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they are taken care of. He can look at a tree and find where the bow is hidden, then cut away everything that is not the bow. It could not be longer or shorter. It is the only bow in that tree, and you should treat it with respect. Treat it with all the care that went into its making, and it will never fail you.”
    Slow plucked the sinew string, heard the pure hum of it, almost like the note of a flute. As it vibrated for a split second, it was a blur in the middle, and when it came to rest, there was perfect silence.
    Slow got to his feet. Sitting Bull handed him a hunting arrow, its iron tip black from the fire, its razor edges shining in the morning sun. The boy looked around for a fitting target for his first shot, and when none presented itself, he aimed high,toward the sun, drawing the bow as deeply as he could. It was powerful, too powerful for his ten-year-old shoulders, and he struggled to get the arrow back to the head. He had to stop with a good eight inches of shaft still separating bow and arrowhead, and his arms were shaking. He forced them to be still. Sighting along the shaft of the brand-new arrow, he let go of the string, feeling a sharp sting where it slapped against his wrist. Lowering the bow, he watched the long, graceful arc of the arrow’s flight as it cleared the cottonwoods and disappeared behind the crowns of the trees.
    Looking at Sitting Bull, he licked his lips. “Thank you, Father,” he said.
    “Get on your pony, son. It’s time for you to learn to hunt the buffalo.”

Chapter 5
    Missouri River Valley
1841
    E VEN BEFORE SLOW AND HIS FATHER reached the last ridge, beyond which the herd was grazing, he could hear the buffalo. The grunts of the bulls sounded like the earth itself moving. Dust rose over the ridgeline, filling the air with a faint beige pall as the animals moved restlessly, churning the earth and tearing at the grass.
    Father and son rode cautiously, not wanting to spook the animals. Sitting Bull wanted Slow to learn the intricacies of the hunt, on which the life of the Hunkpapa depended. The best way to learn was by doing, but he was not about to send his son into the hunt without a little preparation. A buffalo herd could be dangerous. The bulls were ornery, and they were a lot quicker than their ungainly appearance suggested. The horns, worn by both bulls and cows, were vicious weapons, and an enraged buffalo was afraid of nothing.
    Sitting Bull had seen more than one friend killed by the huge beasts. He had seen, too, a horse gored by a charging bull, its entrails pulled loose, the frightened pony running, stepping on its own intestines, pulling itself apart until it fell dead in its tracks.
    They reached the crest of the ridge and Sitting Bull dismounted, telling Slow to do the same. Their mounts and packhorses took the opportunity to graze a bit. Far below, the herd stretched halfway up either side of the ridges that formed a long, vee-shaped valley. Slow gasped, watching the numberless animals, many of them wandering aimlessly. Some of the buffalo were on the ground, squirming on their backs, using loose dirt to rid themselves of parasites. Slow saw a pair of huge bulls square off, lowering their heads and pawing at the grass before running together with a clash of horns.
    Calves drifted in their mothers’ wakes, their tails lashing the air, looking almost ludicrous, their already bulky bodies held up by spindly legs. All along the opposite ridge, Slow saw other Hunkpapas watching the herd, trying to gauge its temperament and making last-minute preparations. The Lakota had been hunting buffalo for generations, but it was not something they did casually. They depended on the animals for just about everything, and a mistake could send the herd rumbling away before they had killed enough to meet their immediate needs. And it was in the haste to make up for their mistakes that hunters got hurt, or sometimes killed.
    To guard against overanxiousness,
akicitas,
warriors