Archive of Our Own

It was just past midday, and the heat had softened from its earlier sharpness, settling into a warm, breathable hush. The air out at the commune always felt different—less like it belonged to Texas and more like it had arrived from some older, wider place. The sky stretched endlessly overhead, pale blue streaked with high clouds like feathers dragged across glass. Wind slipped through the cottonwoods and mesquite trees, and their soft rustling joined the hum of insects and the distant cluck of hens.

Glenda and Scarlett sat cross-legged beneath the low-slung branches of a young hackberry tree just behind the cookhouse. The grass here was patchy and warm against their legs, flattened in spots from previous play. A small cloth was spread between them, littered with acorns, half-withered flower heads, and a pair of yellowing leaves Glenda had insisted looked like wings.

Scarlett’s snow leopard lay tucked beside her, but forgotten for the moment. Her cheeks were flushed, and her braids—newly redone by Lozen that morning—hung neatly down her chest, tied at the ends with strips of faded fabric. Her hands moved in the air as she talked, shaping her words the way her grandmother shaped bread—slowly, firmly, like something meant to last.

“Okay,” Scarlett said, with the kind of breathy, serious tone that toddlers reserve for moments they know are very big. “So. He name’s… Sittin’ Bull. Like sit down. Like we sittin’ now. But he wasn’t sittin’ all the time. He fighted too. He was... uh…”—she paused, hunting for the right size of word—“...big brave. Super big. But not loud.”

Glenda tilted her head. She had one leaf pressed flat to her knee, her fingers busy smoothing it, but her eyes were locked on Scarlett.

“He had long braid hair,” Scarlett went on, nodding sagely. “All down here.” She patted her shoulder. “An’ he didn’t be ‘fraid. Not even when bad people come.”

“What bad people?” Glenda whispered.

Scarlett looked up, eyes big and serious. “The takers. Dey want stuff not theirs. Dey try take land. Try take ponies. Try take ever’thing. But Sittin’ Bull said no-no.” She shook her head hard. “He say, ‘Dis not yours. Go home.’”

Glenda gasped softly, hands now still. “Did he yell it?”

Scarlett thought. “Nah. He didn’t yell. He just looked. Real quiet look. Like dis.” She gave her best attempt at a grave stare—lips tight, brows down, eyes wide. “My Granny say when he look like dat, even horses stop movin’.”

Glenda giggled, clapping one hand over her mouth, then immediately tried to mimic the stare too, squinting at Scarlett with mock fierceness. They both burst into snickers for a moment, the solemnity briefly crumbling into that lightness only small children can summon. But Scarlett recovered quickly—this was important.

She held up one finger. “He not jus’ fight. He help peoples too. He talk good. My Granny said he talk straight. No twisty words. An’ when he talk, people listen.”

Glenda nodded slowly. “Like church?”

Scarlett considered that. “Kinda. But not borin’.”

She reached for a stick on the ground and started drawing in the dirt—circles, wavy lines, a stick figure with long braids and wide arms.

“He see bison in dreams,” she said suddenly, looking up as if remembering. “Big ones. In da sky. Granny say... he saw stuff before it ‘ppened. He knowed when trouble was comin’. He say, ‘Be ready. Stand still. Listen to da earth.’”

Glenda let out a soft “ooooh,” her hands resting in her lap now, spellbound.

Scarlett’s voice dropped to a whisper. “An’... he didn’t never run ‘way. Not even when da bad ones come with boom sticks.” She paused, searching for how to describe it. “He stand like tree. Not like little tree. Big tree. Roots all deep in ground.”

She pointed to one nearby. “Like dat one.”

They looked at the tree together for a long beat.

Glenda tilted her head. “He died?”

Scarlett nodded, eyes lowering. “Yuh. But not all gone. Granny say... he still walk ‘round, jus’ real quiet now. Like wind dat don’t knock nothin’ down. He come when you scared. He sit wit’ you. You don’t see, but you feel him. Right here.” She patted her small chest over her heart.

