A Promise of Thunder

Prologue
     
    The People called him Thunder because of the restless fury trapped in his tormented soul. His family had named him Grady. Grady Farrell Stryker, son of Shannon Branigan and half-breed Swift Blade Stryker. He was three-quarters white; yet except for the pure deep blue of his eyes he looked all Indian. His father was the son of a princess of the mighty Lakota Nation. His grandmother was daughter to a chief.
    He stood tall and proud on a high bluff, his magnificent body silhouetted against the stark beauty of the territory called the Black Hills. A violent storm raged around him, illuminating the sky with an awesome display of nature’s most powerful destructive force. Rain lashed his massive sun-bronzed body, ill protectedagainst the elements in brief breechclout and moccasins. But Thunder neither noticed nor responded to the biting sting of pelting rain.
    His arms were raised in open defiance, challenging the heavens, defying death, daring Wakantanka, the Grandfather Spirit, to shoot a lightning bolt through his tormented heart. He feared nothing, called no man master.
    Grady Farrell Stryker had been an idealistic young man before he fled from his home near Cheyenne, Wyoming. But heartsick and bitter over the tragic death of his young wife, Summer Sky, he had joined his father’s tribe looking for revenge. There, among the People, he had gained maturity and strength, if not peace of mind. He had participated in the sacred Sun Dance and had the scars on his chest to prove it. He had ridden with renegades and taken the lives of men like those who were responsible for Summer Sky’s death.
    Most White Eyes called him “Renegade,” but the People thought him brave and majestic. He was despised by the whites for the havoc he wrought in their lives. He knew no peace; he knew only the thunder of discontent in his heart. He worshiped no White God but rather the Earth, the Sun, the Sky, the Moon, and the elements that provided him sustenance. He believed in the Grandfather Spirit because He was the mighty provider who nourished the People.
    A wild cry of protest and outrage flew past Thunder’s mouth as he raged against the whiteswho stole Indian reservation land and opened it up to settlers despite treaties. The People were forced to exist on smaller and smaller tracts of inferior land where food was scarce or nonexistent. Food promised by Indian agents never arrived, and Thunder had stolen many a shipment of beeves and grain destined for white consumption to give to the People.
    Jagged streaks of lightning struck the ground around him, but Thunder neither flinched nor moved, standing as if carved in granite. His face was set in stone, his tawny muscles sculpted from sturdy oak. Yet he survived the storm to live another day, though it mattered little to him if Wakantanka called him to join his ancestors.
    “Why, Grandfather?” he called out in a mighty roar that rivaled the very name he was given. “Why have you spared me? Of what use am I to the People? Little by little our culture is dying and the People scatter like leaves before the wind. The day of the mighty Lakota is long past.”
    Suddenly the heavens parted and a glimmer of sun shone through the dark clouds. And for the first time in all the years since he had joined the People, Grandfather spoke to him.
    “Go forth, Thunder, your destiny lies not with the People. The time has come to seek the future for which you were destined. You have learned and prospered, but your greatest challenge lies in another direction.”
    “You would have me leave, Grandfather? What of my son, Summer Sky’s child?”
    “Little Buffalo will be safe with the People until you return for him.”
    “Why must I leave, Grandfather? My spirit will not rest until I have avenged Summer Sky’s death.”
    “Riding with renegades brings no honor to your name, Thunder. There is no peace in your heart; it craves vengeance and thrives on violence.”
    “How will I find peace, Grandfather?”
    “The peace you seek will come with the Storm. Until you meet and conquer the Storm your spirit will know no rest. Always remember that Thunder is the harbinger of Storm, but Thunder can only exist in the bosom of Storm’s soul.”
    Puzzled, Thunder mulled over Grandfather’s words, awed by the wisdom that went beyond mortal comprehension.
    “Grandfather, I do not understand.”
    The heavens were silent; Wakantanka spoke no more.

Chapter One
     
    Guthrie, Oklahoma
September 12,