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Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior
Actions du livre
Commencer à lireLongueur: 456 pages11 heures
- Éditeur:
- 4RV Publishing
- Sortie:
- Jun 21, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9780988961760
- Format:
- Livre
Description
Brave Eagle grows to manhood amid the constant changes and turmoil on the Plains in the middle 1800s, when the white man’s world collides with the world of the Native American. Is Brave Eagle to be a man of war or a man of peace?
Is he to be a fierce frightening warrior or a wise peacemaker?
Can he learn to adapt to the white man’s world, or will he be able to hold on to the rich traditions of the grandfathers?
“The Cheyenne Peace chief will smoke his pipe even though his children are killed. Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior reflects the history of their (the Cheyenne culture.” Harvey Pratt, Southern Cheyenne Peace Chief
“Though Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior is an (fictional) historical novel, the history has been extensively well researched.” William Welge, Director of Research, Oklahoma Historical Society
“The author describes important events and developments in Cheyenne history during the nineteenth century while showing empathy for Cheyenne people and their ways.” Dr. Mary Jane Warde, former Historian for the Oklahoma Historical Society
Informations sur le livre
Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior
Longueur: 456 pages11 heures
Description
Brave Eagle grows to manhood amid the constant changes and turmoil on the Plains in the middle 1800s, when the white man’s world collides with the world of the Native American. Is Brave Eagle to be a man of war or a man of peace?
Is he to be a fierce frightening warrior or a wise peacemaker?
Can he learn to adapt to the white man’s world, or will he be able to hold on to the rich traditions of the grandfathers?
“The Cheyenne Peace chief will smoke his pipe even though his children are killed. Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior reflects the history of their (the Cheyenne culture.” Harvey Pratt, Southern Cheyenne Peace Chief
“Though Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior is an (fictional) historical novel, the history has been extensively well researched.” William Welge, Director of Research, Oklahoma Historical Society
“The author describes important events and developments in Cheyenne history during the nineteenth century while showing empathy for Cheyenne people and their ways.” Dr. Mary Jane Warde, former Historian for the Oklahoma Historical Society
- Éditeur:
- 4RV Publishing
- Sortie:
- Jun 21, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9780988961760
- Format:
- Livre
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Aperçu du livre
Journey of the Cheyenne Warrior - Kathleen Gibbs
Duncan.
Prologue
Lodge Pole River (Washita)
Near present-day Cheyenne, Oklahoma
Hard Face Moon (November) 1868
Time is forever; time is nothing. I am a part of the grass and the sky, the old warrior sang quietly.
Blood ran down his face and neck when he turned his head to look at his wife. She lay in a pool of blood, the life force draining from the wound in her chest.
Brave Eagle felt the cold of winter in his bones. His frail body shivered as he struggled to pull the thick, red blanket around him, but his limp hands would not work and fell back into the snow. He heard Grandfather whisper to him ... Ni khi, my grandson ... soon the time comes for you to join the others and complete the cycle of life.
A cacophony of loud noises — endless screaming and shouting, clanging swords, neighing horses, and deafening guns — came back to him. The suffocating smell of gunpowder smoke made him want to cough, but he did not have the strength.
Soldiers everywhere. The white men promised they would be safe here. Black Kettle even put up the white flag.
He felt no immediate pain, just a burning sensation where the bullet entered his forehead. Then a light-headedness came over him as he faded into the between of the spirit world and earthly world. He saw his grandfather again.
Ni khi, I wait for you.
I am coming, nam shim.
His mind unveiled pictures of his youth, and he could not stop them. He was a boy again. A boy of twelve winters riding across the Plains chasing the buffalo. His first buffalo hunt.
Oh, Maheo, whose voice I hear in the winds and whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me, he prayed. I am small and weak, and I need your strength and wisdom.
Help me to learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock. Help me to understand. I do not understand.
He prayed this many times as a child with questions.
I am ready, nam shim.
The time is not yet for you to come, ni khi, but I wait for you.
Chapter 1
The Hunt 1805
(Black Rocky Place) Black Hills
Little Eagle, wake up. Your father makes ready. Get up. No one waits on a lazy warrior. You sleep the sun away.
Little Eagle rolled over in his soft buffalo robes. "I am awake, Mother (ni go i)."
