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day was cool and clear, with a hint of fall in the air. The stallion stepped lively, its eyes showing white as a gust of wind sent a tumbleweed skittering across the trail. Head high, tail swishing, the dun pranced, eager to run.
    With a grin, Zuniga gave the stallion its head and the big stud broke into a lope, flying over the sandy ground as if it had wings. Zuniga squinted against the wind, relishing the chill air whipping through his hair and the surging power of the animal beneath him.
    Sometime later, he drew the stallion to a halt at the tree line. Dismounting, he slipped a bow and a quiver of arrows from his shoulder. Placing them against a tree trunk, he gave the stud an affectionate slap on the neck; then, squatting on his heels, he rolled a cigarette.
    He stared into the distance. In the old days, the tribe would have been hunting now, looking for enough game to sustain them through the winter. The women would have been repairing lodge covers, fashioning winter moccasins and robes…
    In the old days, he would have come to a place like this to seek a vision from the Great Spirit. Naked save for clout and moccasins, without food or water, he would have prayed to Usen for a sign to guide him through life and into battle. Nachi’s vision had been of a great white eagle who had promised him strength in battle and long life.
    Zuniga grinned faintly. Once, when he was eleven or twelve, he had gone high into the Dragoon Mountains. There, for three days and three nights, he had fasted and prayed, imploring the gods for a sign. Morning and evening, he had offered tobacco and hoddentin to the four directions, entreating Usen for a vision to guide him through life. On the evening of the third day, with his belly crying for food and his mouth dry as dust, a vision had come to him, as clear and real as anything he had ever seen. He had never told anyone of his vision, not even Nachi.
    Closing his eyes, he saw it all again: his people going down in defeat to the superior strength of the white man. He had seen friends and relatives die in battle, or waste away from the white man’s sicknesses, but he and Nachi had survived. Then, as the vision drew to a close, he caught a glimpse of himself surrounded by thick iron bars. That part of his vision had also come true, he mused ruefully, for now, living on the reservation, he often felt as though he were imprisoned, walled in by invisible bars heavier than steel, more binding than iron.
    Opening his eyes, he gazed down the mountain. His cousin, Short Bear, had gone to seek a vision two years ago, at the age of fourteen. Short Bear had fasted and prayed in the prescribed manner, but no vision had come to him. Short Bear had been sorely disappointed. Even now, Zuniga wondered why the boy had failed to receive a medicine dream when he had prayed so earnestly and desired it so much. Had the boy failed because he had lacked the faith necessary to receive a gift from the gods, or had the Great Spirit stopped sending visions now that the people were no longer living wild and free? Nachi claimed Usen was displeased with his red children because they no longer lived in the ancient way, and perhaps the old man was right. Who could say for certain?
    Zuniga smiled when he thought of his grandfather. Nachi had fought with both Cochise and Geronimo, with Mangas Colorado, and Victorio. They had known many victories, and many defeats. But now Mangas was dead, killed by soldiers. Victorio was dead, killed by a sniper. Cochise was dead. Of all the great old chiefs, only Geronimo was still living. He was a celebrity now, a living legend. He had ridden in Roosevelt’s inaugural parade. He had appeared at the St. Louis Exposition the year before, where he had been a notable attraction for the tourists. It was said he sold photographs of himself to the whites for fifty cents. Zuniga thought it was disgusting, the way Geronimo sold photographs and souvenirs to the whites. The old warrior had sold his