Glenda didn’t answer. She just reached out slowly and touched Scarlett’s hand, pressing their palms together in the middle of the cloth between them.

“I like him,” Glenda said softly. “He brave. Like your puma.”

Scarlett nodded solemnly. “Yup. Granny say dey maybe friends. I think dey is. I think dey sit on clouds and watch us talkin’ now.”

Glenda looked up at the sky, then grinned. “Hi up dere.”

Scarlett giggled, squeezing Glenda’s hand.

And there under the hackberry tree, while the wind stirred the grass and the scent of supper drifted from the outdoor kitchen, the two girls sat close, heads nearly touching, hands pressed together in the dirt and leaves and sunlight—sharing stories, building memory.

Sitting Bull, high above or deep within, was listening.

And Scarlett—small, braided, full of wonder—was telling his story just right.

Absolutely. Here's a very long, lyrical and richly emotional scene of young Scarlett (still speaking in toddler-speak) retelling to Glenda a story she heard from her elders—about Mexico, the Apache, and their resistance. The tone weaves memory, myth, and childhood simplicity together, portraying how stories of solidarity and struggle are passed on with reverence, even through the voice of a small child.

---

The afternoon was bright and sharp, the sun pinned high in a sky so blue it looked painted. At the commune, the day moved slow, like syrup in a jar, stretching out between chores and naps and lazy walks along the dry creekbed. The breeze was dry too, lifting dust into little swirls that danced between the garden rows. Cicadas buzzed, not urgently but like a background song that never stopped.

Out by the low adobe wall near the goat pen, Glenda and Scarlett sat side-by-side on an overturned feed bucket. Scarlett had a piece of cornbread in one hand and her snow leopard, Tah-kóxa, clutched under one arm. Glenda held a fig she'd been given by one of the older kids, poking it thoughtfully as she watched Scarlett's face with rapt attention.

Scarlett’s feet didn’t reach the ground. They swung lightly, dusty toes poking out of worn sandals. She was wearing a faded sundress, the hem damp where she’d sat too close to the water spigot. Her braids were loose today, done quick and early, but the red bead still clung near the end of one—winking in the sunlight.

She had just finished telling Glenda about a storm spirit her Granny said lived in the canyon past the south ridge, but now she leaned in close, her eyes narrowing with dramatic seriousness.

“Okay,” she said around a crumb of cornbread. “Dis one’s diff’rent. S’bout da ‘Pache. An’ Mexico. You know Mexico?”

Glenda nodded. “It’s far.”

Scarlett nodded back, mouth still full. “Uh-huh. Far but not real far. Not sky far. Just walkin’ far. But only if you real tough.”

She swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and held Tah-kóxa higher in her lap like he needed to hear it too.

“My uncle—da older one—not da one who say farts is thunder—he told me dis story,” she said with deep gravity. “It’s ‘bout how da ‘Pache was runnin’ from da bluecoats. You know ‘em? Da sol’jers?”

Glenda nodded solemnly. “Bad ones.”

“Yuh,” Scarlett said, eyes dark. “Dey try take all da land. All da horses. Try put Granny’s peoples in cages. But da ‘Pache didn’t let ‘em. Dey ran. But not like scared run. Like fox run. Smart. Fast. Quiet. And you know what?” She leaned in so close their foreheads nearly touched. “Dey ran to Mexico.”

Glenda gasped. “Did Mexico fight ‘em?”

“No!” Scarlett said triumphantly, slapping her hand against her leg for emphasis. “Dey hid ‘em. Dey made da houses big, and da doors wide, and dey let da ‘Pache sleep under dey roofs. Gave ‘em bread! An’ water! An’ da mamas in Mexico, dey tucked up da babies, even if da babies wasn’t theirs.”

Glenda’s eyes were wide. “They good peoples.”

Scarlett nodded. “Yuh. Granny say... dey knew ‘bout bein’ chased. Mexico peoples got chased too, long ‘fore. So dey made room. Big room. Bigger than tents.”

