Mary Peace FinleyAward-winning author of books for young people
"Yes! Yes! I hear you." Painted Horse touched his finger tips to his ears. "I feel the pounding of your feet. My young friend of eleven summers, you are a clever Little Fox…and a fast one, too. Because of you, we eat pheasant today."Little Fox circled Painted Horse's tipi, then circled his own. His sister, Morning Flower, was adding hot stones to the stew cooking inside a buffalo paunch. His mother was roasting the pheasant Little Fox had shot with his bow and arrow early that morning. The pheasant was skewered on a green willow stick that rested in the forks of two branches stuck into the ground. The juices dripped and sizzled on the coals and made Little Fox's mouth water."When we go to trade at Bent's Fort, Robert will be surprised," Little Fox said, kneeling beside the fire. "Morning Flower, will you watch me win?"Morning Flower flipped her long black braids over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled. "I hope we go soon." "Gray Owl has called for a gathering tonight." Their mother's eyebrows arched, and Little Fox knew what her words--and that look--could mean. He glanced around the village. Women were finishing their work. No new hides were being scraped. None of the dogs were carrying more firewood into camp. Nothing new was being started.