Flying Arrow smiled.
“You have the determination of a good Crow warrior,” he praised.
They made a quick meal of cold meat and set off again. They had gone only a short distance when they came upon the Sioux trail. The trail was plainly marked, although most of the snow had melted since the Sioux had passed.
“I think they are going directly to their winter camp,” Flying Arrow said. “They are farther ahead than I had expected.”
The Sioux trail led almost due north. For a time it lay in the level valley of the stream. When it left the valley, it followed much rougher ground. There were steep hills surrounding narrow valleys which were little more than canyons. Some of the valleys had wooded streams; others were only a dip in the prairie. In spite of the rough ground, Flying Arrow kept at his swift pace.
It wasn’t until the sun was directly overhead that Flying Arrow halted beside a small stream. Both he and Bent Arrow drank.
“Does your leg hurt?” Flying Arrow asked, as he got to his feet.
“Not at all,” Bent Arrow assured him.
“Then we’ll go on at once,” Flying Arrow decided. “We must lose no time if we are to overtake the Sioux.”
Now the trail led away from the hills and out onto the open prairie. In every direction the dried grass looked like a great brown sea. The low hills were like rolling waves. Occasionally the two Crows came to a valley where a few trees grew beside a stream. The sun was about halfway down the western sky when they came into a valley which had a larger grove of trees than the others. The nearer they came to the trees, the faster Flying Arrow went, so that he was running at full speed when he reached the trees.