace and his personal desire for war. The world spun about Manuelito and confused him, tearing him away from any hope of harmony.

He forced himself to remember his upbringing, even as his fingers danced on the hilt of the horn-handled knife sheathed at his belt. Words of a chantway prayer rose in Manuelito's mind to give him strength.

My feet for me restore.

My legs for me restore.

My body for me restore.

My mind for me restore.

My voice for me restore.

The convincing words would come to his lips. The words must come or the Diné, The People, would be driven from their traditional lands of Dinetah.

"We are warriors," Manuelito went on after being silent for several minutes, drinking in the distant beauty of mountains and mesa and knowing holy Dinetah could never be lost. To lose it meant losing more than life. It meant losing the soul of his people. "These others must never imprison us. They enslave our women and children. The Biligáana do not honor their treaties. We sign their endless, tedious pieces of paper and suffer. We become like the deer, prey for our enemies who ignore the Biligáana and their strutting bluecoat soldiers. We respect the white man's settlements and find our own lands stolen as if we were invisible. They trespass and nothing is done. We ride through Dinetah and are hunted like animals. How can this continue?" Manuelito settled next to the fire, staring at the embers glowing from once blazing logs. The heat rising in his breast warmed him more than the dying campfire. If only the words set the other Dinéh headmen afire, too. War was serious, but survival depended on it.

Wind howled along the sheer red rock cliffs of Cañon de Chelly, finding eroded holes to whistle and whine like tormented animals. In the distance a coyote howled mournfully, mocking Manuelito. He poked the fire back to life with a charred stick, but the flare quickly died again. His own fury burned all the hotter.

After several more minutes, a sturdy, older headman lifted his face, chin pointing to the four holy peaks in turn, east, south, west and finally north, gently reminding Manuelito of the power they derived simply living in Dinetah. Only when he had finished this slow circuit did the headman speak.

"You are young and angry," countered Barboncito, Hastiin Dághá, Man With Whiskers of the Ma'iideeshgiizhnii Clan, the Coyote Pass People. "You strike out blindly because you are youthful and impatient and see no other course of action."

Manuelito held back a furious retort, face impassive, refusing to be disrespectful. Barboncito was a wise leader, and Manuelito owed him the courtesy of listening, even if everything within his breast and across Dinetah screamed against the words. There was time for soft words and a time for the slashing knife. Manuelito knew council must give way to war party.

Soon.

"When have the Dinéh ever walked without opposition?" Barboncito went on. "We are warriors, and warriors have enemies. We must have enemies, because through them our own greatness is found. The Dinéh endure great hardship, and yet we conquer. It is our way. I question only the need to fight the Biligáana with their rifles and cannon. They are like the coyote howling in the night and break treaties, and they are not like us. Each of their headmen speaks with a different voice. Can it be that we must fight with some and parley with others?"

Manuelito straightened, his mind racing. These were not the words he expected from Barboncito. Manuelito waited while others around the fire weighed what they had heard. After a respectful time for reflection on Barboncito's carefully chosen words, Manuelito spoke, shaping his argument more for Barboncito's benefit than the others around the fire. He saw how they perched on rocks like so many crows, unsure whether to fly or roost. If Barboncito followed him, the others would, also.

"What honor is there in dying like a rabbit, a gah refusing to come from its burrow? How can we abide knowing our women and children toil in the Mexican fields along the Rio Puerco? Is there beauty in the Biligáana seizing our land? Can we trust those who believe words on paper are to be obeyed while their tongues pour out lies? Fort Defiance is a festering sore on our body, keeping us from living in harmony with our land."

Manuelito saw the subtle shift of Barboncito's feet, the way the other headman reached to touch the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt, unconsciously duplicating Manuelito's gesture. Manuelito had so much more to say but held back from voicing those fiery words. Barboncito's thoughts travelled the path Manuelito desired. Too much argument now might cause the older headman to reconsider.

Barboncito cleared his throat and asked in a firm voice that rang along the cañon walls and far into the night, "When can the Enemy Way sing begin?"

Cool breeze blew across Manuelito's back from the direction of the Chuska Mountains and a coyote spoke mournfully, warning of danger. Manuelito cocked his head to one side and listened as the Little Wind whispered encouragement in his ear. The coyote brought danger not to the Dinéh warriors this night but to the indolent Biligáana. He shook his head slightly to settle the mountain lion skin battle helmet adorned with carefully gathered eagle and owl feathers. Manuelito glanced left and right to assure himself all was ready for the attack. It was four hours until dawn and through the night's obscurity moved shadows within darker shadows. He lifted his bow and motioned toward the somber hulk of Fort Defiance, still slumbering like an unsuspecting cow. Straining to detect any mistake that might betray the onslaught of Dinéh power against the interlopers, Manuelito paused for long minutes. Even his keen ears failed to hear the sound of moccasins moving swiftly across the sun-baked earth, but Manuelito knew all around him a thousand Dinéh warriors converged on the hated fort.

