Bent Arrow saw his uncle, Flying Arrow, at the edge of the circle of warriors. He turned in that direction. He had to grit his teeth to keep from limping, but he was determined that his uncle shouldn’t think he was using his injured leg as an excuse for not winning.
“I’m sorry you have to be ashamed because I can’t win a race,” Bent Arrow said as soon as he was beside his uncle.
“Ashamed!” Flying Arrow exclaimed. “I’m not ashamed. I’m proud that you were able to beat two runners as good as Sly Fox and Laughing Deer. Running Elk and Lone Eagle are a summer older than you. When you are in your fourteenth summer, you will be an even better runner.”
Bent Arrow gulped and bent his head. Only girls cried. Certainly a boy of thirteen summers didn’t, but Flying Arrow’s unexpected praise had brought tears very close to Bent Arrow’s eyes.
“When your leg is completely healed, you’ll be one of the best runners in the whole Crow Nation,” Flying Arrow went on. “You are much improved since your last race.”
“I’ll keep practicing,” Bent Arrow vowed.
“Clawing Bear wants to see you,” Flying Arrow told him.
Bent Arrow glanced at his uncle’s face. He could see nothing there to tell him what the medicine man wanted. Was he to hear bad news about his leg? He would have liked to ask Flying Arrow why the medicine man wanted to see him, but Crow boys were not expected to ask questions.
“I’ll go now,” he agreed.
He turned from his uncle and went past the warriors who were still gathered around Lone Eagle, and on toward the camp. It wasn’t a large camp. There were only about twenty tepees, set up in two irregular lines. This was a hunting party out to lay in a supply of buffalo meat for the winter which was not too far away. The hunters had brought their squaws along. The women would take care of curing and drying the meat that the hunters brought.