CHAPTER EIGHT
When Bent Arrow awakened, he brushed the leaves from his face and lifted his head. It was bright daylight. The ground had been covered with a light blanket of snow, but it was no longer storming. The clouds overhead were beginning to break up. At any moment the sun might shine through.
Flying Arrow stirred and sat up beside Bent Arrow.
“I’ll try to find food for us while you start a fire,” Flying Arrow directed.
Bent Arrow searched in piles of leaves until he had gathered an armload of dry sticks. He laid these on the ground. Next he raked together a small pile of dry leaves. He struck a spark on the pile of leaves and blew the sparks to a flame. He added small sticks of dry wood until the fire burned brightly. By the time Flying Arrow returned with a deer which he had killed and dressed, the fire was a mass of glowing coals.
While the food was cooking, Bent Arrow’s mind was puzzling with the question of what plan he and his uncle could follow. Probably Flying Arrow would announce that they would start at once to try to rejoin their own hunting party. Bent Arrow thought it likely that the hunters had already started toward the Crow winter camp. Unless he and his uncle could overtake the party, they would have to travel all the distance on foot.
“I’m afraid that we will have to walk to the winter camp,” Flying Arrow said, as though he were guessing Bent Arrow’s thoughts.
“Everyone will laugh at us,” Bent Arrow replied thoughtfully. “Not only have we failed to capture Sioux horses, but we have lost our own.”
“No one will laugh at us,” Flying Arrow assured him. “Many raids are unsuccessful. It will be an almost-victory if the two of us escape so large a Sioux hunting party.”