Running lightly, he kept the dark adobe section of waist-high wall in sight. If a Biligáana soldier appeared above the wall, Manuelito would loose an arrow. Manuelito sneered when no one stirred; their sentries were neglectful. Probably asleep, he thought. Their discipline was lax, as lax as their ways were devious.

Too many times the treaty of 1858 had been broken--and Bonneville's Treaty had allowed the Biligáana to steal much precious land. But the end of patience had come when those in the fort tried to kill headman Agua Chiquito in January. Only Chiquito's cleverness had allowed his escape. Now Manuelito would see the bluecoated soldiers pushed from Dinetah back to Santa Fé, out of Dinetah. Dropping to the ground and sitting with his back against the cold adobe, Manuelito waited for others to join him.

"Do you have the rope?" he asked in a low voice. A young warrior, José Gordo, thrust horsehair rope into his hand. It took several minutes for a fire to be struck and the frayed end of the rope to be ignited. It smoldered sluggishly to a bright coal in the night, signalling the others all was well.

Coming to his feet and peering over the wall intended to keep small animals inside rather than warriors out, he selected his target. Manuelito stepped back, judged the distance and tossed the flaring rope with a heavy rock attacked directly onto a wagon bed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the wagon exploded into twenty-foot-high flames that lit the parade ground like day.

Manuelito threw himself over the adobe wall, joined quickly by José Gordo, and then the others. Distant murmuring of alarm rose from the sleepy soldiers. Those muffled sounds were drowned out by Manuelito's war whoop. He jumped past the blazing wagon and shot an arrow, the shaft flying straight and true into the chest of a Biligáana soldier blundering from a barracks to see what the fuss was about.

Behind Manuelito crowded dozens of Dinéh warriors, spreading out through the expansive interior of Fort Defiance, firing arrows into anyone daring to stir. The few sleepy sentries making their rounds were the first to die. Manuelito knew there would be others. Soon. He wanted them all to die within their strange hogans, infecting them with chindi, the spirits of the dead. The entire fort would have to be abandoned then or the bluecoats would risk ghost sickness.

The first ragged volley from Biligáana muskets prompted Manuelito to signal Barboncito, still outside Fort Defiance. Those warriors within the fort now crept along close to the ground, under the shelter of flying arrows, seeking safety from the gathering wrath of the bluecoat soldiers. Manuelito directed his warriors in the direction of the fort's woodpiles and low fences, using them as barriers against the increasingly deadly rifle fire. Manuelito ducked low and spun about, seeing a sentry behind him. The man--hardly more than a boy--stood clutching his musket, shaking so hard he could not properly tamp in the charge. In the dancing ghost light of the fire, now spreading to nearby structures, Manuelito saw fear and shock on the youth's pimply face.

Manuelito also saw the suffering of his own people and the perfidy of the whites. He lifted his bow and let fly an arrow that sent the young soldier to the ground with the feathered shaft embedded in his leg. His cries of pain vanished quickly as an unblooded Dinéh warrior rushed over and drew a knife across the screaming stripling's throat. In the fierce light, the blood leaked out black, thick, sluggish.

Manuelito whooped in glee at the newly tested warrior. He remembered his own blooding so many years earlier against a Pueblo fighter. After that battle he had known he was no weak creature and had been called Haskéh Naabaah, Angry Warrior. That feeling of his first kill returned to Manuelito as he whirled, loosing one arrow after another. The fearful force of a thousand warriors drove the Biligáana soldiers from their barracks and back to their small kitchen and laundry. For an hour, they fought, slowly crowding the surviving soldiers into smaller and smaller areas. One brave soldier succeeded in firing the cannon next to the flagpole, but in his rush he had forgotten to load the cannonball. A huge gout of flame licked out, doing more damage as it set fire to dry grass in the parade ground than it did to the attackers. The soldier died quickly as he turned to flee.

Resistance stiffened and many of the Dinéh began to shrink from the attack. They had reduced Fort Defiance to a burned out husk that would wither and blow away with the approaching dawn. Many soldiers had died; few Dinéh had given their lives in the overwhelming attack.

But this was not enough for Manuelito. Prowling like the cougar whose skin helmet he wore, he hunted for any not huddling within the two buildings. Manuelito flushed one from the ruins of the stables. The soldier rose up, face dark with smoke and dirt. A thrown pitchfork caused Manuelito to swerve from his vengeance, giving the man the chance to bolt and run like a rabbit.

Recovering, Manuelito rushed after him, overtaking the half-clad, fleeing soldier a dozen paces from the safety of the laundry. All around cracked rifle shot after rifle shot, but the Dinéh war chief paid no heed. Manuelito tackled him, forcing him to the ground. His hand closed easily on the horn handle of his knife, but the trooper proved no easy adversary.

