A Short Story by Michele Hathaway

Illustrated by Susan Hurite

Narrated by Beth Phelps

Chapter 1

Niyol

MONSTER Slayer stood on the edge of a sunbeam surveying the land of The People. He stood looking at the red mesas rearing up, like old fortresses, out of sand and clay into the deep blue sky. Line upon line and scattered here and there, above valleys of sage and grass and rabbit brush, they kept their silent vigil. Monster Slayer smelled the smoke of a thousand fires, fires that had warmed and protected The People over the centuries. He stood remembering the quests—the feel of chain lightning and sheet lightning arrows on his bow, arching toward his enemies, the enemies of The People. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, set it to the string and shot it into the sky. In a canyon below, the crack and flash of lightning startled Coyote poised to pounce on an unwary rabbit. He flinched, and in that instant, his prey fled.

Monster Slayer stood remembering…

The first day I saw Monster Slayer was the day the soldiers came. Little Brother and I were out with the sheep beyond Standing Rock Wash. The dogs were rounding up old Goat Face, who had escaped their net again. That was the same moment Little Brother’s lamb spotted a tuft of new grass by the wash and trotted over to try a bite. His mother started after him bawling, probably to tell him not to be so foolish, when the whole bank gave way. They both disappeared.

“Big Brother!” Little Brother shouted. I ran over, Little Brother on my heels, and I threw myself flat out on the ground so as not to let go another slide, and belly crawled to the edge. Little Brother shinnied up next to me, his black eyes round. The sheep had dropped and slid about ten feet. The lamb was caught partway under his mother looking surprised and complaining pathetically. One of the ewe’s front legs was twisted the wrong way; I could see the whites of her eyes as they rolled in her head. But she lay still, waiting. She knew I would come.

I left the dogs to guard the rest of the flock and Little Brother and I hunted for a good place to get down. There wasn’t one. I found the best spot, told Little Brother to stay on the bank, and jumped. It was about a six foot drop, then a long slide down the slope to the wash bottom. Little Brother watched from the edge of the wash, biting his lip. He didn’t say a word. He knew I would take care of things.

When I got to the ewe, Red, our best sheep dog, had already found a way down and was standing by her. The leg wasn’t broken, but it didn’t look good. The ewe might have to become supper, but Father had said she was a good mother, and I didn’t want to lose her if I could help it. I pulled the lamb out from under his mother by digging out the sand under them. He was all right—unnerved and dusted up, like a cowbird caught in a whirlwind--but all right. I held the lamb against my chest till it calmed, then handed it up to Little Brother. He grabbed its forelegs and managed to haul the lamb over the bank. It went bleating for its mother all the way up and she strained after it, but it pained her to do so. She was too heavy for me to hand up, though Father could have done it. So I sent Red back to the flock and told Little Brother to bring the sheep home. Then I gathered the ewe into my arms, taking care not to touch her bad leg, and carried her downstream.