Broken Song didn’t have to guide his pinto, Mud Patch through the twists and turns up the narrow trail to the top of the ridge. Mud Patch knew the way to their favorite spot well. Into the final bend Broken Song stretched his bronze, tall, lean frame across his horse’s bareback to steal a quick glimpse at the rugged mountains wrapped around the flat valley below. They had made it in time for the sunrise. A gentle breeze played against the eagle feathers in his black braided hair and the beaded collar around his neck.

Broken Song released a prayer from his lips. The weight of his anger took wings and lifted. The joining of God’s handiwork and unconditional love quieted his soul and filled it once again with peace beyond his understanding. He still didn’t fully comprehend it, even after accepting God into his heart over a year ago after a chance meeting with a circuit preacher, but he knew God only ask him to accept the peace provided and use it to help him walk through this day. God’s steadfastness and unchanging ways, like the unchanging view of his tribes beloved land, had a way of calming him better than anything, even the firewater that sometimes called out to him after his year of sobriety. Broken Song took a deep breath. One day at a time. God doesn’t ask for any more than that.

At the crest of the ridge Broken Song spotted a shadow. A quick tug on Mud Patch’s bridle stopped the animal. His bow and arrows shifted against his back. He sat as stone, one hand on his buckskin breeches, the other maintaining a tight grip on the bridle. With his eyes fixed on the lone cowboy Broken Song wondered what this white man was doing in his secret place, and would the cowboy use the six shooter strapped to his bony thigh?

The small framed, fair haired cowboy outfitted in boots with spurs, jeans, western shirt, kerchief at his neck, and Stetson hat, sat slouched upon his fancy tooled saddle. Both his hands rested across his saddle horn. He made no movement, except to shift his eyes onto Broken Song’s determined face and hold them there. The two men, near in age, studied each other.

Broken Song narrowed his stare, recognizing the vast antipodal between their two cultures. The sun rose, exposing the slight twitch to the cowboy’s upper lip. The muscles in Broken Song’s thick arms tightened all the way to his broad shoulders.

The cowboy held his position but added a hint of a smile below his thin mustache. His eyes took on a friendly glow. In a slow, even motion, he raised a hand to his breast pocket. The cowboy’s long, thin fingers pulled the book from its comfortable home and held it out to Broken Song.

Few people in Broken Song’s tribe could read the white man’s words, but he counted in that small number. The muscles in his arms relaxed. The bridle went slack in his big hands. He accepted the gift and pushed a smile on his lips in recognition of the Holy Bible. Maybe Broken Song was wrong and judged in haste. Maybe they were not exact opposites. He parted his lips to offer his thanks.