He glanced toward the mound of snow which covered Flying Arrow. As Bent Arrow watched, his uncle stirred and then quickly crawled out of the drift.
“Old-Man-of-the-North is still sending snow,” Flying Arrow remarked, glancing around.
“I hope the sun becomes angry tomorrow and melts all of his snow,” Bent Arrow said crossly.
“It might be better for us if Old-Man-of-the-North keeps sending snow,” Flying Arrow answered thoughtfully. “The storm will keep the Sioux in that valley. We might have another chance to make a raid.”
“Could we try?” Bent Arrow asked eagerly.
Before he answered, Flying Arrow took a careful look around. He sniffed the wind.
“I think the snow will continue,” he answered. “If our horses can get through the drifts, we have a chance to succeed.”
Bent Arrow glanced about him, trying to decide how much of the day was gone. The dark clouds and driving snow shut off most of the light, yet Bent Arrow felt that there must be a fourth of the day left.
“Is there much daylight left?” he asked.
“If there were no snow, we could ride to the Sioux camp before dark,” Flying Eagle answered. “We’ll start at once. It will be harder traveling after darkness falls.”