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east end of the ridge. Crossing the narrow mouth of the valley, the buffalo well west of them now and out of sight, Slow was beginning to feel a new surge of confidence. By the time they had climbed to the opposite ridge and reached the end of the line of impatient hunters, Slow was convinced that he would take his first buffalo that day.
    Sitting Bull picketed his packhorses, then mounted up again. He reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, then nodded, and the hunt leader gave the signal to begin. Unlike a war party, where the point was to terrify the enemy with war cries, the hunters moved quietly, spreading out behind the herd and hoping to get right on top of it beforethe alarm began to circulate among the grazing animals.
    But soon the approaching horses were too obvious for the buffalo to miss, and the herd began to move. At first the animals just milled around, raising their heads to pick up the scent of the intruders. They broke into uncertain trots, some in one direction, some in another. But as the Hunkpapa got closer, the nearest animals began to run. Soon a surge spread through the herd from one side to the other, and they were all in flight, heading west, down the length of the long, narrow valley.
    Sitting Bull hung back, wanting to keep an eye on Slow without the boy realizing he was being watched. If things went well, he wouldn’t interfere, but he would be close enough to help if Slow ran into trouble.
    He watched as his son skirted the rear fringe of the herd, moving parallel to a handful of cows and calves. Slow held his bow with arrow notched but undrawn as he tried to maneuver his gray pony alongside a fat calf. He clutched two more arrows against the curve of the bow, ready for quick release, just as his father had shown him so many times. The calf kept changing direction on him, sometimes moving away from its mother and the rest of the herd, sometimes drifting into a clump of other calves. It might have been easier to pick another target, but Slow had his heart set on his first choice. Ahead, he could see the first few kills—dark, immobile mounds in the surging brown sea.
    The buffalo parted to get past the fallen animals,then reconverged. As the last of the herd passed the first few victims of the hunt, the carcasses remained in the trampled grass like great brown boulders. But Slow was too busy tracking his prey to pay much attention to the success of the other hunters.
    He moved in closer, gaining confidence with every stride of his pony. The calf turned once to look at him, then veered away, and Slow kicked his heels into the pony’s flanks for an extra burst of speed. He was just ten yards behind the calf now and closing in fast. Once more the calf veered, drifting to the right and cutting across his path. The gray responded, changing direction so horse and rider were once more behind the right flank of the terrified calf.
    Slow drew his arrow now, squeezing the gray between his legs to hang on. He tried to aim, but the bounding pony made it difficult for him to hold to his target. The bowstring hummed and the arrow grazed the calf’s back, the iron arrowhead plowing a shallow furrow in the flesh and leaving a bright red line to mark its passage.
    Slow shook his fist in anger before notching another arrow from those in his hand. Adjusting it, he drew it back almost to the head, his frustration giving him strength. Before letting the arrow fly, he had to change direction yet again as the calf veered to avoid a fallen bull. The calf flew by on the bull’s left, Slow on its right. He passed close enough to see three arrows buried to their fletching in the buffalo’s shoulder, blood seeping from around the shafts.
    Once past the bull, he adjusted his angle on the calf again and drew the arrow back full, letting fly while the pony was in mid-stride. This time he had better luck and the arrow found its mark. It must have struck bone, because it penetrated only a few inches and flapped loosely as