She paused, rocking slightly as she found the next part of the tale in her memory.

“An’ you know what else?” she asked, voice lowering to a whisper. “When da sol’jers come knockin’... da Mexicans said, ‘Ain’t no ‘Pache here.’ Even when dey was.”

“Dey lie for ‘em?” Glenda asked, almost scandalized.

Scarlett nodded. “Good lie. Brave lie. Granny say sometime lies is armor. Like a shield. She say truth matter, but lives matter more.”

Glenda let out a long, thoughtful “oooooooh.”

Scarlett nodded, satisfied. Then her face lit up with the next part.

“Then—then!—Granny say when Mexico had a fight too—big fight, not tiny fight, wif horses an’ hats an’ boom sticks—da ‘Pache didn’t forget. Dey fight with Mexico! Granny say dey rode wif Pancho Villa, an’ Zapata too. Dey was like... like ghost riders! Fast an’ wild! Hair all flyin’! One of da ladies—her name was Lozen too, like my mama’s name—she didn’t even get shot when she run across da gunfire. She was like wind.”

Glenda’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Really?”

“Granny say,” Scarlett replied proudly, and that was final.

The wind stirred the dust around their feet, and for a moment, both girls looked out past the fence, toward the low dry hills where the brush crackled in the heat. Glenda didn’t speak. Scarlett rocked gently side to side, her hands now folded in her lap, a smudge of cornbread on her chin.

After a long silence, Glenda said softly, “I wanna be like dat.”

Scarlett turned. “Like who?”

“Like da peoples who hide folks,” Glenda said. “Da ones who make da room. Big rooms.”

Scarlett thought about that. Then she nodded, eyes serious. “You can. Jus’ gotta say, ‘Come in,’ when it’s scary outside.”

Glenda smiled. “You’d come in my room.”

Scarlett grinned, crooked and small. “You already let me in.”

They stayed there, shoulders bumping gently, watching the wind move across the land. It was a big story for little girls, but they held it well—like something planted in the chest that would keep growing, and grow right.

From somewhere nearby, a dog barked once. A bell rang from the cookhouse porch.

Scarlett stood up, brushing off her dress. “We can be brave too,” she said.

“Yuh,” Glenda agreed, following close behind. “I be a ghost rider. But not scary. Just zoomy.”

Scarlett giggled and ran ahead, arms outstretched.

And Glenda, grinning, chased after her through the warm golden dust—two little girls carrying big stories, and running like foxes.

Of course. Here's a very long, immersive third-person narrative capturing five-year-old Glenda and Scarlett eagerly sharing the story of Crazy Horse with the other young children on the commune—told in their own earnest, wide-eyed voices, full of wonder and solemn pride. The story is not perfect, not precise, but it is full of feeling. What the girls miss in historical nuance, they make up for in deep reverence and a desire to honor the spirit of a great leader.

---

The afternoon sun soaked the earth in gold, turning every stone warm to the touch and making the cottonwood leaves shimmer like tiny green coins. A half-circle of small children sat cross-legged in the shade of the broadest oak near the eastern fence of the commune. Dusty knees, juice-stained shirts, and hair that wouldn’t stay combed marked the audience: some fidgeting, others chewing the strings of their shirts, but all more or less curious because Glenda and Scarlett had said—very dramatically—that they had a story to tell. A big story. A true story.

Glenda stood with her feet planted wide, fists on hips like she’d seen Scarlett’s uncle do when he told stories around the fire. Scarlett stood beside her, eyes shining, arms full of a woven blanket she had declared was “for props.”

Scarlett raised a hand, palm out. “This story’s ‘bout a real brave. The bravest maybe ever.”

“His name was Crazy Horse,” Glenda added, already shifting from foot to foot with excitement.

“He wasn’t crazy like—like yellin’ or eatin’ bugs,” Scarlett clarified quickly, wide-eyed. “He was crazy like… big thunder. Like his mind didn’t match the world but in a good way.”