Only moments ago, he raced a beautiful, white pony over the endless Plains, feeling the soft wind in his face, the warm sun on his near-naked body. Little Eagle opened his sleepy eyes a little more, not wanting to wake up from this pleasant dream, and saw his mother’s face watching him from the open flap. Already the brightness outside peeked through the opening. Then he remembered why his mother woke him so early, and he sat up with purpose.
Seeing he was now awake, his mother closed the flap. Little Eagle checked his new, tightly strung bow and quiver full of well-feathered arrows, which sat next to his robes. Today I go on my first buffalo hunt. I have waited for this day for more than two seasons.
The day before, the men sat in the sweat lodge and performed the proper rituals to prepare for the hunt. Little Eagle slept little this night, finally falling into a deep, dreamy sleep just before his mother awakened him.
He sat erect, blinked his heavy eyelids a few times to shake off his grogginess, yawned, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He reached for his leggings, slipping them on one at a time over each leg and tying them over his breechclout to the rawhide belt around his waist. Next, he got the pouches of red and yellow powdered paint and opened them. He picked up the container of buffalo grease, swiped his fingers across it, dipped his fingers into the yellow powder, and proceeded to paint his upper body — for strength and also for protection against the sun. After doing this, he swiped his fingers once more in the grease, dipped them into the red powder paint, and smeared three stripes across each cheek. Wiping his hands, he pulled his hide shirt over his head.
With great care, Little Eagle combed out his long, thick, black hair with the stiffgrass brush and parted it in the middle, leaving a portion in the front for his scalp lock. Once more, he rubbed his hands in the grease and smoothed them over his hair. Then he braided the hair, letting his scalp lock braid hang down the right side of his face, as all the young boys did. And finally, he put some more grease on a small, pointed stick, dipped it in the red paint powder, and painted a line down the part in his hair.
Truthful Woman came back with chokecherries mixed with dried buffalo meat. I do not have time to eat,
he informed his mother when she admired his hair and paint.
I know you are excited, but you must eat.
He took a handful of berries. His mother, observing him stuff several large bites into his mouth, scowled when he had trouble swallowing them. He coughed a couple of times, so she handed him a bowl of water to wash it down. He consumed this in a hurry.
"Do not gulp your food, my son (niy ha); you will have the stomach cramps. There is time to eat."
He paused a moment, taking a huge breath, and swallowed normally. His mother looked on with stern eyes but said no more.
Little Eagle watched as his handsome mother turned and left, leaving him to finish getting ready. In truth, this woman he called Mother was his aunt. Children called all sisters on their mother’s side Mother, just as they called all of their father’s brothers Father. Children lived with their mother’s mother, but his grandmother and grandfather had gone to the Spirit World with his real parents long ago. Now he lived with his aunt and uncle and thought of them as his parents.
I know you take special care of me, ni go i, he thought when he reached for his moccasins. He pulled them on and tied the rawhide thongs, noticing again how snug they fit.
My father waits, and I must learn manly things today,
he said aloud. I am brave and strong, and I will learn well. I will make my parents proud.
Little Eagle,
a voice called through the flap. The whole party waits for you; even the buffalo wait for you. The hunters grow too old to hunt before you are ready.
Little Eagle came out of the tepee. I am ready, my friend. I will kill my first buffalo before you get your arrows out of the quiver.
I will see this. Come.
Laughing, the two young friends carried their bows and quivers to their horses and tied everything onto the saddles. The beautiful, late-spring day already promised to remain warm and sunny, even though the mountains in the distance still showed their snowcaps hiding the rocky crevices.
This is a good day,
White Hawk declared with some authority. He went on his first hunt last season. There is a slight wind this day.
Just enough to cool the heat of the sun,
answered Little Eagle, noticing the wind set up bumps on his naked arms. Now fully awake, he looked around. Sensing the air on his body, he made a mental note of the direction of the breeze. Thoughts of the importance of this day swam through his head.
"The buffalo (ho do vau o) sometimes are hard to kill."
"Ha ah, but my father says they are slow of gait, clumsy, have poor eyesight, and little fear of sound."
But they possess a keen sense of smell. My father says not to get downwind, or all will be useless.
The boys each tried to outdo the other on knowledge of the buffalo.
Yesterday, my father told me everything I must and must not do this day, but I am afraid I cannot remember most of his advice,
admitted Little Eagle.
You are only twelve summers, a hard time to remember everything,
consoled his older friend.
From the corner of his eye, Little Eagle saw his mother looking at him. A little embarrassed, he acknowledged only with a slight wave of his hand. Sometimes she watched over him too much.
