Page 4 - My FlipBook

Branches clawed her face and tore at the fringe of her
deerskin robe as she struggled through the dense chokecherry

bushes.
She felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around. Walks

Alone put a finger to his lips and pointed to a flock of birds.
“Over there. You’ve frightened them and now they’re too far
away,” he said softly.
Red Dove followed the flight of the big, ungainly birds.

She glanced back at their village, nestled in the safety of the
Black Hills. It was summer’s end; the month called the Moon-
of-Ripe-Plums, and cold would be coming soon. Smoke from

the cooking fires mingled with the sweet smell of papa, the
dried venison that would see them through the winter.
Red Dove and her brother followed the birds until finally,

in the patch of trees at the edge of the meadow, they came
upon the flock. “There,” she whispered.
Walks Alone pointed at the biggest tom in the center,

strutting and fanning its tail. He raised his bow, pulled the
string and shot.
The hens set up a shriek and rose, flapping, into the air.
“You missed! Why didn’t you let me do it?”

Walks Alone threw down his bow and Red Dove lunged
to pick it up. Before he could stop her, she fitted an arrow,
pulled back and let fly.

It found its mark and the turkey plummeted to earth.
“What did you just do?” Her brother’s eyes were round
with disbelief.

Pride and wonder mingled in Red Dove’s chest. What did
I just do?
She raced over and stared at the creature before her,

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