party. He wouldn’t be able to ask questions, because his father would see right through him. He would just sit quietly, listening for the tiniest clue.
The next day the camp would hum with news of the impending raid. There would be no celebration, because everyone in the village knew only too well that there might be nothing to celebrate. More than one war party Slow could remember had returned home with dead and wounded draped over their ponies. The village had been filled with wailing, the death song filling the air day and night as the dead were mourned and laidto rest on their burial scaffolds. He could still see the relatives, wearing old clothes, sometimes with their faces painted or smeared with mud to symbolize their loss.
But he listened and missed no opportunity to eavesdrop on Good-Voiced Elk, Short Bull, and the others. It was hard to hide his excitement, especially when Good-Voiced Elk had come to Sitting Bull’s tipi to ask him to join the war party. Sitting Bull had said nothing, promising only that he would let Good-Voiced Elk know his decision as soon as he had made it. Sitting Bull’s sharp glance at Slow had brought a knowing nod from Good-Voiced Elk, and he had said no more.
By sunset the next day, Slow knew all he needed to know. He made his own preparations, all the while feeling a little foolish. He had a bow, but his arrows were a boy’s arrows, not those of a man. When they hunted, his father gave him hunting arrows, but they were inappropriate for Crows or Assiniboin. And he could not ask his father for war arrows. He would have to hope that
Wakantanka
would provide.
The night before the war party left, Slow could barely sleep. He kept tossing on his buffalo robes. Every sound drifting through the village took on demonic shape in the darkness. The hoot of an owl came from a Crow throat; the muffled thud of pony hooves outside the tipi was the first hint of an Assiniboin war party preparing to thunder down on the sleeping camp.
Every noise brought his hand to his bow, which was tucked under the edge of his sleeping robes.
His fingers would curl around the polished ash, and he could feel the cold sweat of his palms making the smooth wood slippery to the touch. Sometimes he would get to his feet, bow in hand, and tiptoe toward the entrance. All around him he could hear the breathing of his sleeping family, the resonant snore of his father, the sleeping sighs of his sisters, the whisper of his mother’s breath.
With his hand on the tipi flap, he would suddenly feel silly and back away, lying down again, trying to forget what he was about to do. By tomorrow night, he thought, or the next night, all of this would be no more than an amusing story, one he would someday tell around a campfire, or to his own son, trying to make him understand why he was too young for the warpath. But that was little comfort now. At the moment, his muscles twitched like snakes beneath his skin, his throat was dry, and every nerve tingled.
By morning he was exhausted, but he forced himself to get up and go to the river for a bath. It was still gray when he stepped into the water. He could see the village horses grazing on the hillside, dark shadows in the dim light. He went out into the cold current, watching the bustle of activity beginning. He could tell which warriors were going with the war party, as one by one they came out of their tipis, made their ponies ready, gathered their weapons, and rode off.
As soon as he saw Sitting Bull leave, Slow waded out of the river and sprinted to his tipi. He gathered his bow and the war paint he planned to wear and, doing his best not to attract attention tohimself, left the lodge and climbed onto the back of his gray pony. When he reached the rendezvous point, the warriors had assembled. Some were already streaked with war paint, while others stood by their mounts, decorating the ponies with bold splashes of brilliant color and daubing their own faces with bands of red and
The next day the camp would hum with news of the impending raid. There would be no celebration, because everyone in the village knew only too well that there might be nothing to celebrate. More than one war party Slow could remember had returned home with dead and wounded draped over their ponies. The village had been filled with wailing, the death song filling the air day and night as the dead were mourned and laidto rest on their burial scaffolds. He could still see the relatives, wearing old clothes, sometimes with their faces painted or smeared with mud to symbolize their loss.
But he listened and missed no opportunity to eavesdrop on Good-Voiced Elk, Short Bull, and the others. It was hard to hide his excitement, especially when Good-Voiced Elk had come to Sitting Bull’s tipi to ask him to join the war party. Sitting Bull had said nothing, promising only that he would let Good-Voiced Elk know his decision as soon as he had made it. Sitting Bull’s sharp glance at Slow had brought a knowing nod from Good-Voiced Elk, and he had said no more.
By sunset the next day, Slow knew all he needed to know. He made his own preparations, all the while feeling a little foolish. He had a bow, but his arrows were a boy’s arrows, not those of a man. When they hunted, his father gave him hunting arrows, but they were inappropriate for Crows or Assiniboin. And he could not ask his father for war arrows. He would have to hope that
Wakantanka
would provide.
The night before the war party left, Slow could barely sleep. He kept tossing on his buffalo robes. Every sound drifting through the village took on demonic shape in the darkness. The hoot of an owl came from a Crow throat; the muffled thud of pony hooves outside the tipi was the first hint of an Assiniboin war party preparing to thunder down on the sleeping camp.
Every noise brought his hand to his bow, which was tucked under the edge of his sleeping robes.
His fingers would curl around the polished ash, and he could feel the cold sweat of his palms making the smooth wood slippery to the touch. Sometimes he would get to his feet, bow in hand, and tiptoe toward the entrance. All around him he could hear the breathing of his sleeping family, the resonant snore of his father, the sleeping sighs of his sisters, the whisper of his mother’s breath.
With his hand on the tipi flap, he would suddenly feel silly and back away, lying down again, trying to forget what he was about to do. By tomorrow night, he thought, or the next night, all of this would be no more than an amusing story, one he would someday tell around a campfire, or to his own son, trying to make him understand why he was too young for the warpath. But that was little comfort now. At the moment, his muscles twitched like snakes beneath his skin, his throat was dry, and every nerve tingled.
By morning he was exhausted, but he forced himself to get up and go to the river for a bath. It was still gray when he stepped into the water. He could see the village horses grazing on the hillside, dark shadows in the dim light. He went out into the cold current, watching the bustle of activity beginning. He could tell which warriors were going with the war party, as one by one they came out of their tipis, made their ponies ready, gathered their weapons, and rode off.
As soon as he saw Sitting Bull leave, Slow waded out of the river and sprinted to his tipi. He gathered his bow and the war paint he planned to wear and, doing his best not to attract attention tohimself, left the lodge and climbed onto the back of his gray pony. When he reached the rendezvous point, the warriors had assembled. Some were already streaked with war paint, while others stood by their mounts, decorating the ponies with bold splashes of brilliant color and daubing their own faces with bands of red and
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