Read Novel 1968 - Down The Long Hills (v5.0) for Free Online

wanted the first chance at it.
    Horses meant wealth to him, for an Indian was judged by the number of horses he had. Coups meant pride among the maidens, meant boasting by the campfire. Ashawakie was a great warrior, he had proven it many times; but he was a warrior who liked to work alone. Now, when he could find an excuse, he left the others and circled back.
    He discovered the tracks quickly enough, but was puzzled by them. The tracks of the horse were large, but those of the people—two of them—were small. Young ones?
Alone?
    He dismissed it as unlikely.…The Little People? He felt a shiver of superstitious dread. The Old Ones had left stories behind of the Little People, and he wanted nothing to do with
them
. Anyway, they were supposed to have disappeared long ago into a cleft in the mountain far away in the northern Big Horns.
    Of the two people whose tracks he had found, he rarely saw the tracks of the much smaller one.
    The sign left by the horse excited him. The stride was long and even, the stride of a big, smooth-traveling horse that could hold its pace hour after hour. He wanted that horse, Little People or no.
    But he soon felt assured that they were not the Little People. They must be children of the White-Eyes, and they were alone. They had built fires rarely. He found no scraps of food, no bones. Only at first did he find a tin can.
    Ashawakie could read sign, and like any Indian worth his salt, he deduced a good deal from what he saw. These were children alone, hurrying westward, and they had no food.
    He found where snares had been set, but there was no blood and no hair, no feathers. They had caught nothing. But the Little Warrior, as Ashawakie came to think of him, had removed the snares before he left, wanting none of the Forest People to be trapped and die after he left.
    Ashawakie was a Cheyenne. He did not make war upon children, but he was curious; and after a while, he was faintly admiring. The Little Warrior was cunning. He chose his camps well. He hid his horse. Before leaving each camp, he tried to remove all sign of his presence. He only rode in the trail after the rain began, when a few hours, or even minutes, would wipe out all trace of his passing.
    Interested, Ashawakie followed. He had no idea what he would do when he came up to them. He wanted the horse. The children would be a nuisance. Still, the boy would make a warrior, and he was young enough to be raised as one of them.
    Hardy awakened to find it was daylight, and the rain was still falling. No game was likely to be about in the rain, but he must look—he might come across something.
    The air was gray and heavy, and the tree above him would scatter the smoke, so he took a chance and built a fire, then rustled wood. The fire would be a comfort for Betty Sue while he was gone.
    “You’ve got to stay here with Red,” he told her. “I’ve got to find something to eat, and I can’t do it with you following after. You stay close to the fire and keep warm.”
    Whether it was the warmth of the shelter, coupled with her own waning strength, Hardy did not know. Perhaps it was the fire and the presence of Big Red, but at any rate Betty Sue was willing to stay behind, and agreed not to stir, no matter how long he was gone.
    Taking his bowstring from his pocket where he kept it coiled and dry, he strung his bow. He had only three arrows, but he hoped they would be enough. He took them and stepped out into the rain, keeping the bow close to his body to shield it from the wet.
    There was a huge, lightning-blasted cottonwood near the shelter, and he chose that for his landmark. Instead of walking swiftly away, he walked off a short distance, looked back, then walked a slow half-circle past the shelter to see it from every point. He knew how even the most familiar things can seem different when looked at from a different angle.
    Then he began to hunt. Hollow trees, clumps of brush—anywhere an animal might hide. The trees here extended