The Last Warrior

    Riding down the desolate road on the back of a Harley, the man could see the reservation. Dirt and dust rose in the air behind the classic Harley, but the sound of the motorcycle suggested it was right out of the factory. The man who rode so ghostly upon the iron horse was quite big, although elderly.
    Bringing his motorcycle to a halt on top of a hill, he slowly dismounted the Harley. His face was ruff and worn, showing disappointment from the years of hard labor he longed through. The man's hair, long and black wore lines of silver, waved in the wind's breeze and his eyes were hollow after so many withering years.
    From out of the deserted land a shape in the distance started to form and as it moved closer, the man could see clearly that it was a dog. The dog was shaggy and looked as though he were worn after years of travel, his eyes were deep and sad. He took his place by the man's side and together they walked to the end of the hill, which overlooked a creek. The man began to rub his knee, probably from an old war wound.
    Night drifted over the sky bringing the moon, which was not supposed to be showing this night. The stars were particularly bright tonight and the night sky showed all of the constellations. The man had set a fire and it shined radiantly on the creek. The dog was sitting next to the man who had his eyes closed. Many hours went by and the man opened his eyes. The fire had long died out and all that remained was the light of the moon. The man's eyes were bright now and gazed out across the creek.
    Down by the creek, ghost like figures were now visible. They were dancing but not just any old dance, the Ghost Dance. These were the spirits of the men, women, and children massacred at Wounded Knee Creek.
    For hours upon hours the spirits danced and the man prayed for his Wachota brothers.
    The rays of the sun began to chase the moon away and the old Indian knew it was time. The dog that had so faithfully kept the man company was whimpering now. In an instant he was dead; the wind picked up and dogs body turned into the wind. A tear rolled down the man's face; down the warrior's face. He knew that the final spirit had died. Giving his last respects to the spirits, the Indian started his Harley and took one more look around.
    The last warrior rode off on his Harley towards the rising sun, but his body and motorcycle disappeared with the wind.
    The land is gone now to the Plains Indians, he has been captured and locked away on a plot of land. There are black birds in the sky and the buffalo cry. They outlawed the Ghost Dance.