A noise stopped me right at the edge of camp. It was a distant rumbling sound, like thunder. No, it was almost rhythmic, and it was getting louder…
Oh, no …
Bilagaana soldiers on horseback—I didn’t know how many—thundered right for the camp.
“Bilagaana!” someone shouted. “We’re under attack!”
The entire camp burst into chaos. People rushed out of their wickiups and ran off. I heard screaming and crying.
—the fire—the burning hogans—the soldiers—
“Hashke!” I saw Shizhé’é running towards me. A quiver was slung around his neck, and he held a bow. “Join the others!” he said.
“Wh-what about you?”
“Run! Now!” Shizhé’é nocked an arrow and fired. Other warriors joined in, firing arrows and shouting war cries.
I looked back to the fleeing crowd of people. There was no way they could escape the soldiers. And the warriors were no match for guns. What do I do? I thought. The soldiers and our warriors were now mixed together in a cloud of dust.
I heard the crack of a gun. I saw my father scream and clutch his arm. “Shizhé’é!” I screamed. I grabbed my bow and quiver and ran. “Shizhé’é!”
I found Shizhé’é kneeling on the ground, his shoulder bleeding. A soldier shot in front of him and brought out a pistol.
“No!” I rushed forward at the soldier. “Get out! Get out!”
Then, all of a sudden, the sand erupted. The other warriors retreated. I saw the sand rise up, like it was alive, and blast the soldiers. I was thrown off my feet. I felt my head hit the ground—and all was black.
Someone grabbed me and forced me to my feet. A big bilagaana soldier stood in front of me, pointing a rifle at me. “Come quietly or get shot,” he said. I felt soldiers form behind push me forward. Ahead I saw the refugees, all rounded up in a group surrounded by more soldiers. Among them was Shizhé’é, with a bandage around his arm.
I rushed to Shizhé’é. “Shizhé’é, are you okay?”
Shizhé’é gave a pained smile. “I’m fine, Hashke. The bullet just grazed me.”
“Let’s ride!” I heard one soldier say. The soldiers started moving forward. Some of them leaped down from their horses, brandishing rifles with shining bayonets. They held them like cattle prods.
“Git a move on!” one of them shouted. The people recoiled and started following the soldiers.
What would they do? Kill us?
We were surrounded. We had no weapons. Nearly all of our warriors were wounded. Exhausted, I followed the crowd.
It took until sunrise, but we came across a long road of tracks. The soldiers stopped us there. It was only then when I realized what they would do—they were taking us to Bosque Redondo.
“I say we jes’ kill ‘em all,” one soldier said. “With this many scalps—“
“Sergeant,” another voice said. It was different than other bilagaana—it was richer. One of the other soldiers rose. He glowered at the soldier who had spoken. “Our orders were to bring the Navajo to Bosque Redondo,” he said, “not kill them.”
“Right, Kurn’l Carson,” the soldier said. Soon, a small plume of smoke appeared in the distance, coming down the tracks.
I heard a large clanking noise of metal on metal. The Iron Horse—a large, black, ugly machine—rolled on wheels down the tracks, pulling wagon after wagon. The machine shrieked as it blew out jets of steam and slowed to a stop. A soldier opened a door on one of the wagons.
The soldiers brought out their guns and pointed them at us. I saw some soldiers stand straight, refusing to move. Children buried their faces in their mothers’ clothing. I clenched my fists.
Then, the man named Carson walked around. He stared right at us. “Please, get in,” he said—in Navajo. “I don’t want them to hurt you.” He sounded like he meant it—he really wanted to protect us from the soldiers.
One by one, we went into the wagon. The door shut with a bang behind us.
The wagon was dark, dank, and musty. The only light was from a single bulb ahead, swinging on a wire. Cobwebs were strung along the ceiling. I heard rustling in the wagon that made me think of rats.
“Shizhé’é…” I quivered. I sounded like a child, but I didn’t care. In the scant light, I saw the frightened face of my father—and the others who were there.
“Hashke,” Shizhé’é said. He put his arm around me. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