"You heathen!" the soldier grated from between clenched teeth as he heaved and twisted. For a moment, Manuelito was unseated. He rolled to one side and came to his knees, still clutching his knife.

The soldier kicked out, but Manuelito slapped the booted feet to one side and dived forward. His knife rose high, caught a hint of dawn, then plunged downward. The blade glanced off the soldier's upraised arm and then sank into exposed chest. Blood exploded from the wound, and Manuelito knew one less bluecoat would steal their land.

He pushed the body away and grabbed hair. He took a scalp and held the sandy thatch high in the air as he vented a heartfelt cry that combined hurt for his people and victory over his enemy. Sharp pain along his chest staggered him. Manuelito turned and faced the laundry where a dozen musket muzzles protruded from windows--all aimed at him. A slug had opened a narrow channel on his chest and caused blood to flow slowly.

The pain focused Manuelito's attention on the battle. His anger must not overshadow the need to direct his clan. Others of his clan, the Folded Arms People, surged around him.

"Fire!" Manuelito called, waving to José Gordo. "Give them fire!"

José Gordo immediately broke off his attack and faded back, taking several warriors with him. Scrambling away, Manuelito stood in the center of the fort's parade ground, firing arrow after arrow into the laundry. The adobe walls were too thick to penetrate, but he frightened those within. More than one rifle barrel vanished from its loophole, never to be replaced.

Then came the real assault. José Gordo fired the first arrow. After that, Manuelito could not say who of his clan fired. Arrows carrying rags dipped in pitch arched upward and landed on the rooftops of the remaining buildings. Manuelito saw that Barboncito entered the fray with all the fervor of a brave warrior. Arrow after arrow left the older headman's bow. Each arrow sent its deadly message. Fear the Dinéh!

They would never be forced from their holy lands!

Soon the raging fire challenged the rising sun in brilliance, but the Biligáana soldiers did not surrender. They fought like wounded bears even as their fort burned around their ears. Manuelito had hoped for a total victory but saw this was denied him. Even against a thousand warriors and surprise, the bluecoated soldiers fought well.

Manuelito knew it was time to leave. The battle had lasted over three hours. The soldiers crowded into only two buildings, seemingly impervious to even the fire arrows. Before long, the officers would take command of nearby cannon. The Dinéh could never stand against such firepower; pitting bow against musket proved increasingly treacherous. But if complete victory eluded Manuelito now, the Biligáana would never recover from the destruction of Fort Defiance. They had no stomach for real battle. Manuelito signalled for the warriors to slip away, to return to the fastness of Cañon de Chelly.

"Bucket brigades!" came the shout from the direction of the officers quarters. Manuelito hesitated at this cry for action, nocking another arrow. No flashing gold braided officer showed, and none of the men hiding in the laundry foolishly obeyed the order to put out the fires while their enemies remained inside their fort. Manuelito lowered his bow and vaulted the low adobe wall surrounding Fort Defiance.

A thousand voices lifted to the morning sun, voices chanting victory even as the thunder of their horses echoed across a revitalized nation. Manuelito smiled grimly. These were the sounds of his people, the sounds of The People. From within the fort came angry cries and the deafening crackle of fire spreading and men dying in flaming agony. He tipped his head to one side and smiled with real anticipation when he heard the confused, contradictory commands shouted by Biligáana officers. The time for the final coup neared.

"North," Manuelito urged his warriors. "North to our homes!" Manuelito had to chevy reluctant warriors to keep them moving away. They smelled the fear and defeat in the bluecoats, but Manuelito knew it was folly to remain any longer. His warriors would begin dying in larger numbers when the officers regained control of their troops. Manuelito had no fear of the bluecoat soldiers but did not want them to use their muskets and cannon--especially the cannon.

Manuelito could not forget how Colonel Washington had used cannon to kill Narbona. The soldiers and their rifles Manuelito would willingly face, but the cannon. . . .

"Barboncito," Manuelito called, riding hard to catch up with the older headman. He got Barboncito's attention and motioned him to the north and east, toward Chuska Valley. Barboncito nodded, knowing their carefully devised plan would work. Soldiers would follow carelessly--into a new trap.

Manuelito and Barboncito rode slowly, then separated their forces, one going east toward the sun and the other west, each finding a position along opposite walls in the gentle, low-walled cañon. Their dust clouds had barely died when the bluecoated soldiers rode hard to overtake their attackers.

Two companies gave reckless pursuit, and the ambush went better than Manuelito could have hoped. When the commanding officer saw the arrows coming from his left, he ordered the men right, into Barboncito's warriors. Finding no shelter, the Biligáana officer led his men in full retreat. His company was cut to bloody ribbons by their own men, the second company trailing at a distance and not knowing who shouted and raced toward them.

Blood ran in thick rivers, and the thirsty land drank deeply.

It was a good day for the Dinéh, the first of many throughout the summer.

Copyright © 1996 Robert E. Vardeman