Bent Arrow stepped back to the trunk of the tree. From there he ran forward and jumped as far as he could. He landed among the low branches of the next tree. A moment later his uncle landed beside him. There were no other trees near, and all around was snow which would plainly show any tracks that were made.
“You ride on my back,” Flying Arrow ordered. “You can carry a branch and brush away my tracks.”
Bent Arrow picked up a small branch. Holding it in one hand, he got on his uncle’s back. Each time that Flying Arrow took a step, Bent Arrow leaned down and brushed the footprints away. This left odd markings in the snow. If the sun shone even a short time before the Sioux found the trail, there would be little they could read in it.
It was slow progress across the valley and to the top of the hill. Here the ground was bare. Bent Arrow jumped from his uncle’s back. Now they were able to go rapidly. As they went on, they did find patches of snow, but they jumped across these.
As he and his uncle hurried along, Bent Arrow noticed that the darkness was deepening. He glanced toward the sky. Clouds were blotting out the stars. A short time later, he felt snowflakes hitting against his face. Flying Arrow turned from the chain of hills and led the way into a valley where there were a few trees.
“We can camp now,” he said. “Old-Man-of-the-North is sending more snow. It will cover our trail. The Sioux won’t be able to find us.”
“If he had sent it earlier, we wouldn’t have had to run from the Sioux,” Bent Arrow exclaimed bitterly.
Flying Arrow laughed.
“Spoken like a good Crow,” he praised. “No Crow likes to run from the Sioux. Some day we shall repay them for this.”
In the darkness Bent Arrow and his uncle groped under a tree until they found a pile of leaves. Carefully they raked the wet leaves from the pile. They bunched the dry leaves together and burrowed into the pile. Although they had no blankets, they soon were dry and comfortable. Bent Arrow had scarcely crawled into the leaves before he fell into a sound sleep.