Little Eagle jumped onto the back of his horse, feeling important as he prepared to leave. Long, supple muscles rippled under skin burnished by the morning sun. His black eyes squinted, searching for any odd forms on the horizon. Feeling the tremor of excitement, his stomach tightened. His horse snorted and pawed at the ground, also eager to depart. Little Eagle moved up beside his father and uncle, two great hunters. Each dressed like Little Eagle in their everyday shirt, leggings, and paint. Instead of the scalp lock, they wore the front of their hair in a twisted bun and eagle feathers in the back. Handsome and vigilant, they sat on their horses talking of the hunt.
Little Eagle can learn much this important day, but Little Eagle must hold in check his impatience to begin,
Silver Fox said, glancing at his son.
Little Eagle is sometimes lost in his youth, but Little Eagle watches and learns more than you realize,
commented Great Beaver.
Hearing these words made Little Eagle aware again of the significance of his actions. After disgracing his father and annoying his mother earlier, he must now do something to show both his parents he now felt old enough to participate in the events of the warriors.
White Hawk restlessly adjusted his clothing. His dark body, already beaded with sweat, betrayed his nervous anticipation. He and his father waited next to Little Eagle. Two years older, more reckless and always talking about becoming a warrior, White Hawk could not wait to go on his first horse raid or into his first battle.
Little Eagle, your father is no longer angry about you shooting the doe?
No.
Little Eagle remembered the day in the woods when he thoughtlessly scared the deer away and shot the doe. He had been so eager to prove he was no longer a young boy and that he felt ready to learn the ways of the men. But he failed.
––––––––
"Look, Father (ni ho i), two deer." Brushing against a branch and cracking it in the process, Little Eagle pointed as the men slipped in and out among the trees. Little Eagle followed, not as cautious, but still watching and stepping with care.
His father turned, holding a finger to his lips. Sh-h-h.
He frowned at Little Eagle, who did not yet know the laws of the forest. In the stillness, birds called out a warning to each other of the intruders creeping in the midst of their domain.
Scouts spotted deer in the area. The men must make a good kill this day,
Little Eagle’s father earlier told him.
A long time has passed since there has been fresh meat,
his mother added.
"The time comes for you, niy ha, to learn to hunt. I am proud to take you with me."
And so Little Eagle anticipated taking a significant part in the day’s pursuit of game.
The hunters stood composed behind the trees, watching the bucks drink, ready to aim their arrows.
Au-i!
The bucks raised their heads, listened, then leaped across the creek and out of sight.
Silver Fox looked at his son in disbelief. "Niy ha, did I not explain to you the way to behave on a hunt? Today is important to find deer meat. Now our chance is gone." He turned away when three hunters approached with puzzled looks on their faces.
Little Eagle disappointed me today. I thought my son old enough to hunt with the men, but I was wrong.
"A bee stung me, ni ho i." But his apology found no sympathetic listener. The men walked off. Little Eagle stood alone, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt shamed. And worse, he shamed his father.
What is wrong?
White Hawk came up behind him. Why do the men leave?
I made a noise and scared the deer away. My father is angry.
Little Eagle hung his head. Now there will be no fresh meat for this evening.
White Hawk’s eyes widened. Come, Little Eagle.
He waved his arm for Little Eagle to follow. I saw a deer over on the other side, a big one. Come. I will show you.
With quick, stealthy steps, the two boys walked through the trees to the place where White Hawk said he saw the deer.
Knee-high in the water, taking a drink, stood a good-sized animal. This time Little Eagle made no noise. He drew an arrow from his quiver, aimed at the spot behind the front leg, and pulled back his arm. He let the arrow fly. It hit its mark. The deer looked up, staggered, and fell into the stream.
You got the deer, first shot.
Little Eagle let out a quick, sharp yelp of self-approval. My first deer. Now my father can no longer be angry. There will be fresh meat after all.
This is good,
White Hawk grinned with approval.
I must show my father. Wait here and keep watch.
Little Eagle darted off to find the men. When father and son returned to the stream, Silver Fox’s anticipation transformed into displeasure.
"Niy ha, you disappoint and shame me again. Little Eagle’s smile changed to a bewildered look.
This is a doe. In this season the hunters only kill bucks. Do you not remember your grandfather and me telling you this? Little Eagle’s shoulders dropped, and he looked to the ground because he did remember.
