sixteen-year-old son to the feat of "one arrow to kill" at the very
next chase.

It was midwinter. A large herd of buffalo was reported by the
game scout. The hunters gathered at daybreak prepared for the
charge. The old chief had his tried charger equipped with a soft,
pillow-like Indian saddle and a lariat. His old sinew-backed
hickory bow was examined and strung, and a fine straight arrow with
a steel head carefully selected for the test. He adjusted a keen
butcher knife over his leather belt, which held a warm buffalo robe
securely about his body. He wore neither shirt nor coat, although
a piercing wind was blowing from the northwest. The youthful Two
Strike had his favorite bow and his swift pony, which was perhaps
dearer to him than his closest boy comrade.

Now the hunters crouched upon their horses' necks like an army
in line of battle, while behind them waited the boys and old men
with pack ponies to carry the meat. "Hukahey!" shouted the leader
as a warning. "Yekiya wo!" (Go) and in an instant all the ponies
leaped forward against the cutting wind, as if it were the start in
a horse race. Every rider leaned forward, tightly wrapped in his
robe, watching the flying herd for an opening in the mass of
buffalo, a chance to cut out some of the fattest cows. This was
the object of the race.

The chief had a fair start; his horse was well trained and
needed no urging nor guidance. Without the slightest pull on the
lariat he dashed into the thickest of the herd. The youth's pony
had been prancing and rearing impatiently; he started a little
behind, yet being swift passed many. His rider had one clear