Little Fox leapt over the familiar pile of fallen logs--two logs higher today. Arms raised high, he plunged into the stream, scrambled up the crumbling bank, and raced along the worn path into the clearing. The spear at the end of the course came into view. His moccasins pounded dust. His lungs burned. He jerked the spear from the soft prairie soil. "Aaaaiii!" he cried, thrusting the spear above hishead. "Hiiii!"Panting, he sank down onto the stump of a tree. "Faster. Faster than last time." The other young braves were still far behind.Little Fox imagined his next victory. Even without the machine to count time, I know this season when we go to trade at Bent's Fort, I will run faster than Robert Bent. My arrow will shoot farther, and it will shoot straighter. This time, Robert will not pin me to the ground when we wrestle. "No, my friend. I have been practicing. You beat me in my ninth summer, and you won again last year, but you will not beat me this time."When his breathing returned to normal, Little Fox loped back into the Cheyenne village. The feather adornments on the spear fluttered at his side. "Who won today?" Painted Horse called out from beside his tipi, the way he did every day. "I did!" Little Fox answered, the way he did every day. Knowing Painted Horse could not hear, he stomped his foot hard and hit his chest with his fist.