“He didn’t wanna be chief,” Glenda said, solemn now. “He just wanted his people to be free.”

The other children—mostly aged three to six—leaned forward, intrigued.

Scarlett nodded. “He was Lakota. That’s like cousins to the Sioux.”

“They had horses,” Glenda said, flinging the blanket out dramatically. “So many horses. More than we got. Probably.”

Scarlett grinned and whispered, “Don’t say that, the horses’ll hear you.”

Glenda looked toward the paddock and winced. “Sorry, horses.”

Scarlett knelt now and began smoothing the blanket into the dirt. She placed a small stick upright in the middle. “This is the land. This stick is the mountain. He used to go there to be alone and think. He didn’t talk a whole lot.”

“Only when it mattered,” Glenda chimed in.

Scarlett stood and made a swooping gesture with her arms. “He saw dreams. Visions. A man on a horse with no markings. That meant he was gonna be a protector. He didn’t paint his face like other warriors. No feathers, no songs.”

“Just him,” Glenda said, proud. “Just him and his horse.”

There was a pause. A four-year-old boy named August raised his hand like in school. “Did he fight bad guys?”

Scarlett nodded fiercely. “Yes. He fought to keep the land from being taken. When soldiers came and tried to make his people go away, he said no.”

“He said NO real loud,” Glenda added, lifting her chin. “Even though lots of people were scared.”

“And he won. At Little Bighorn. That’s a place. They were outnumbered but they beat the soldiers.”

“‘Cause they were fightin’ for home,” Scarlett said.

“And for the horses,” Glenda added.

Scarlett gave her a sidelong look. “Mostly people.”

Glenda whispered, “And horses.”

The little ones were wide-eyed now, hooked deep into the magic of the telling.

“He never let anyone take his picture,” Scarlett said. “Never ever. He thought a picture could steal somethin’.”

“Like your spirit,” Glenda said, making her voice low and spooky.

“And when he got older,” Scarlett went on, “people were still scared of how strong he was. Even his own. And one day, they told him to come to the fort.”

Glenda’s face sobered. “He went. He was brave. He thought maybe he could help end the fightin’. But they tricked him. They grabbed him.”

Scarlett now looked down, her voice quieter. “And a soldier stabbed him. With a bayonet.”

The little ones gasped. August clutched his shirt.

“He died,” Glenda said. “But he died standing up. My mama said that’s the kind of story you gotta carry.”

Scarlett looked around at all the solemn, quiet faces. “You don’t gotta remember every word. But remember he didn’t give up.”

“He loved his people more than anything,” Glenda said softly.

Scarlett reached down, picked up the stick from the center of the blanket, and snapped it in half. “They tried to break him.”

Then she pressed the two pieces together again. “But they couldn’t stop the story.”

The other children didn’t speak for a moment. Then one little girl, a curly-haired three-year-old named Anise, whispered, “I’m gonna tell my doll that story.”

“Good,” Glenda said. “Dolls need history.”

Scarlett grinned. “We can tell more stories tomorrow. Maybe about Geronimo. Or the one about the woman who shot the snake to save the babies.”

“Or the man who rode a horse for two days and didn’t even eat once!” Glenda added.

They packed up the blanket, Scarlett rolling it carefully while Glenda poked at the dirt with the broken stick.

“Think we did it good?” Glenda asked quietly.

Scarlett nodded. “You said ‘fightin’’ real serious. That made ‘em listen.”

“You said ‘bayonet’ like you were mad.”

“I was mad.”

Glenda smiled and nudged her shoulder. “We’re good tellers, huh?”

“Yeah,” Scarlett said, looping the blanket over her shoulder. “We’re gonna tell stories forever.”

And as they walked back to the main house for juice and a rest, the children they’d left behind still sat, quiet and blinking, like little embers in the shade, their minds lit with the shape of a man who never smiled for a photograph but never let go of his people.

Crazy Horse had ridden through the commune that day—not in body, but in story—and two small girls had carried him there on bare feet and pure heart.