Bent Arrow looked at his uncle in surprise.
“The Sioux won’t look for us since the storm, will they?” he asked.
“They’re not likely to hunt for us unless”—, Flying Arrow let his voice fall.
“You were thinking that we might follow them,” Bent Arrow guessed. “You would like to try one more raid.”
A smile briefly touched the corners of Flying Arrow’s mouth. It was quickly replaced by a thoughtful frown.
“Our raids have been unsuccessful,” he said gloomily. “The Sioux have strong medicine. Our medicine is weak.”
Bent Arrow had forgotten the eagle feather inside his shirt. As he shifted to a more comfortable position, the feather rubbed lightly against his skin. He reached his hand inside his shirt and drew out the feather.
“Our medicine was weak,” he agreed, “but it’s strong now. I have the eagle feather.”
Flying Arrow started to shake his head. He stopped abruptly.
“I noticed yesterday that you did not limp even though we walked and ran a great distance,” he admitted. “The eagle feather may be helping us.”