The Blue Between the Clouds by Stephen Wunderli Page A

hard. Just before I was about to knock that bat deep into center field, he moved. I hit nothin’ but air.
    â€œStrike two!” Two Moons hollered.
    â€œI can count,” I said, straightenin’ my shoulders and tappin’ my shoe again. I stood with one foot out of the batter’s box, glarin’ at the pitcher.
    Two Moons lobbed another pebble. It was going to drop right next to me. Inside pitch, I thought. Out of nowhere a bat flew right into my chest and fluttered in my face. I swung madly and backed out of the batter’s box. I stumbled in the loose sod and fell down.
    â€œBrush-back pitch!” I yelled. I don’t think Two Moons heard me, though. He was laughin’ too hard. He kneeled down on one knee and tried to catch his breath.
    I got up and stood in the batter’s box again.
    â€œGet up,” I said.
    Two Moons brushed himself off and delivered another pitch. I waited, but no bat went after it.
    â€œBall,” I said.
    Two Moons pitched again and I watched a big, gray bat swoop down out of the sky and go after the pebble. I stepped toward the bat and swung as hard as I could.
    â€œStrike three!” Two Moons hollered.
    I dropped the board and walked out to the pitcher’s mound.
    â€œYour battin’ average is goin’ down,” Two Moons said.
    â€œIt’s early in the season,” I said.
    Two Moons spit on his hands and grabbed the board. I lobbed a pebble toward him, but it was too high. A bat swooped down and went after it before it was close enough to hit.
    â€œBall,” Two Moons said.
    I pitched a slow, inside pitch. Two Moons stepped back, and quick as a light flash a black shadow darted after the pebble. Two Moons swung and clobbered that skinny little bat. The thing took off like a line drive halfway across the pond before it splashed down.
    â€œHome run!” Two Moons shouted.
    â€œDouble at best,” I said.
    Two Moons laughed and laughed. I threw a handful of pebbles at him, but he didn’t care. He loped around the bases like Babe Ruth.
    That’s when Pa came out.
    â€œBoys,” he said. “I need to talk to the both of you.”
    There was somethin’ serious about the way he said it, not like we were in trouble or anything, but concerned like. We walked over to him and the three of us sat down on the back porch.
    â€œI just got word from your clan, Two Moons,” Pa started. “They need you to come back to the reservation tomorrow. Your grandpa died this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell ya, son.”
    Two Moons isn’t one to show much sorrow, but deep inside he started to sing a mournful song. Pa and I could barely hear it, but I’m sure it was as loud as the roar of spring runoff to Two Moons. You see, that’s how the Navajos show sadness. By song, not by tears.
    â€œI want you to take somethin’ with you, Two Moons,” Pa said. Then he led us around to the front of the house to where the truck was parked. Tethered in the bed of the truck was a good-sized sheep.
    â€œYou’re like a son to us, Two Moons,” Pa said. “I want you to take this sheep to your clan.”
    Pa hugged us both and started to walk away, then he called me to his side.
    â€œYou know, son,” he said. “With Two Moons’ grandpa dead, there’s a good chance he’ll have to go live with that sister of his in Bozeman.”
    â€œI know, Pa,” I said.
    I didn’t want to admit that Two Moons would have to leave, but I had feared it for some time. I knew he would have to move to Bozeman soon and there was nothin’ I could do about it. Maybe the clan will want Two Moons here, I thought; besides, we haven’t heard from Little Crow for some time now. Maybe she doesn’t want him anymore. It was hard to think about, so I put it aside for a time and thought about the funeral.
    Now, I didn’t know a whole lot about Indian ways then, only what Two Moons