There was a murmur of approval as Bent Arrow sat down. Flying Arrow got to his feet. He, too, went around the circle, giving each man a halter. When he had finished, he still had one halter in his hand. He turned to Bent Arrow.
“As a raider,” he smiled, “you have proved yourself a good Crow. You have proved yourself worthy of a good horse. This halter is Rocks’. The horse is yours.”
Bent Arrow tried to thank his uncle, but there was something wrong with his throat, and no words would come out. Flying Arrow turned quickly back to the warriors.
“Clawing Bear will tell you why I made presents of horses to you,” he said.
Clawing Bear stood.
“When a youth does a great deed,” Clawing Bear spoke solemnly, “his nearest relative is entitled to give gifts and to give the youth a new name. Twelve summers ago a party of Sioux injured a Crow boy—injured him so badly that the boy could not walk erect and so was given the name Bent Arrow. Now that boy has been cured. He has raided a Sioux camp. He has run a great distance in as short a time as any Crow has ever run it. When he reached us, he was ready to drop, but he was running erectly. I say that the boy, Bent Arrow, has become the warrior, True Arrow, a true Crow.”
A warrior jumped up and ran around the circle three times, shouting, “Welcome, True Arrow. Welcome, True Arrow. Welcome, True Arrow.”
Bent Arrow, now True Arrow, sat still with his head down. He was too happy to speak.
