knife and cut his throat.
He listened as he felt the hot blood, and he could tell by a change in breathing that one of the other warriors near the ashes of the fire had woken and was listening. Shaggy Hump waited until his victim died, then waited longer. Longer. When he was sure the warrior at the fire suspected nothing and had gone back to sleep, he began taking the scalp from the warrior he had slain.
He did not take a large part of the scalp, for wrenching that much from the skull would have made much noise. He only took a small scalp lock, enough to dance around upon his return.
Tucking the trophy under the thong of his loin skins beneath his deerskin shirt, Shaggy Hump stood once more and judged the ground between himself and the two Raiders near the fire. There were many leaves and sticks here. He would have to slide a moccasin under them gradually for each step, waiting for the wind to cover the sound of his approach.
His legs and back became stiff from the hard work of creeping upon his foes, but at last he stood between them. The moon was almost gone behind the ridge, and Shaggy Hump knew he must finish quickly, for he needed light to find footing out of this enemy camp.
He knelt, slowly, over the Raider who slept with the Fire Stick. He could only see the end of the evil thing sticking out of the buffalo robe, and he knew from the stories that this end was the one which shot embers and bad medicine. He reached for it with the hand that held his knife, though the Fire Stick was very near the face of the sleeping enemy. His club was ready in case this warrior should wake.
Holding the iron knife with his thumb and two small fingers, he reached for the end of the Fire Stick with his bowstring fingers. He touched it cautiously, felt its chill. This was iron, the thing of the white man. Once, Shaggy Hump had thought the white man a legend made up by lesser peoples. He had since decided that this white man must exist somewhere, for he kept hearing more and more strange talesâfrom the Raccoon-Eyed People with whom he traded, and from women captured from enemies and made into wives of the Burnt Meat Peopleâs warriors. They said the white men grew hair out all over their faces, which Shaggy Hump thought must look very ugly, for the most handsome men were those who plucked all the hair from the chins, brows, and eyelids, as he himself did. He hoped some day to see a white man, and trade something for some arrow points or knives of iron orâbetter stillâhorses.
Whether or not he wanted a Fire Stick, he was still not sure. The one against his fingertips did not seem as evil as his brother had said. It wasnât waking up or barking fire. It was not alive. Still, it must have strong magic, or the enemy warrior would not guard it so closely. If ever he found out he could master such magic without offending the spirits, Shaggy Hump would obtain his own Fire Stick, but now it was better to let this one lie.
He stood again over his enemies, who were lost so stupidly in the false peace of sleep. He tucked the iron knife under his belt. He drew the lone arrow from his quiver. He began to draw it slowly from the quiver, bit by bit.
The barbed war point had been chipped thin and flaked to a fine edge by Wounded Bear, a maker of fine arrows, though he had been almost blind. This particular point had missed its target in a fight during the last Moon of Falling Leaves and had struck a rock, breaking the tip off. Shaggy Hump had plenty of arrows, and didnât mind leaving this one here.
Once clear of the quiver, he put the sharp point of the arrow against the earth, between the heads of the two Raiders. Using his weight, he leaned upon the shaft of this arrow with a silent and grueling deliberation, pushing the point past one grain of soil, then the next, then the next. Finally the point was sunk deep enough to make the arrow shaft stand against the wind. It would greet the enemy warriors when they woke at
He listened as he felt the hot blood, and he could tell by a change in breathing that one of the other warriors near the ashes of the fire had woken and was listening. Shaggy Hump waited until his victim died, then waited longer. Longer. When he was sure the warrior at the fire suspected nothing and had gone back to sleep, he began taking the scalp from the warrior he had slain.
He did not take a large part of the scalp, for wrenching that much from the skull would have made much noise. He only took a small scalp lock, enough to dance around upon his return.
Tucking the trophy under the thong of his loin skins beneath his deerskin shirt, Shaggy Hump stood once more and judged the ground between himself and the two Raiders near the fire. There were many leaves and sticks here. He would have to slide a moccasin under them gradually for each step, waiting for the wind to cover the sound of his approach.
His legs and back became stiff from the hard work of creeping upon his foes, but at last he stood between them. The moon was almost gone behind the ridge, and Shaggy Hump knew he must finish quickly, for he needed light to find footing out of this enemy camp.
He knelt, slowly, over the Raider who slept with the Fire Stick. He could only see the end of the evil thing sticking out of the buffalo robe, and he knew from the stories that this end was the one which shot embers and bad medicine. He reached for it with the hand that held his knife, though the Fire Stick was very near the face of the sleeping enemy. His club was ready in case this warrior should wake.
Holding the iron knife with his thumb and two small fingers, he reached for the end of the Fire Stick with his bowstring fingers. He touched it cautiously, felt its chill. This was iron, the thing of the white man. Once, Shaggy Hump had thought the white man a legend made up by lesser peoples. He had since decided that this white man must exist somewhere, for he kept hearing more and more strange talesâfrom the Raccoon-Eyed People with whom he traded, and from women captured from enemies and made into wives of the Burnt Meat Peopleâs warriors. They said the white men grew hair out all over their faces, which Shaggy Hump thought must look very ugly, for the most handsome men were those who plucked all the hair from the chins, brows, and eyelids, as he himself did. He hoped some day to see a white man, and trade something for some arrow points or knives of iron orâbetter stillâhorses.
Whether or not he wanted a Fire Stick, he was still not sure. The one against his fingertips did not seem as evil as his brother had said. It wasnât waking up or barking fire. It was not alive. Still, it must have strong magic, or the enemy warrior would not guard it so closely. If ever he found out he could master such magic without offending the spirits, Shaggy Hump would obtain his own Fire Stick, but now it was better to let this one lie.
He stood again over his enemies, who were lost so stupidly in the false peace of sleep. He tucked the iron knife under his belt. He drew the lone arrow from his quiver. He began to draw it slowly from the quiver, bit by bit.
The barbed war point had been chipped thin and flaked to a fine edge by Wounded Bear, a maker of fine arrows, though he had been almost blind. This particular point had missed its target in a fight during the last Moon of Falling Leaves and had struck a rock, breaking the tip off. Shaggy Hump had plenty of arrows, and didnât mind leaving this one here.
Once clear of the quiver, he put the sharp point of the arrow against the earth, between the heads of the two Raiders. Using his weight, he leaned upon the shaft of this arrow with a silent and grueling deliberation, pushing the point past one grain of soil, then the next, then the next. Finally the point was sunk deep enough to make the arrow shaft stand against the wind. It would greet the enemy warriors when they woke at
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