The old man was a Kiowa-Apache shaman and he knew better than to disturb Gahe, the mountain spirit, without great cause. Yet the young Comanches with their horses and their wild nature approached the sacred spot mindless and ignorant of the consequences.

They dismounted in a sheltered place at the foot of the enchanted rock. The Shaman watched them build a fire in the draw sheltered by great live oaks. It was a sacred spot to be visited only at special times during the year or at important moments during a lifetime. The shaman wondered what kind of men these Comanches had become.

They were, as he had learned earlier, loud and careless. What he did next was, due to those obnoxious traits, exceedingly easy. He approached and sat down beside their campfire unnoticed until he spoke.

"You are on sacred ground, my friends. What brings you here?"

The four young Comanches were stunned into silence. It was easy to see he was Kiowa, but to which band he belonged they could not say. It was plain, however, that he was a holy man---a man of power. The old man repeated his question again, and while he spoke he followed his words in signs.

The Comanches explained that they were seeking The Great River to the south and they asked how many days ride it might be. They apologized for trespassing on sacred ground, but went on to explain that they had observed the spectacular pink and black mountain from a great distance and their curiosity brought them.

"The Great River is not far," the shaman said, for a Comanche horse." The old man knew the Comanches were superb riders and they commanded equally fine horses. But he had little respect for the men he saw before him. He knew they were not Penataka Comanche, but instead belonged to a more remote band. He did not know much about these Comanches and he did not like them.

"The old man is wise," the youngest of the four said, "But tell me this," he continued, "is it far for a Comanche horse and a Comanche?"

"Hardly any distance at all," the shaman said, "but without a horse only the Kiowa are fit for the journey."

"The old man is brave," the spokesman for the four said, "and a shaman as well."

"I am here neighbor to neighbor, and I come in peace. I come to you as a human with many friends."

"Then join us," the leader said. "Honor us with an understanding of this holy mountain."

"So be it," the old man replied, "you ask about the Gahe of the enchanted rock. You want to know what Gahe knows. To do so you must listen to the mountain spirit and not to men. What you hear from men are stories, and what you learn from the mountain is is sacred. Stories can be lost but Gahe lives forever in the mountain's caves. I will tell you what Gahe has told me---not everything, but what I am permitted by conscience to say."

The young men listed to the old Kiowa, but their impatience was apparent.

He began by telling them about the past while his shadow mimed his words on the massive granite boulders behind the campfire. He described a giant beast two trees tall that grazed on the highest branches. The storyteller spoke of how the mammoths were hunted with spears made of two shafts. The shadow of his hands and arms illustrated perfectly the principal of the atlatl, or spear thrower.

"One shaft was tipped with a flint point," he said, "which was thrown from close range. With the hunter on foot the thrust had to be swift and certain." And his shadow hurled an imaginary spear deep into the night.

"Nonsense," the principal Comanche interrupted. Surely they possessed greater weapons. Hunting like that is for crazies."

The others laughed and shook their heads in disbelief.

"At least they must have had this," another said holding his bow high. "A simple stick and string."

The young audience agreed that the speaker know little about the past.

"What use is the past," the spokesman asked, "if it can't make this?" He held aloft his new rifle. That was what mattered. That was magic.

The old man and his stories were madness. They all agreed on that. All his talk of the past was a waste of time.

"With this," the spokesman continues, "we can hunt buffalo the same as the white man. And once the buffalo are gone there are always the cattle and the farms."

"The whites," the old shaman said, "will sweep us away like a bed of leaves." His right arm swung wide and fierce in the firelight. He could still feel the old powers.

Rising from his place by the fire the rifle's owner confronted the old man. "With more new weapons the whites will never stop us. More white farmers mean more white farms to raid!" With that the young man returned to his place beside the fire satisfied that his point was well made. His companions, meanwhile, were laughing at the foolish old man.