Did you notice the deer had no antlers? Perhaps the doe has a fawn, which will surely die, too. You must not act so selfishly. Now all will suffer."
Silver Fox took the bow from his son’s hand, broke it over his knee, and threw it down. You are not old enough to hunt. You should stay with the boys, only playing games.
Little Eagle looked up at his father, his eyes brimming with tears.
"Ni ho i ... "
His father turned away. The time has come to go back. Take the doe, but I will take no pleasure in eating this meat.
Nor would Little Eagle. Sighing with disappointment, he wiped the tears that now rolled freely down his cheeks. Two hunters picked up the doe, saying nothing. He and White Hawk followed a few steps behind.
I wish I had not come on this hunt. I do belong with the little boys, only playing games and pretending.
White Hawk could not answer.
––––––––
My father no longer blames me for my mistake. But I must prove today that I grow in wisdom. I must watch the hunters and learn patience. I learn this day to be a man.
Little Eagle, you impress me. I remember well the day you fought Boy With the Big Stomach. You surely fought like a child.
White Hawk snickered, shaking his head. We fought only as a game. I pulled you off, not knowing what was wrong with you.
Little Eagle also remembered that day, and with embarrassment.
––––––––
Distracted and deep in thought, Little Eagle stumbled upon his friends fighting the enemy. They wrestled and called out war whoops as they swung lightweight, wooden clubs.
Come, Little Eagle, we need another one on our side,
called out White Hawk. "The Crow are coming on a raid. Our scouts have seen the enemy."
Little Eagle ran over and grabbed a club. He let out his fiercest yell. And just in time, for the Crow came running into their camp. Ten young protectors ran out to clash with them.
Frustration and hurt from the past few days, new unexplainable feelings, thoughts of his father’s harsh words, and of late his mother’s indifference — all these came together in Little Eagle’s mind. Screaming and waving his club, he leaped on one of the younger boys, freed him of his club, and tackled him to the ground. Anger took over his actions while he rolled around with the boy, hitting and pushing. The boy, smaller by at least ten pounds, became frightened by Little Eagle and began to cry.
Little Eagle, stop.
White Hawk ran over and pulled him off.
The others stared in silence.
What is wrong with you, Little Eagle?
asked White Hawk. Boy With the Big Stomach is the son of the chief and younger than you. The game is only pretending.
Little Eagle shook off his friend. He saw the others watching him, so with his head down, he sulked away, again not knowing what to say or what was wrong with him.
He sat in the woods the rest of the afternoon, alone, hungry, and angry. The soft swishing of the leaves, the birds twittering overhead, and the cool wind should have spoken to him, but they did not. Or perhaps he had been too upset to listen.
For a long time he sat, praying to the Creator, the Great One, like his grandfather taught him. Oh, Maheo, whose voice I hear in the winds and whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me. I am small and weak, and I need your strength and wisdom. Help me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock. Help me understand. I do not understand what is wrong with me. I can do nothing right. I shame my father. My mother pushes me away. I feel great anger, and I do not know why.
Maheo, help me. I need answers. He had rested his head on his arms and cried where no one could hear him. No answers came that day.
––––––––
"Ha ah. My mother showed her displeasure with me that day. I went to the woods and stayed away too long. My mother worried that something happened to me because the Crow were in the area. My shame troubled me. So now I must put away my childish behavior."
White Hawk smiled. This is good.
The boys, sitting on their horses, waited impatiently for all to gather.
Little Eagle saw his grandfather, Magic Fox, walking toward him. Little Eagle smiled at Grandfather, his most respected friend and teacher.
"I wish you good fortune this day, ni khi." Magic Fox showed him a necklace charm he made for luck.
Little Eagle bent down, and Magic Fox slipped it carefully over his head. "Thank you, Grandfather (nam shim)."
Little Eagle, you must be careful. Remember what your father and I told you. Do not become too excited or you scare away the buffalo or get hurt. I foresee a fine trophy from you. I prayed that all goes well this day.
Your prayer will bring good fortune. I will remember everything you told me, and I will bring back a fine buffalo.
I hope so. Now, you must go.
Little Eagle kicked his horse gently in the side and moved to join the party as they started out. He looked back and waved to Magic Fox and his mother, his face a mirror of his emotions.
