It was a quiet day I remember, when the white men came. The trees swayed in the warm summer breeze, and the sun reflected off the stream where the women of the village squatted washing skins and clothes. I was not yet old enough to go out with the men on their daily hunting trips, so their I sat beside my mother, waiting, hoping for anything to pull me out of my boredom.
It wasn’t long before I began to wander away from the stream with the other children in search of an escape from the menial tasks of everyday life. Together we played games, laughed jovially and explored the woods surrounding the small clearing that was our village. And just like every other day we returned from our escapade as the sun set in preparation for the men’s return with the food. But our return journey was cut short by the orange glow of fire that gleamed through the small trees. At once are fast excited steps turned in to small stealthy ones as we approached the village with caution.
Once we reached the border between the woods and the clearing we finally saw where the fire had been coming from. Our small huts had been set ablaze, each only lasting a few moments under the intense heat before their eventual collapse. The source of this travesty was a small pale man wearing leather boots and the regular garb of the white men that had passed through our village in the past. This man was not alone. With him were a group of ten or so other gun wielding men who herded the women in to a small huddled group in the center of the clearing. The children and I watched in helpless horror as the men continue to burn the village to the ground, but our attention was taken away to the sound of shouting. It was my mother, trying, and succeeding, at fighting one of the men who had begun to force her to the ground. Giving up, he pointed his gun to my mother’s head, I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from shouting. But before the man had the chance to pull the trigger, an arrow whizzed from the right side of the border, hitting the man in the back of the skull. His body instantly toppled to the floor, limp.
The rest of the men’s heads snapped to the direction in which the arrow came. They all shot at once, their bullets entering the woods before they attempted to reload in preparation for their next barrage. Their attempts were cut off by high pitched shout of a man. Then he stepped out into our sight. A large mountain of a man, he wore dear skin clothing and a large headdress usually only worn during ceremonies of our people. Suddenly he began to run toward the group of men pulling a large stone club from his back, he let out a loud battle cry. The white men fumbled with their muskets and ammo, frightened of the man before them, so much so that they were unable to reload before he collided with them. They had no time to recollect themselves as the man swung his mighty club in every direction with deadly accuracy. The battle lasted only a minute before the men all lay dead, our savior standing over them huffing in exhaustion before he looked to us, nodded and disappeared into the woods.
After a moments silence, we ran from our hiding spots to our mothers. Hugging and rejoicing in their safety, unbothered by our burning homes.  I looked to my mother and asked the question on all of the kid’s minds.
“Who was that man?” She smiled in return.
“The protector spirit of our people, WILD HAWK!”