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of blood beaded on his finger from the razor-sharp edge. She’d pay. They’d all pay.
     
    The move to higher ground was under way. The tribe would go to Sapa, the Black Hills. There they would find plenty of wood for tipis, water from the melting snow and an abundance of game to tide them over until the buffalo were fat and ready for the kill.
    The hills also afforded them protection against soldiers until they could meet up with others of their tribe and nation during the summer hunting and ceremonies. During the summer festivities their combined numbers were such that no enemy would think to attack.
    Following the many small rivers and streams across the rolling prairie, they traveled for several days, stopping only when darkness fell.
    Golden Eagle rode back to join his father. “There is a good place to stop ahead. There are no thick stands of trees for our enemies to hide behind, and there is plenty of water for our people and animals. It is a good place to let our elders and young rest.” They preferred to camp out in the open, having a healthy fear of ambushes.
    Hawk Eyes stopped, turned and signaled for all to halt. “We stop to rest. When Wi has risen over Hanwi three times, we will continue our journey to the Black Hills.” His voice rang out, loud and authoritative.
    Cheers rang out. The three-day rest was welcomed by all. Guards were posted and a small group of warriors left to hunt for fresh meat. Many young boys tagged along to search for prairie chickens, antelope and rabbits.
    Amid much laughter and jesting, the women quickly and efficiently set their tipis up along the river and, finding a secluded spot downstream, took time to scrub the dust of travel from their clothing. Shrieks of laughter abounded as young children kicked and splashed as they were scrubbed clean. None seemed to mind the cold of the snow-fed stream.
    Clean and refreshed, mothers and daughters went about their chores of garnering wood, water, fresh greens and roots for the evening meal. All prayed for fresh meat to add to their simmering stews.
    The following days were relaxed ones. Occasional spring showers were welcome as women visited and gossiped while sewing. The older men told stories to eager children, and warriors took up the tedious task of weapon making.
    During times when his tribe was on the move, Golden Eagle snared his family’s tipi, not wanting to burden his mother with the chore of setting up and taking down two tipis.
    He sat before the cookfire in the tipi, peeling bark from smoke-cured saplings that would become shafts for his arrows. Suddenly he stopped and sniffed the air. The smell of roasting meat brought on hunger pangs.
    His eyes fell to the browning skewers in front of him, and he was tempted to help himself.
    A voice from outside the tipi stopped him. Golden Eagle rose and stooped to leave the tipi.
    Stands Tall was outside. His name fit him perfectly. “The daughters of Stands Tall and Singing Sun have not returned,” he gravely announced, lines of worry creasing his high forehead. “They went with the other women to gather food. The others have returned.”
    Golden Eagle went into immediate action. He gave the cry of alarm, gathered his weapons and went to the group of quiet women and girls.
    “Bright Blossom,” he said. “Where did you last see Two Moons and her sister?”
    Bright Blossom’s eyes remained downcast in respect as she pointed. “They went to look for Wanahcha. ”
    Golden Eagle frowned. He was familiar with the purple prairie clover. He could not recall seeing any within the boundaries of their camp.
    An all-knowing voice broke in. “Stupid girls. I told them they should not leave the camp without escort.”
    Golden Eagle turned and confronted a plump maiden. “As one of the older maidens, Night Star, you should have alerted one of us,” he reprimanded her, surveying the group as he mentally picked out those who would go with him to search for Stands Tall’s daughters.
    Night