He loved his father’s father and valued their special relationship. Magic Fox, a teller of tales, taught him about the old ways and the history of their people — culture, laws, rituals — all the things young boys need to know. Magic Fox always made time for him, and Little Eagle held him in high esteem. "Nam shim has great knowledge. I want to be like him," Little Eagle often told his father.
You will learn much, if you listen,
often came the answer. Magic Fox is a man of honor and wisdom.
He sometimes wondered about his grandmother, Runs Like a Rabbit Woman. He barely remembered her, for she died of the Big Cramps when he counted four winters, and since then, Magic Fox made his home behind theirs.
He turned around on his horse once more and with a pang of sympathy, watched the proud, white-haired, old man limp back to his tepee. Magic Fox looked disheveled. His eyesight failing, he no longer plucked the straggly hairs from his face. I wish I had known you when you were younger.
"An arrow wounded me in the leg on a horse-stealing raid. Long ago, ni khi. Before our people acquired so many fine horses. The Human Beings (Tsi tsis tas) would not have them this day if bold warriors like me had not stolen them from the Crow and the Sioux."
Little Eagle smiled again, remembering the oft-told story while he rode along-side his father, Silver Fox, and his uncle, Great Beaver. In front of them with his father, Otter Tail, rode White Hawk.
Scouts reported finding a large herd of buffalo almost half a day’s ride away,
said Silver Fox.
Little Eagle scanned the landscape, looking for any sign of the mighty buffalo. Thirty men went in the hunting party, and they needed to gather enough hides and meat to last until the winter hunt.
I hope I do not get afraid and run away. What if one attacks me? What if I shame myself and my father by not killing a buffalo? What if my arrows miss their mark?
I have waited for this day ever since I can remember my father and grandfather talking about the buffalo around our dinner fires,
Little Eagle told his friend.
Do not show fear, no matter what,
reminded White Hawk.
I must shoot a buffalo today, even if I get hurt.
You are so preoccupied about being brave and lucky this day, you do not even hear the stories I tell you.
My mind is already full with many thoughts and visions.
White Hawk smiled.
I carry a new ash bow my father made for me and twenty arrows in my quiver. My father fixed fast the barbs to the shafts of the arrows for the buffalo, not like for enemies when they are attached to come loose and leave the barb in the wound.
I know these things, too,
answered his friend with a sigh and a shake of his head.
Little Eagle’s quiver hung over his right shoulder, which corresponded to the hand that pulled the bow string, and for many days he practiced his speed with old, dull arrows.
I am proud to ride my father’s horse, Swift Runner. My father told me he trained this horse to be long-winded and fast. I need only guide him with my knees. And my father let me paint zigzag lines over its rump.
You talk too much, Little Eagle.
If I do well on this first hunt, maybe my father gives me this horse,
Little Eagle continued talking. After all, my father owns a new buffalo horse brought home from the last raid.
Do not hold your breath, Little Eagle,
answered his friend. I, too, want a new horse.
The hunters rode across the empty Plain with the women following behind at their own pace. The sun beat down on Little Eagle, making him sticky from the paint on his chest and face, and he grew impatient to find the buffalo. Where are they? He continuously scanned the horizon and saw nothing to indicate they might soon come upon the herd. It seemed a long and monotonous ride.
Little Eagle perked up once when he thought he saw something ahead, but this turned out to be only a mound of dark dirt. Eyelids getting heavy, he fought to keep from nodding off when the warm sunshine relaxed his body. Time dragged like it had nothing to offer in the near future.
Little Eagle, get ready,
White Hawk said suddenly, jolting him back into a state of alertness. Look, Man Who Likes to Stalk turned on his horse and signs.
"Ha ah. Little Eagle noticed that his father also spotted something,
The men ride faster." Anticipation now building, he kicked his horse to follow.
You and I are now on our own. Good fortune to you, my friend,
White Hawk said when he rode up alongside. The moment Little Eagle dreamed of finally arrived.
Stripped down now only to breechclouts and moccasins, sheath knives in their belts, quivers and bows ready, the hunters spread out. For precaution, around the neck of Swift Runner, Little Eagle’s father earlier tied a trailing rawhide thong, which he could grab onto if he fell. The weight of his body could then slow the horse down, allowing him to remount.
Little Eagle smelled the herd first when they came upon them. A strong smell filled his nostrils, and a shiver ran through his body when he looked in awe at the mighty buffalo for the first time. Peacefully scattered over the plain, the big, shaggy beasts lazily grazed. Not a tree or shrub shaded the landscape which was dotted only by huge, brownish-black mounds eating the fertile grass ... as far as the eye could see.
