"Wait, my son, I have some words for you," he said.
"It is good," replied White Otter.
"You say that you are going to fight the Blackfeet," said Wolf Robe. "Those people are strong. They are braver than the boastful Pawnees. I have fought with them many times. When I was a young man I was taken to their village. They kept me there many moons. Those were bad days. Then I got away. After that I fought many battles against those people. Once I went to their camp, and took away some ponies. It was a hard thing to do. Yes, my son, the Blackfeet are great warriors. Well, I have told you about them. Now you can tell our brothers, the Minneconjoux, about it. I believe you will have a big fight to get back those ponies. My son, you are a Dacotah. It is enough. I have spoken. Go!"
The following day, at sunrise, White Otter set out to join the Minneconjoux war party. He was dressed and decorated for the war trail. Naked above the waist, he had daubed and streaked his face, chest and arms with yellow clay. A great war bonnet of eagle plumes proclaimed his rank as a famous Ogalala war chief. His dress consisted of buckskin leggings, buffalo-hide moccasins, a buckskin breechcloth, and a silky cow buffalo robe for protection against wind and storm. He carried a wolfskin case containing his bow and arrows, a flint knife in a buckskin sheath, his buffalo-hide war shield, and a weasel-skin pouch containing his fire sticks and some dried meat. Mounted upon his best war pony, the dashing young warrior made a striking appearance as he rode proudly from the great Sioux camp.
Many friends shouted good wishes from the edge of the village. White Otter turned his pony, and answered them with the thrilling war-cry of the Dacotahs. Then he raced away toward the west.
Once beyond range of the camp, however, White Otter drew his pony to a walk, and carefully scanned the plain. He had little fear of encountering foes so near the Ogalala village, but he determined to take every precaution. A small band of antelope were feeding far away toward the south, and as they seemed to be the only living creatures on the vast expanse of plain White Otter urged his pony into a canter and proceeded on his way.
It was a glorious day in early summer. The sky was blue and cloudless. The prairie was dotted with flowers. Birds sang gayly from the thickets. The air was perfumed with the fragrance of blossoms, the sweet aroma of growing grass, and the faint, spicy scent of distant sage.
White Otter rode on his way in high spirits. He was carefree, and happy, and eager for adventure. The fact that he was about to expose himself to the perils of the war trail caused him slight concern. He had implicit confidence in the ability and courage of his tribesmen, the fearless Minneconjoux, and he had little doubt that their expedition against the powerful Blackfeet would be entirely successful. The thought of being injured or killed in the adventure never entered his mind. If it had he would have wasted little time upon it, as he had long since learned to scoff at danger, and to accept injury and death as inevitable possibilities in the life of every warrior.
Toward the end of the day White Otter came in sight of a familiar little grove of aspens which marked a former camp site. He had encountered a company of Ute warriors at that spot the previous year, and he was somewhat suspicious of it. It offered a splendid hiding place to foes, and the wily young Sioux determined to make sure that the place was unoccupied before he ventured within arrow range. He stopped at a safe distance out on the plain, and watched the grove with considerable anxiety. Then, as he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions, he rode slowly about the camp site, looking for fresh pony tracks. He soon discovered them. They led away from the grove. White Otter dismounted, and studied them with great care. He saw that it was the trail of a single pony, and the tracks were several days old. Having learned that much, he walked slowly ahead of his horse, watching carefully to discover where the trail had entered the grove.
"Perhaps it was Lean Wolf," he told himself.