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Authors: Gilbert Morris
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his dinner at stake; it was his life.
He made a fireless camp that night, finding a natural cave on the crest of a lofty knoll. He could lie in the mouth of the opening and catch a panoramic view of the woods that fell off toward the river bottoms. On the backside rose a sheer bluff of sandstone that afforded good cover from anyapproaching enemy. He lay there long after the full silver moon rose, listening to the echoes of a wolf howling down by the river. The peacefulness around him soon lulled him into a dreamless sleep.
Every day for a week, Chris made a stealthy journey, spanning out in circles from the cave; and by the end of that time, he knew the terrain well. Moving carefully as a fox, he slipped from tree to tree and avoided the open spaces whenever possible. He would freeze in one spot, totally immobile, and wait until the animals and birds resumed their activities. He became an expert in waiting, in turning himself into stone, and many times he could almost have reached out and taken game with his hands.
The week ended, and then another, and time was reduced to its simplest form—the light was day and the darkness night. Constantly he scanned the forest and sharpened his skill with the bow. While studying the wild creatures, Chris often spotted Indians far off, but he always faded back into the deep woods. He found wild berries, and learned to tolerate the small mussels from the river.
The weeks turned to months, and he broadened his range, finding on one of his silent stalks a large Indian camp about fifteen miles from his cave. He went to the camp’s outskirts frequently, studying their activities, risking death for the sight. After some time he could recognize some of them, for they lived in the open, outside of the buffalo hide tepees they used for sleeping. The young men often had contests—running, wrestling, mock wars or drills with war spears and tomahawks. Among these young braves there was one who stood out from the others. He was taller than the rest, and always won at any of the contests. He wore a single eagle feather and a knife in a yellow sheath, and it was obvious that he was of some importance in the tribe.
Several times Chris was nearly discovered. Once he avoided a hunting party only by climbing a tree; it had been too late to run. The Indians moved by, speaking to one another intheir guttural language, and he could easily have dropped his knife on the tall young Indian with the eagle feather and the yellow sheath.
A week later Chris had hidden himself near a small stream, waiting for a deer. When three deer stepped out of the woods into the small clearing, he fitted an arrow into the bow and carefully took aim.
Zipppp! An arrow shot out of the woods at a point just upstream from where Chris knelt, stunned. He could clearly see the shaft of an arrow protruding from the body of the largest buck. The animal fell to the ground, then sprang up, mortally wounded, leaving a scarlet trail as he ran into the woods. Immediately, a short, stocky Indian wearing only a breechcloth leaped up from where he had been concealed by a clump of willows and dashed off in pursuit of the wounded animal.
Chris found his hands shaking with fear for the first time since he’d come to the Sky Country; if he had loosed his own arrow, he would have been an easy mark for the hidden Sioux warrior. He kept his place, and soon the Indian came tramping back, the deer draped over his shoulders. As he passed within a few feet of Chris, he could smell the strong odor of smoke and sweat from the man steadily making his way in the direction of the enemy camp.
Finally Chris rose and started to leave, then hesitated. Out of curiosity, he backtracked to where the Indian had hidden himself. Looking across the creek, Chris could clearly see the tree he had stood beside, and with a shudder he realized he had been directly in line of the Indian’s sight. Guess I’ve graduated. If I can be so still that a Sioux can’t spot me,
He made a fireless camp that night, finding a natural cave on the crest of a lofty knoll. He could lie in the mouth of the opening and catch a panoramic view of the woods that fell off toward the river bottoms. On the backside rose a sheer bluff of sandstone that afforded good cover from anyapproaching enemy. He lay there long after the full silver moon rose, listening to the echoes of a wolf howling down by the river. The peacefulness around him soon lulled him into a dreamless sleep.
Every day for a week, Chris made a stealthy journey, spanning out in circles from the cave; and by the end of that time, he knew the terrain well. Moving carefully as a fox, he slipped from tree to tree and avoided the open spaces whenever possible. He would freeze in one spot, totally immobile, and wait until the animals and birds resumed their activities. He became an expert in waiting, in turning himself into stone, and many times he could almost have reached out and taken game with his hands.
The week ended, and then another, and time was reduced to its simplest form—the light was day and the darkness night. Constantly he scanned the forest and sharpened his skill with the bow. While studying the wild creatures, Chris often spotted Indians far off, but he always faded back into the deep woods. He found wild berries, and learned to tolerate the small mussels from the river.
The weeks turned to months, and he broadened his range, finding on one of his silent stalks a large Indian camp about fifteen miles from his cave. He went to the camp’s outskirts frequently, studying their activities, risking death for the sight. After some time he could recognize some of them, for they lived in the open, outside of the buffalo hide tepees they used for sleeping. The young men often had contests—running, wrestling, mock wars or drills with war spears and tomahawks. Among these young braves there was one who stood out from the others. He was taller than the rest, and always won at any of the contests. He wore a single eagle feather and a knife in a yellow sheath, and it was obvious that he was of some importance in the tribe.
Several times Chris was nearly discovered. Once he avoided a hunting party only by climbing a tree; it had been too late to run. The Indians moved by, speaking to one another intheir guttural language, and he could easily have dropped his knife on the tall young Indian with the eagle feather and the yellow sheath.
A week later Chris had hidden himself near a small stream, waiting for a deer. When three deer stepped out of the woods into the small clearing, he fitted an arrow into the bow and carefully took aim.
Zipppp! An arrow shot out of the woods at a point just upstream from where Chris knelt, stunned. He could clearly see the shaft of an arrow protruding from the body of the largest buck. The animal fell to the ground, then sprang up, mortally wounded, leaving a scarlet trail as he ran into the woods. Immediately, a short, stocky Indian wearing only a breechcloth leaped up from where he had been concealed by a clump of willows and dashed off in pursuit of the wounded animal.
Chris found his hands shaking with fear for the first time since he’d come to the Sky Country; if he had loosed his own arrow, he would have been an easy mark for the hidden Sioux warrior. He kept his place, and soon the Indian came tramping back, the deer draped over his shoulders. As he passed within a few feet of Chris, he could smell the strong odor of smoke and sweat from the man steadily making his way in the direction of the enemy camp.
Finally Chris rose and started to leave, then hesitated. Out of curiosity, he backtracked to where the Indian had hidden himself. Looking across the creek, Chris could clearly see the tree he had stood beside, and with a shudder he realized he had been directly in line of the Indian’s sight. Guess I’ve graduated. If I can be so still that a Sioux can’t spot me,
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