Young Crow Raider

by Francis Lynde Kroll

Without losing time to look around, Bent Arrow started walking rapidly. He counted his steps by opening and closing his fingers. When he had gone a hundred paces, he began to run. At the end of a hundred running paces, he felt so fresh and strong that he was tempted to run another hundred paces, but Flying Arrow’s orders had been definite. He slowed to a walk for a hundred paces. He continued the alternate running and walking until he reached the lone tree of which Flying Arrow had told him. Here he turned east.

With every step Bent Arrow’s confidence rose. He had escaped the Sioux. He had traveled at least half of the night, and he felt as strong as when he had started. He could hold this pace all the way to the Crow winter camp if he had to. The thought of having to travel all the way to the Crow winter camp brought the first lessening of his confidence. He had been thinking of the hunting party as still in the camp where he and Flying Arrow had left them. But they might not be there. They might have started to the winter camp. The thought of Flying Arrow trying to hold that canyon alone all of the time it would take to reach the winter camp drained away all of Bent Arrow’s recent confidence.

For the first time since he had left the canyon, Bent Arrow felt fear. He began to increase his speed, and as the fear mounted he ran faster until he was running as hard as he could. It wasn’t until he was gasping for air that he realized his foolishness. He was exhausting himself. Soon he would drop, and there would be no one to try to bring help for Flying Arrow. He slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

He walked twice the usual distance before he tried to run again. When he did run, he found that the hard running he had done had tired him badly. It took all of his will power to keep himself running the full hundred paces. And now he had a new fear. He might not be able to keep on even to the river. Yet, somehow he was still going when dawn broke in the east.

As the prairie became lighter, Bent Arrow kept on the watch for familiar signs. He had been across the river several times with warriors. If he were near it, he should see signs. Nothing looked familiar. Anxiously he checked his route with the rising sun. He was going in the right direction.

He was tiring badly. At the end of each hundred running paces, he was gasping for breath. He would have to stop and rest, but he knew he didn’t dare. If he stopped, he would fall asleep. He kept himself going by thinking of Flying Arrow standing alone against those Sioux. That helped for a few paces, but at last he knew he had done his best and had failed. He was at the foot of some low hills.

“I’ll reach the top before I stop to rest,” he vowed.

He started up the hill. Halfway up he stumbled and fell. He stretched out and his eyes closed. A feeling of peace enveloped him like a warm blanket, but before he fell asleep, he thought of Flying Arrow. He struggled to his feet and reeled toward the top.

He fell again. He stayed on his hands and knees and crawled onward.

Just getting to the top seemed to give him strength. He stood up. He tried to look ahead, but weariness had dimmed his eyes so that he could see only a few paces. He started down the hill.