In January of 1966 an old Crow woman, tired of her age and the palsied chattering of her body, walked from Powder River all the way up Crazy Woman Creek into the Bighorns. She thought she would be as the original Crazy Woman, another Indian dying alone in the snow. But when she reached the spot where Crazy Woman had died, the old woman slipped out of her skin and dropped to the ground.
Young again, the old woman turned to walk away and stumbled. Confused, she only then realized there was a smell in the air, the smell of horse, and the smell was she. Inhaling deeply, she could smell both herself and her fallen skin — the old Crow woman ready to die and the beautiful young roan mare.
She galloped back to Powder River where her granddaughter was sitting in their cabin staring at a portable radio and listening to President Johnson announce the resumption of bombing of North Vietnam. The old-woman-young-horse whinnied and banged on the door with her hoof. The granddaughter opened the door and seeing only a horse in the yard closed the door again. Then opened it. Strange horse, not theirs, not one of the white rancher’s. The horse ran in circles, its tail arched high, great clouds of breath steaming from its nostrils.
The horse stopped and stared at the granddaughter who didn’t know what to say. And it was cold so she closed the door and sat down again in front of the radio. Again the old-woman-young-horse banged at the door. Opening it, the granddaughter shooed the horse, now making a nuisance of itself, away. She didn’t recognize her grandmother’s eyes in the face of the horse.
A third time the horse banged at the door, battering it with both hooves. Annoyed, the granddaughter filled a bucket with water, opened the door and flung the water on the horse. Immediately coated with ice, the horse turned and galloped back up Crazy Woman Creek. As carefully as possible, she picked up her old woman skin in her teeth and draped it across her frozen back where it slowly melted the ice and slid into place — the stooped shoulders, liver-spotted hands, frostbitten ears and nose.
The old woman limped home, a little frozen blood where her horse’s teeth had bitten through the skin of her ankle. She opened the door, walked in, and sat down next to her granddaughter. Only then, sliding her feet on the floor, did she notice the blood and bend down to see what was wrong. And only then did the granddaughter turn off the radio and ask her what had happened.
“A Wyoming Myth” is from David Romvedt’s second collection of poetry, How Many Horses, to be published by Ion Books, P.O. Box 111327, Memphis, TN 38111.
— Ed.
