completely by surprise, and warriors ran into the trees, trying to mount their horses while waging a desperate rear-guard action.
On his first pass through the Omaha village,Curly narrowly missed a running man with the tip of his bow, leaning far out over the left side of the pony in his effort. On the second pass, there was some resistance. Some of the Omaha warriors had managed to recover from the surprise, and were beginning to loose volleys of arrows in the general direction of the advancing Sioux.
Just beyond the village, a thick band of brush paralleled the creek on which the camp had been established, and Curly caught a glimpse of movement in the leaves. Aiming quickly, he launched an arrow, heard it strike, and heard a groan. He knew he had hit his target, and jumped from his pony, knife in hand, to take his first scalp.
Crouching as he entered the brush, he swept branches aside with one forearm, holding his knife ready in the other hand. At first, he saw nothing. There had been no further sound from the thick undergrowth, and he was beginning to think that after all, he had missed altogether.
The sounds of battle behind him faded away, the war whoops of Sioux and Omaha both faint, as he concentrated his attention on the possible danger just ahead.
Just as he was about to give up, he saw a swatch of color, cloth of some kind, and plunged through the intervening brush, his knife waving back and forth in front of him.
He saw the body then, lying on its stomach, and he dropped to one knee. Grabbing his target by the shoulder, he yanked the body over, grabbed a fistful of long black hair, and froze. It was a woman, a young woman, he had killed. And pretty. She reminded him of his sister, and he turned awaythen, trying not to smell the blood, trying to blot out the bright red stain on the side of her dress, where the shattered shaft of his arrow protruded like broken bone.
His stomach churned, and he bent over. He tried to stop it, but he was powerless, and the churning erupted into a spew of vomit. He gagged, choking on the bitter bilge. Coughing and sputtering, he backed away from the body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could see the glitter of the blade in front of him, and shoved the knife back into its sheath. Movement behind him spun him around. He found himself staring into the eyes of another Sioux, Horned Owl, a friend of Hump’s.
Horned Owl looked past him, and Curly stepped sidewise, trying to get between the warrior’s gaze and the body of the young woman. But he was too slow. Horned Owl saw what had happened, and broke into a grin.
Then, his nose twitching in comic exaggeration, he said, “Weak stomach, Curly?” He laughed and turned away. Curly stood there for a long moment, ashamed to go out into the open. There was no prohibition of killing women, but it made Curly sick, and he wondered whether it was right, law or no. He would have to ask his father.
The battle was already over. The Omaha had abandoned the field, and everything they owned except the few horses and weapons they had managed to grab in their flight. Curly jumped back on his pony and rode toward the main body of Sioux. Already, Horned Owl was circulating among them, telling them of Curly’s achievement. The warriors who knew grinned at him, some lifting their hairand making a slashing motion across their foreheads, then giving vent to piercing whoops.
It was tempting to run, but Curly knew he could only postpone, not avoid, the teasing. Better to endure it now. The sooner he put it behind him, the sooner he could live it down.
After the raid, Spotted Tail decided that it would be a good idea to head north, and establish a winter camp near the Black Hills. All the way back, Curly was teased unmercifully by the older warriors. Hump tried to ease the pain, but Curly faced it head-on, letting the men say what they wanted. Part of him thought they were right. What had happened was funny. But part of him believed
On his first pass through the Omaha village,Curly narrowly missed a running man with the tip of his bow, leaning far out over the left side of the pony in his effort. On the second pass, there was some resistance. Some of the Omaha warriors had managed to recover from the surprise, and were beginning to loose volleys of arrows in the general direction of the advancing Sioux.
Just beyond the village, a thick band of brush paralleled the creek on which the camp had been established, and Curly caught a glimpse of movement in the leaves. Aiming quickly, he launched an arrow, heard it strike, and heard a groan. He knew he had hit his target, and jumped from his pony, knife in hand, to take his first scalp.
Crouching as he entered the brush, he swept branches aside with one forearm, holding his knife ready in the other hand. At first, he saw nothing. There had been no further sound from the thick undergrowth, and he was beginning to think that after all, he had missed altogether.
The sounds of battle behind him faded away, the war whoops of Sioux and Omaha both faint, as he concentrated his attention on the possible danger just ahead.
Just as he was about to give up, he saw a swatch of color, cloth of some kind, and plunged through the intervening brush, his knife waving back and forth in front of him.
He saw the body then, lying on its stomach, and he dropped to one knee. Grabbing his target by the shoulder, he yanked the body over, grabbed a fistful of long black hair, and froze. It was a woman, a young woman, he had killed. And pretty. She reminded him of his sister, and he turned awaythen, trying not to smell the blood, trying to blot out the bright red stain on the side of her dress, where the shattered shaft of his arrow protruded like broken bone.
His stomach churned, and he bent over. He tried to stop it, but he was powerless, and the churning erupted into a spew of vomit. He gagged, choking on the bitter bilge. Coughing and sputtering, he backed away from the body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could see the glitter of the blade in front of him, and shoved the knife back into its sheath. Movement behind him spun him around. He found himself staring into the eyes of another Sioux, Horned Owl, a friend of Hump’s.
Horned Owl looked past him, and Curly stepped sidewise, trying to get between the warrior’s gaze and the body of the young woman. But he was too slow. Horned Owl saw what had happened, and broke into a grin.
Then, his nose twitching in comic exaggeration, he said, “Weak stomach, Curly?” He laughed and turned away. Curly stood there for a long moment, ashamed to go out into the open. There was no prohibition of killing women, but it made Curly sick, and he wondered whether it was right, law or no. He would have to ask his father.
The battle was already over. The Omaha had abandoned the field, and everything they owned except the few horses and weapons they had managed to grab in their flight. Curly jumped back on his pony and rode toward the main body of Sioux. Already, Horned Owl was circulating among them, telling them of Curly’s achievement. The warriors who knew grinned at him, some lifting their hairand making a slashing motion across their foreheads, then giving vent to piercing whoops.
It was tempting to run, but Curly knew he could only postpone, not avoid, the teasing. Better to endure it now. The sooner he put it behind him, the sooner he could live it down.
After the raid, Spotted Tail decided that it would be a good idea to head north, and establish a winter camp near the Black Hills. All the way back, Curly was teased unmercifully by the older warriors. Hump tried to ease the pain, but Curly faced it head-on, letting the men say what they wanted. Part of him thought they were right. What had happened was funny. But part of him believed
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