Page 5 - My FlipBook

motionless except for the breeze that ruffled its feathers. Then
she looked at the bow in her hand and felt a surge of pleasure.

“I’ve been practicing. With your bow—”
“You took my bow? You’re not supposed to hunt. It’s not

our way.”
“Don’t tell Mother. She’s always so angry with me,” Red
Dove said, picturing her mother’s face when told her rebellious
daughter had broken yet another rule.

“Only if you tell me where you got those arrows.” Walks
Alone pointed to the buckskin quiver. “They look special, like
Grandfather’s—”

“I made them.”
“You made them? Did he show you how?”
Red Dove felt her brother’s envy. “I just watched him

while he was working. Nobody saw me. Mother was too busy
and you were always so sick.” She flinched when she saw his
angry face. “Well, you were!”

“Be careful what you say to people, Gray Eyes—”
“Don’t call me Gray Eyes. I can’t help it if my father was
white.”
Her brother shrugged. “You’re right; it’s not your fault. But

you should know better. You’ve lived thirteen winters. You’re
old enough now to respect our ways.” He reached down and
plucked the longest tail feather from the dead tom. “Here.”

He pushed it into Red Dove’s tightly wound braid. “For your
coming-of-age ceremony.”
“Thank you, Brother—”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the animal.”
“Wopila,” she said, and bowed her head to thank the
creature that had given its life.

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