As legend tells it, he was known among his people as Wind Whisperer, for he could hear the voices of the Muga, the spirit world, in the rustling of the leaves, and could answer their calls in a voice identical to the wind. It was because of this gift he was made a Shaman, a man of wisdom and honor. He was consulted for all tribal decisions. Through Wind Whisperer, the wisdom of the ancestors could be told.
He lived among the Shoshone Indians until the treaty of 1863 when Washakee, and the other tribal leaders placed their marks on the soldier's paper that promised perpetual peace, and established land boundaries for the northern Shoshone tribes.
It was then the Spirits had spoken to him, and he warned Washakee of their message. The treaty would not be honored. No promise made by the white chiefs were ever honored by the white soldiers or settlers. The land would be taken, and many Shoshone people killed.
But Washakee had no choice, and Wind Whisperer's warnings went unheeded. It was then Wind Whistler knew he could not stay and watch his people die the death of oppression and starvation.
Wind Whisperer was not Shoshone. He was not even Indian. But from the beginning, he was strong medicine to the Shoshone. As legend tells it he came to the tribe as an infant, concealed in a bundle of beaver furs that had been traded for beads and trinkets at a post near the Great Salt Lake. His spirit was of the beaver who, after being slain by the white man's trap, entered the spirit world but returned in human form to honor the spirit of the beaver. This is what he'd been taught. This is what his people knew to be true.
After his vision quest at the age of twelve, Wind Whisperer returned to his people with a warning that soon the white men would sail across the plains on logs the size of three canoes. Within one generation of this vision, railroads carried white men across the land to the great waters of the west.
His skin was tan from seasons spent in the sun and wind, but his hair was brown and when not braided, fell in loose curls around his shoulders. His eyes were not the coal, black color of the Shoshone or the beaver, but were peppered with flecks of green and gold. The Shoshone said these colors were the reflections of the spirits that had walked the earth before him.
From the time he left the Shoshone people, Wind Whistler traveled alone through the slowly ebbing wilderness near the Medicine Line that separated the soldiers from the Indians migrating further and further north toward the arctic's perpetual cold. Through occasional encounters with trappers, prospectors, and mountain men, he came to understand the white man's tongue, and many of the white man's ways. But he preferred the solitude the wilderness provided, and not until the years had aged him, the elements had weakened him, the winds no longer whispered in his ears, did he surrender his beaver spirit to the wilds.
We'd heard the legends, always figured that's what they were, legends or folktales. Stories get embellished with each new telling and we had always figured that was true of this one as well.
But then we met him, my partner and me, near the end of his Spirit days. We spent a season in the northern edges of Montana's Medicine Line. My partner had been felled by measles and couldn't travel. The illness had weakened him to a point near death and we spent the spring thaw in an eroding cabin that provided little protection from the northern winds and melting snows that dripped steadily through the broken roof.
For weeks we had lived on an occasional fox or rabbit when I was able to shoot one. We drank snow boiled in the hearth. My partner lay on the thin blankets of our bed rolls, next to the fire. At night I slept huddled tightly next to him, kept him warm. At the time, I didn't know what kept him alive... Now I understand.
I woke one morning to find him standing in the open doorway. He was dressed in animal skins. His hair hung in two braids that fell nearly to his chest. He held a quiver in one hand, a half dozen dead fish, strung together with sinew in the other. I sat on the dirt floor with one hand resting on my partner's bony shoulder, just looking at him, not daring to move. I saw his eyes move away from me and slowly scan the cabin. When his eyes fell back on me again, he raised the string of fish in the air, tossed them on the table, and departed. Just like that, not a work spoken by either of us. I got up and made my way to the door, but he was gone without a trace.
The next morning I found three dead rabbits hanging from the shaft of an arrow that had pierced the door sometime during the night. A tanned bearskin lay next to the door. I covered my partner with the bearskin, finally able to keep him warm.
Every few days for the next few weeks I'd find some kind of meat or fish speared to that arrow. With food now on a daily basis, my partner slowly began gaining some strength and weight. When the snow had all melted, we lost our water supply. It was then I started finding bladders of water hanging on that shaft. I started thinking maybe we weren't destined to die on that dirt floor.
After about a month, my partner was strong enough to sit up, even stand to relieve himself. But he was still too weak to travel and our horses had long since run off, maybe even froze to death somewhere. We couldn't walk our way to civilization, not yet, anyway... Maybe never. We had long since run out of bullets, so we were at the mercy of that silent stranger. And he was steadfast and faithful in keeping us in sustenance.
I started finding things to leave outside for him, a razor, a Henley, my leather vest. Then one night, I built a small fire a few yards from the cabin and dragged a couple of logs up near the fire. I sat down on one of the logs and waited, hoping he'd understand the gesture. Sometime during the night I dozed off. Just as the sun was beginning to rise over the mountain peaks, I woke. He was sitting on the log, watching me. I smiled at him and he returned the smile. I asked if he spoke English and he nodded. I told him my name and I thanked him for saving our lives. I asked him his name and he told me Wind Whisperer.
Then I asked him why he'd helped us. He explained that his people had told him he was of the beaver spirit, a spirit that symbolizes wisdom, diligence, a quest to provide for family, and that it is associated with the sacred pipe. He said he hears the spirits of his ancestors in the winds and that they guide him to help others who carry the spirits of their ancestors. I asked him what we could do for him and he smiled and said now he understood why the spirits had guided him to us. He said he'd be back once more, with a horse. Then he stood and walked away. I sat and watched him till he was out of sight.
Sure enough, two days later I found a horse tethered to the post. My partner and me gathered what few belongings we still had and piled them on the bearskin. We left all those things on the porch, hoping he'd return after we left. Then, together, we rode bareback, heading south toward civilization.
I've since heard the Wind Whisperer is dead. Whenever I see some mountain man visiting a saloon, I stop and engage him in conversation, always steering the talk to the stories, the legends of the Wind Whisperer. Sometimes in the conversation, they always tell me he's dead now, but I know he never will be. I know he's joined the voices of his ancestors. I know his voice still whispers to others willing to hear those voices in the wind.