Bill Dugan Read Online Free

would even ask White Deer to ask Crazy Horse when he felt his father was avoiding the issue. Finally, when she could stand it no more, White Deer took Crazy Horse aside.
    “I think you should make Curly a bow,” she said.
    Crazy Horse shook his head. “I keep telling him that he is not ready. I’ll make it when he’s older.”
    “He thinks he’s ready now.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “But until Curly understands that, none of us will have any peace. All day long he asks. He asks everyone he sees who is older than he is. And the other children he tells that he will have a bow that very afternoon. I’m afraid that he will get a bow from someone else. One of the men will make him one just to quiet him. But his first bow should come from you, Crazy Horse. It should come from his father.”
    The holy man shook his head again, this time in bewildered resignation. He knew his wife was right. Looking back on it now, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen it sooner, but he hadn’t.
    Even then, in the back of his mind was the thought that maybe Curly knew something his father didn’t. Maybe the boy was ready. Maybe he was ready and he was the only one who realized it.
    They had been camped near the Powder River. It was the middle of summer, and the days were long, the sun hanging in the sky off in the west as if reluctant to go down. After the evening meal, he swung Curly up onto his shoulder and grabbedone of the white man’s tools, a double-bladed ax, its handle shortened to hatchet length for easy transport, and to lighten the load of carrying it from place to place. When you moved your home and all your worldly possessions on a regular basis, you learned where to cut corners, how to economize.
    He ducked under the flap and out into the evening air. Curly, sensing that something important was about to happen, fidgeted on his father’s shoulders, his feet tattooing the man’s chest, his fists pounding excitedly on Crazy Horse’s head.
    “Where are we going, Father?” Curly asked.
    “You’ll see, Curly,” Crazy Horse told him. “Just be patient.”
    Crazy Horse walked toward a small creek that canted to the southwest and flowed into the Powder River. Its banks were lined with stands of cottonwood, and beyond it, a small clump of trees sat in a shallow bowl-shaped depression. More trees were scattered beyond it, on the hillside.
    Crazy Horse waded across the creek and headed for the trees. He held the ax with the blade cradled in his fingers, the handle splitting them into pairs. In time to his stride, he tapped the shortened handle against the side of his knee. The boy squirmed so that he almost slipped from his perch, and Crazy Horse was forced to grab him by the feet and hold on.
    When he reached the trees, he swung the boy to the ground. Then, almost as if he were alone, he moved from tree to tree, paying particular attention to the smaller ones, the saplings. He tested several, grabbing the trunks above his head and tugging, then letting go, testing for elasticity.
    “What are you doing, Father?” Curly asked.
    “Looking for a tree, Curly,” his father answered.
    “There are trees all over the hillside.”
    “I don’t want just any tree. I am looking for a special one.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll see.”
    The boy darted from tree to tree, touching each with an open palm. “This one? Is this it? This one?” After each question, he would turn to wait for his father’s answer and, when it was a negative shake of the head, he would bounce to the next and the next and the one after that.
    Watching Crazy Horse, Curly realized that size was a consideration, and soon he touched only saplings. But the holy man was looking not just for a sapling, but an ash sapling. He wanted one that was strong but resilient. He wanted it to be thick enough to contain the perfect bow, but not so thick that the wood would be too hard and too brittle.
    Finally, testing one particular ash a third time, leaning into it