“And Old-Man-of-the-North sent snow to hide our tracks,” Bent Arrow went on. “Our medicine is stronger than the Sioux’s.”
“It does seem to be,” Flying Arrow acknowledged. “I must think more about this.”
Bent Arrow quickly got to his feet and walked away. He must say no more. Already he had spoken more than a boy should. He noticed that the sun had not kept its promise to break through the clouds. The north wind was damp and chilly; every gust seemed sure to bring more snow.
“I hope Old-Man-of-the-North doesn’t send more snow,” Bent Arrow thought to himself.
When Bent Arrow left the camp, he crossed the small valley and climbed to the highest point on the hills that divided the valley from the next one. He saw a few buffaloes grazing there. That was proof enough that the Sioux were not near.
When Bent Arrow returned to camp, he found Flying Arrow busily dividing the best parts of the deer meat into two packs.
“We’ll follow the Sioux two days,” Flying Arrow announced. “If, by that time, we haven’t been able to make a raid, we must turn toward our winter camp.”
Bent Arrow wanted to shout his joy at his uncle’s decision. He could feel the Crow war cry climbing up his throat, and he had to clamp his mouth shut to make sure that he didn’t shout. If Flying Arrow noticed Bent Arrow’s excitement, he gave no sign.
In a very short time they were on their way, each of them carrying a small pack of meat. When he and his uncle had fled from the Sioux, they had gone southeast and then circled west. Now Flying Arrow was swinging toward the north.
Flying Arrow set a fast pace. Several times he cast an anxious look back at Bent Arrow, but the boy was following easily. The weather had changed again. Evidently the sun had remembered its promise. It had chased the clouds away and was busily melting the snow. At midday, when Flying Arrow called a halt, the blanket of snow was gone, with only scattered drifts left.