Magnificent,
he sighed, his eyes wide with wonder. "Even more magnificent than nam shim ever described." The thrill of actually seeing the huge buffalo herd so near gave him chills he could not understand at this moment.
A few animals, sensing danger, looked up. They snorted and started to run, causing panic among the others. The hunters pursued. They sound like the thunder.
Little Eagle rode up alongside the herd as the wild-eyed, shaggy beasts trampled the ground. Their noise, deafening to him and louder than anything he ever heard before, reverberated through his body like heavy drumbeats at a frenzied celebration.
A fairly large buffalo calf ran close to Little Eagle; he looked it deeply in the eye, and then followed it when it darted from the herd. Each man knew his best shot, from the left for a lancer, the right for a bowman. Little Eagle came from the right and let his horse do the rest.
Once he closed in on the quarry, he tried to hit the spot right behind the last rib. This shot punctured the diaphragm, collapsing its lungs. Aiming at high speed proved difficult; he had trouble keeping his arms level and his eye on the mark.
He shot. The first one missed. He might not get another good chance. Swiftly, like his father taught him, he pulled out another arrow from over his shoulder and shot again, calling out to the spirits. He saw and heard nothing else.
Good! The arrow found its way. His practicing and maybe the spirits helped him. But much to his surprise, the calf kept running, with Little Eagle close to its side. He took three more shots before the animal fell.
Little Eagle stopped his horse and took a long, deep breath as he gazed in admiration at the animal he felled. Adrenaline pumped through his body, and he shook and laughed from excitement at his accomplishment.
Then he came back to reality and looked around at the others. He sighed deeply from relief, pleasure, and exhaustion. Inhaling caused sharp pains. His breathing came too fast, so he must calm himself, for his chest almost burst with intoxication.
The thumping hooves, flying dust, loud screams, smells of sweat, and groans of frightened animals all hit him at once. Weakened from exertion, he slid down on his horse, for a moment feeling disoriented. Buffalo still ran amok as hunters, shrieking and waving arms, surrounded them. He pulled himself back up and left his calf to rejoin the dangerous game.
The lead buffalo turned back into the herd. The other animals, confused and terrified, milled in circles while the hunters rode round and round them, firing arrows and lances.
The buffalo, many of them trapped or wounded, lashed out with their horns at the horses and riders. The noise of their clomping hooves and snorting drowned out all other sounds for the moment. Clouds of dust rose, hampering visibility. The flagrant smell of blood sickened Little Eagle, and he panicked, for he could see nothing. His eyes burned, and dust got into his lungs and made him cough. The huge beasts, now unable to distinguish the enemy from themselves, attacked each other in their fear.
White Hawk rode past him, shouting, "Ha ah, my friend, where is your buffalo?" Little Eagle saw him turn, laughing, just as a mad bull broke loose and went after White Hawk’s horse.
Watch out,
cried out Little Eagle. He followed a short distance behind. Hurry. The buffalo gains on you. Ride faster.
White Hawk charged forward, kicking his horse, urging it to go faster. He rode too close to try to shoot the animal.
With shaky fingers, Little Eagle pulled out his bow and tried to string an arrow but dropped it, for they ran too fast for him to shoot.
The bull’s horns were maybe ten hand-spreads away from the rear of White Hawk’s horse. White Hawk held on tight, lying flat, becoming one with his horse.
The wind burned Little Eagle’s eyes. He rode behind, helpless. At that moment Silver Fox appeared out of nowhere and in one quick movement aimed an arrow at the bull. It shot straight into the heart. The bull slowed only a little and stumbled when Silver Fox shot again. Then the animal fell.
Little Eagle called to his friend, and Silver Fox turned his horse to ride back to the herd.
White Hawk slowed down. Perspiration beads crowned his forehead. The paint on his horse ran down the sides in smeared, swirling colors, but he waved at Little Eagle to go on, that he was not hurt.
Little Eagle shouted, Too close.
White Hawk grinned and yelled back, This was nothing.
Then he, too, rode back into the racing herd.
My friend has lost his senses.
Little Eagle spotted his uncle riding toward him.
Follow me,
he called out, and Little Eagle acknowledged his gratitude to ride after him to the far outside of the herd.
