Bill Dugan Read Online Free Page A

with all his weight and then letting it go to spring back, he said, “This is the one.”
    Making sure the boy was out of harm’s way, he knelt beside the sapling and began to hack at it. The thud of the ax as it dug into the strong, springy wood seemed to echo among the taller trees, the sound of the blows drifting up, down, and across the hillside and bouncing back from every direction. He could smell the sweet sap now, and chips of wood flew with every bite of the blade.
    Soon, he had cut almost all the way through. Still on his knees, he moved around to the opposite side for the last few swings of the ax. The youngash quivered with every blow now, and started to lean. Then, as the blade cut all the way through, the force of the blow pushing the butt of the severed sapling off its base, it thumped to the ground, teetered for a moment, then fell with a swish of its leaves.
    The tree was a good one, and Crazy Horse knew he could make more than one bow from the wood, so he measured a length almost eight feet from the butt to the point where the sapling began to get too thin for his purpose, and cut it all the way through.
    Lopping off a few short, slender branches little more than shoots, he hefted the eight-foot length of ash. It was heavy, which meant the wood was dense and strong, and then got to his feet. Hoisting the sapling to his shoulder, he called to Curly, who had wandered off among the trees. The boy came scurrying back, stuck his small hand in his father’s large palm and smiled when the man’s fingers curled over his own.
    Crazy Horse took his time on the way back to the village, letting the boy waddle along beside him, his short legs taking three and four steps for every one of his father’s. When they reached the creek, Crazy Horse let Curly find his own way across the stones, only once hauling the small boy up when he lost his footing.
    White Deer was in front of the tipi when her husband and son returned. She saw the sapling over Crazy Horse’s shoulder, but said nothing, in case he hadn’t told Curly what it was for. She smiled, and Curly noticed, quickly glancing up at his father for a second, as if to catch some secret meaning on the wing.
    Setting the sapling on the ground, Crazy Horse knelt to cut it into two unequal lengths, the smaller for Curly’s bow, the larger for his own. Ducking into the lodge, he hauled both pieces of ash with him, set them by the fire, and put away the ax.
    He said nothing to Curly, and did not look up, knowing that the boy’s curiosity would draw him inside sooner or later. Sitting cross-legged, he took the shorter piece of ash and began to pare away the bark. The process would take several days, perhaps even as much as two weeks, and he hoped that Curly, once he realized what was happening, would find the patience to simply watch and wait.
    It was important that the wood dry evenly, and getting the bark out of the way would facilitate the process. He stripped both pieces, then turned his attention to the short one. Turning it over in his hands, he eyed its length, hefted it, balanced it on the surface of one upturned finger, feeling for the inner balance, trying to find the perfect point for the center, where the grip would be carved.
    Balance was everything in handling a bow. The movement necessary meant that the bow must function as an extension of its owner’s body, move precisely where and how it was supposed to. A fraction of an inch at the point of release would translate into several feet at long range, so accuracy meant that nothing could be left to chance.
    Over the next two weeks, Crazy Horse worked both pieces of ash every day, leaving them by the fire, not too close, but close enough, all day long, and taking his steel-bladed white man’s knife to the wood every night. Slowly but surely, the shapebegan to emerge. Curly had not bothered him once, as if he were certain what was happening to the ash.
    The holy man remembered his own father telling him that