The night sky flashed with intense lighting. Gale force winds whipped across the plains of the Reservation. The young of the tribe huddled close to the elders, partly because of fear, but also partly because, during these storms, the elders loved to tell stories of storms past. The elders would tell the young that each storm had a meaning, that each bolt of lightning and each pounding of thunder was a chapter in a greater story than they could ever know. One elder each storm would fill the tiny shelter with soaring tales and the children would hang on every word. Miraculously, each story would wind to an end just as the storm silenced and the children would trundle back to their teepees and fall asleep, visions of the story just told to them still swirling in their minds.
Despite the intensity of the storm, The Chief slept deeply. The dreams were coming to him. The dreams the Spirit sends.
The Chief lay in an open patch of brush, palms to the ground. Vibrations from the earth climbed through his palms. Rain, intense and driving, drenched his slumbering body. Says his mind, bustling with as much electrical current as the lighting bolts around him, "O, mystical and all-knowing Spirit, I know I am here not to live merely an earthly life, but to live a life fulfilling the quests you ask of me." And comes the dream...
In the dream, a man speaks with passion before a great crowd. White men, adorned with the trappings of wealth, listen intently to his every word. He speaks of helping children suffering from disease and malnutrition in the poorest countries on the planet. The women in the room cry openly. He explains to the assembled that they can have a direct affect on these children's well-being. It would just take a generous monetary donation, and he and his organization would get the food and supplies to them as quickly as possible.
As the man finishes speaking, slips of paper the white people call checks are piling up high inside a box marked "donations." He makes his way through the adoring crowd. Some embrace him, others offer just a firm handshake. All offer their thanks for the work he does on behalf of the far-away poor children.
The dream changes its scene to the same man, now at his home. A home The Chief imagines to be every bit as extravagant as the palaces of the Roman Empire. Automobiles, numbering more than there are days in the week, fill an entire wing of his home. In this dream, it is clear to The Chief that the man lives in wealth from the money he collects for the poor. The Spirit has shown this man to The Chief in the dream. He says to himself, "O, Great Spirit, it sickens not only you but I as well, that this man deceives the world. Deceives it in the name of precious children. Arrogant that no officer of the law he refuses to obey will ever discover him, that justice is merely a myth and something he will never have to face. I know you have called on me to deliver to his man a savage justice from which there is no escape. I will answer your call, for I cannot refuse you. My hands will deliver the punishment you see fit. I await your sign. The sign of what horrors shall come to him."
With that the dreams ends and The Chief awakens. Early morning rays of sunlight project from the horizon. He stands and breathes in deeply. He knows soon another sinner's blood will flow. The Spirit will show him the promised sign, and that quickly it is upon him. Galloping up to his side is his beloved horse, Extended Hand. Extended Hand, a jet black horse, lean and muscular, is already saddled. In his saddlebag are the supplies needed for a lengthy journey; water, food and maps. The Chief then sees the other item promised by The Spirit in the dream. There, in a separate compartment of the saddlebag, is the vehicle by which the rich man's justice will be delivered. O, how many times it has been wielded, and yet it will be wielded once more, this great and mighty hatchet.
The Hatchet of Justice.
