There was once a man that lived in a world far different from our own. He was born deep in the heart of the Old West in a small valley on the Osage River. His parents were traders from the South that lived among the local Indian tribes and had established peace with their chiefs. One of these chiefs, Chief Soaring Eagle and his people that inhabited that part of the river valley, had taken in these traders as part of the tribe. They had made them a home in Soaring Eagle's Village with the rest of his people. So it was, as was custom in the tribe that the Chief was there on that day of the boy's birth to bestow upon him his spirit name. After he was birthed and his parents had given him their family name calling him Jack Thomas Cade, the Chief took him up looking into his eyes. He stared deeply into them almost as if he were searching his soul and said only this "Nitsuj, The Great Justice".
A great war broke out shortly after the boy was a year-old. After the Civil War was over the Government began taking land from the Indians and killing them off. Jack's parents sent him away with a small band of young braves to take refuge from the fighting. His parents fought alongside their tribal family against the armies of soldiers that had been sent to kill them, but the numbers were against them. They were all brutally murdered by the army men that raided the valley.
Some twenty years had passed now, and the war was over. Jack Cade was returning to the valley to pay his respects to the parents that had given him up to help defend their village. He had been raised in a hidden land by the young friends of his parents that had taken him away. He had been raised in both the way of the Whites and the Indians as his parents had wished before they sent him away. When he was old enough to understand, they explained to him the terrible truth of what had happened to his parents and their home. They taught him how to ride, trade, shoot, ranch and hunt. By the time he was twenty, Jack had become quite the rancher and decided to trail north to the Dakota Territory to begin his own ranching company and maybe start a family along the way. He saddled up his favorite mount and headed out toward the vast wilderness of the Northwest. His Indian family told him the way to the valley on the Osage where he was born. He had some unfinished business there before he began his journey.
Jack pulled up on the reins as he rode into the remains of the little village that used to belong to his people. Something was wrong; the wind carried the musty smell of an old camp fire. He slid out of his saddle tethering his mount to a nearby spruce and pulled his .45 Winchester from the saddle. With cautious steps he eased around the end of the granite wall that shrouded the old village from the north. Just as he suspected, there were the crackling amber coals that remained from someone's fire. The ground was riddled with foot prints that made it hard to decipher, but he could tell, there were three men. They hadn't been gone long. One of them was probably a pretty stocky fellow judging by the deep wide imprints from his boots. Jack knelt down by the coals. Propping his rifle on a nearby stump he held out his hands to warm them over the heat of the coals. Then suddenly a twig snapped in the distance and his horse whinnied. Just as he'd feared, something was wrong. He grabbed his rifle off the stump and ran back to the cover of the granite wall. Peering around the corner, he saw a pot- bellied, little, Mexican Bandido closing in on his mount. He threw up his rifle drawing a bead on the little round man. Just as he pulled the trigger drilling a slug deep into the gut of the bandido, a shot rang out over his head. He ducked behind the wall just in time to miss the shot of the third bandido as he rode by. Seeing their chunky amigo downed, the other two retreated toward a boulder near the entrance to the valley leaving their mounts behind. While they positioned for another ambush, Jack weaseled through the trees up onto a rise overhanging the two shaken bandidos' cover. Drawing a fine bead on the nearest one the Winchester roared again planting a bullet into the skinny bandido's chest. The third looked around in surprise realizing His cover had been compromised. He quickly drew both his cross-draw six-guns firing a shower of lead over Jack's head until both guns fired dry. Realizing the He had made a grave mistake, he feebly reached for his partner's rifle, but it was a useless attempt. Jack stood up taking aim. Before the bandido's hand could grab the rifle, He was drawing it back to clinch his gushing chest.
Jack, now sure that he was alone, went back to his horse and reloaded his rifle returning it to the saddle. He walked down to the river's edge. Kneeling he prayed a spirit prayer to his birth mother. Then he returned to his mount, saddled up, and rode north out of the river valley to pursue his long trail to the Dakota Territory. As he left, Nitsuj's Spirit took in all that it could of the beautiful valley, for Jack Cade knew in his heart he would never again see that valley.
A Narritive Essay by:
Justin C. Williams