One can easily get his horse gored, even fall and be trampled himself. Last season Lame Horse and Buffalo Man both were killed when their horses fell into the stampede,
his uncle shouted above the noise. For a while they rode along the outside of the herd to get their bearings. Little Eagle did not see his friend.
Time went by quickly as the hunters finished their work. When all was over, many dead buffalo lay scattered across the land with no warrior fatalities. No one even mentioned the incident with White Hawk.
Little Eagle rode around until he found his slain calf, then jumped down and touched the animal as though he feared it might all of a sudden awaken, rise up, and run away.
Silver Fox moved up behind him. You made your father proud this day. You killed a calf and did not panic when the herd turned. And you showed much courage in trying to help your friend.
Little Eagle glanced at him, smiled, then lowered his head, embarrassed.
His father only said, "Niy ha, you will be a good hunter someday. I also remember my first hunt. I was scared. I did not even get a buffalo."
"But, ni ho i, you are the bravest warrior." Little Eagle looked up in admiration.
You will be a brave warrior one day,
his father said and took off to find his buffalo.
When did you get so wise and brave?
asked Little Eagle when he watched his father ride away, so erect and handsome on his horse. He found it difficult to imagine this big and powerful man being a scared, gangly boy such as he. My father is no longer upset with me for the earlier hunt.
He let out a small sound of relief.
I hope I can one day be a great warrior,
he said to himself but more to the Great Spirit. I want to fight in important battles, kill many enemies. I want to capture large numbers of horses and sit in all the great councils. I want all those around me to know my name and tremble at the sound. This is truly what being a warrior is.
He gazed up at the sky, raised his arm, and made a fist. With a determined voice he shouted, "I can do all these things, Maheo."
The women, who followed the hunters, came in to take over for their part of the day’s work. Little Eagle stood trance-like while they went to every buffalo, each identifying her family’s specifically painted markings on the arrows. Little Eagle’s mother came to him. He pointed out to her his calf, for he had little patience now.
His mother seemed surprised at his changed look — the resolve in his eyes and a new sound of purpose in his voice.
"Niy ha, you have a fine-looking calf with good fur." Her smile made him feel ten-feet-tall, and he knew he had been exonerated.
Looking over the treeless plains, Little Eagle noticed the rest of the buffalo fleeing in the distance, leaving their slain behind. Though impatient, he must now stay by his calf until his mother finished cutting out the vital parts.
Little Eagle watched as at each of the dead animals one or two women came and stooped down with their skinning knives. The men stood or wandered around describing their particular kill. Dogs barked at the carcasses. Little children played chase or ran screaming or crying among them.
Babies,
he scoffed. Soon the ever-vigilant buzzards darkened the clear sky, swooping, smelling, and waiting, coming to clean up the leftovers.
Standing in the midst of all this Little Eagle felt charged, as if lightning actually came down from the heavens and passed through him, bringing a resurgence of energy. Truly Maheo was here. For a moment he even feared his body might burst from this power.
With meticulous care, the women skinned and dressed each animal, then packed the hides and most of the meat on extra horses. The brains and small intestines, which could not be preserved, the people ate in the victory celebration. We leave behind the heart to help regenerate the depleted herd, for the heart possesses mystical powers,
Little Eagle’s mother told him.
"Here, niy ha, you earned the first bite." Truthful Woman handed him the raw liver she just cut from the opened cavity.
Little Eagle stood on the prairie in this late afternoon sun and with selfish, youthful gluttony, eagerly accepted the raw meat from his mother. My first kill,
he said to her. He bit into the liver relishing every coppery-tasting bite. The warm, sweet-smelling blood ran down his chin and arms. When he looked around at the other warriors enjoying their fresh meat, he looked as satisfied as they. The blood of the buffalo, the life force of nature, and the pulsing blood within his own body gave him new strength. He felt proud today and wanted the others to see that he joined them as a man.
Little Eagle raised both arms high to the sky. Dropping his head back, he let out a yell. Life tastes good. I never before felt so alive. I am truly in touch with nature today. I know the thrill of killing the buffalo.
The danger gone out of his head, he swallowed two more slippery bites. The liver slid down his throat, and he closed his eyes to remember this taste tonight when he lay on his robes.
The time comes to return,
said his mother.
No.
He wanted this moment to last forever.
He saw White Hawk riding toward him. Little Eagle finished the meat and wiped his face on his arm. Sticky, red blood congealed on Little Eagle’s body, and with
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