yellow and blue.
One of the warriors spotted Slow and tapped Sitting Bull on the shoulder. Slow’s father turned around. His face, already painted, was barely recognizable behind the streaks of bright color. His eyes widened when he saw Slow, and he backed up a step, as if the boy were a frightening apparition. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he had regained his composure.
“I am going on the war party.”
Sitting Bill shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You aren’t old enough yet.”
“If I wait for you to tell me I am old enough, I will
never
be old enough. I have already killed buffalo. I know how to hunt, and I know how to shoot accurately with the bow and with the rifle.”
“That’s not the point … your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
Slow shook his head. “It is not up to my mother. And anyway, she would too forgive you. She knows that she can’t keep me in the tipi forever. I have left the cradleboard behind. I don’t want to be treated like a baby anymore.”
“But you have no experience.”
“How am I supposed to get experience if I always stay at home?”
Sitting Bull knew the boy was right, but he stilldidn’t want to agree. He held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let me think about this.” He moved away, Good-Voiced Elk following him.
Slow watched the two men conferring. The other warriors were all grinning at him, some pointing then whispering jokes and laughing, but Slow didn’t take offense. He knew what they were thinking, and he knew that someday, when he was like them and some fresh-faced boy wanted to come along, he would have the same reaction. He would laugh and he would tease. But he knew, too, that in the end he would accept the newcomer, because there was no other way. He only hoped Sitting Bull saw things the same way.
It didn’t take long for him to find out. Sitting Bull moved toward him, took the bow from his hand, and emptied the quiver of blunt-tipped arrows onto the grass. “These will not do for making war,” he said.
Then he walked back to his mount and took a coup stick, its bright beadwork glittering as he twirled it once and looked along its length to make sure it was straight. Satisfied, he handed it to the boy.
Slow took the coup stick, trying to conceal his delight. The warriors muttered their approval as he hefted the coup stick high overhead. “It is a good day to die,” he said.
“Not yet,” Sitting Bull said. “You have to put on your war paint. And hurry, because it is already late.”
Chapter 7
Yellowstone River Valley
1845
A W AR PARTY WAS NOT QUITE as exciting as Slow had thought. They had been riding for two days already, and so far there had not been a single trace of Crows. And he had all the dirty work to do. At night, he had to tend to the horses. During the day, he rode near the rear of the line, as befitted his status as the youngest. He was beginning to wonder whether it might not have been better to have waited for Sitting Bull to tell him when the time was right. But when he thought about it, he realized that even then, he would have been assigned the same chores. Better to get it over with now, he decided. Some things just couldn’t be avoided.
The warriors teased him constantly. They seemed to have a bottomless bag of tricks to play on him, and they were adept enough in their practical joking that he even fell for the same trick morethan once. They never seemed to tire of calling out that the Crows were coming, and every single time Slow would lash his gray pony, clapping his heels against its sides to get it moving, only to hear the explosion of laughter all around him. The warriors knew he was eager, and they were making the most of it.
But it was not malicious, and Slow knew that he would have to bear it with good grace if he expected to be taken on another war party anytime soon. He had known he would have to work hard, but he had not expected to be bored. When they camped
One of the warriors spotted Slow and tapped Sitting Bull on the shoulder. Slow’s father turned around. His face, already painted, was barely recognizable behind the streaks of bright color. His eyes widened when he saw Slow, and he backed up a step, as if the boy were a frightening apparition. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he had regained his composure.
“I am going on the war party.”
Sitting Bill shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You aren’t old enough yet.”
“If I wait for you to tell me I am old enough, I will
never
be old enough. I have already killed buffalo. I know how to hunt, and I know how to shoot accurately with the bow and with the rifle.”
“That’s not the point … your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
Slow shook his head. “It is not up to my mother. And anyway, she would too forgive you. She knows that she can’t keep me in the tipi forever. I have left the cradleboard behind. I don’t want to be treated like a baby anymore.”
“But you have no experience.”
“How am I supposed to get experience if I always stay at home?”
Sitting Bull knew the boy was right, but he stilldidn’t want to agree. He held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let me think about this.” He moved away, Good-Voiced Elk following him.
Slow watched the two men conferring. The other warriors were all grinning at him, some pointing then whispering jokes and laughing, but Slow didn’t take offense. He knew what they were thinking, and he knew that someday, when he was like them and some fresh-faced boy wanted to come along, he would have the same reaction. He would laugh and he would tease. But he knew, too, that in the end he would accept the newcomer, because there was no other way. He only hoped Sitting Bull saw things the same way.
It didn’t take long for him to find out. Sitting Bull moved toward him, took the bow from his hand, and emptied the quiver of blunt-tipped arrows onto the grass. “These will not do for making war,” he said.
Then he walked back to his mount and took a coup stick, its bright beadwork glittering as he twirled it once and looked along its length to make sure it was straight. Satisfied, he handed it to the boy.
Slow took the coup stick, trying to conceal his delight. The warriors muttered their approval as he hefted the coup stick high overhead. “It is a good day to die,” he said.
“Not yet,” Sitting Bull said. “You have to put on your war paint. And hurry, because it is already late.”
Chapter 7
Yellowstone River Valley
1845
A W AR PARTY WAS NOT QUITE as exciting as Slow had thought. They had been riding for two days already, and so far there had not been a single trace of Crows. And he had all the dirty work to do. At night, he had to tend to the horses. During the day, he rode near the rear of the line, as befitted his status as the youngest. He was beginning to wonder whether it might not have been better to have waited for Sitting Bull to tell him when the time was right. But when he thought about it, he realized that even then, he would have been assigned the same chores. Better to get it over with now, he decided. Some things just couldn’t be avoided.
The warriors teased him constantly. They seemed to have a bottomless bag of tricks to play on him, and they were adept enough in their practical joking that he even fell for the same trick morethan once. They never seemed to tire of calling out that the Crows were coming, and every single time Slow would lash his gray pony, clapping his heels against its sides to get it moving, only to hear the explosion of laughter all around him. The warriors knew he was eager, and they were making the most of it.
But it was not malicious, and Slow knew that he would have to bear it with good grace if he expected to be taken on another war party anytime soon. He had known he would have to work hard, but he had not expected to be bored. When they camped
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