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MISHE-MOKWA—Great Bear—was the name of the head war-chief who ruled over the tribe of Pawnees encamped under the shadows of the Porcupine Range. His village consisted of two hundred lodges, ranged in a wide circle on the open plain between Silver Creek and Grey Wolf Forest. Each teepee could accommodate a household of eighteen persons. It was a big village. There was need for much buffalo flesh to feed so great a population.

Softfoot had said that the village was red with meat, and that the squaws had more buffalo robes than they could possibly clean and dress. To him, as to most of the young Pawnees who had watched the great loads of meat and hides being brought in by the endless train of pack-horses and dogs after each day’s hunt, it seemed that it would be waste to kill any more.

There were hundreds and hundreds of buffalo tongues hanging up to dry on the scaffolds. Around the wigwams were great red stacks of choice tenderloins, ribs, and back fat, to be preserved and pounded into pemmican. The rolled-up hides, packed shoulder high, stretched in wide, level walls like a stockade round the circle of lodges. There was blood everywhere; on the horses, along the trails, on the clothing and on the hands and arms and faces of the men and women who worked at cutting up a store of meat that seemed too abundant ever to be exhausted.

But Great Bear and his mystery men knew well that the buffalo herds would soon have wandered upon distant trails beyond the Big Horn Mountains. They thought of the coming winter. They were not yet satisfied, and were already planning another hunt.

Softfoot saw the medicine chiefs seated in council round their mosquito smudge in front of Mishe-mokwa’s lodge, as he ran across the grassy plain to where the boys and girls were at play. He ran, because he had lingered at the kennel in the rear of his home teepee to give food to the wolf cubs, the kit fox, and the baby owl which he kept as pets, and he was late. He carried his bow and a quiver of new, carefully chosen arrows. For he was pitted against Weasel Moccasin in a final competition of skill in quick shooting, for on that day various contests were to be decided.

All the Pawnee boys of his own age in Great Bear’s village had dropped out of the contest, and he and Weasel Moccasin remained to decide possession of the prize—an eagle plume, to be worn for all time as a badge of skill.

As Softfoot approached the eager crowd, Weasel Moccasin saw the conspicuous white feather fluttering from his head-band, and he frowned.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “Softfoot is wearing the feather! He has not yet earned it; nor have I failed to earn it. Why should this be allowed? I will make him put it away!”

When Softfoot came abreast of him, he flung out his hand to snatch at the feather. But Softfoot’s strong left arm came like a bar of iron in the way. Weasel Moccasin staggered back, and Wenonah stepped in front of him, while the youths clamoured to know where the plume had come from.

“It is but the tail feather of a wa-wa goose that he has been chasing,” declared Red Crow, making a grab at Softfoot’s head. But Wenonah thrust him aside and turned to face the discontented throng.

“Are you all blind that you do not see it is a true eagle plume that Softfoot is wearing?” she cried. “If you would know how he earned it, go and talk to the chief Three Stars. Very soon there will be a second feather by its side. My medicine tells me that Softfoot will win in this arrow game.”

Weasel Moccasin had thrown off his buckskins and taken up his bow. There was a sheaf of arrows strapped across his naked brown back. The arrowheads were above the level of his right shoulder, within quick reach of his hand. The contest between him and Softfoot was to prove which of them could shoot the greater number of arrows from the bowstring while the first was still in the air.

Two important warriors—Long Hair and Talks-with-the-Buffalo—stood near, to act as umpires. There was great excitement among the onlookers, who were watching the two boys with appraising eyes, judging them by the movements of their clean-muscled bodies and hard-knit limbs. It was such a match as the Indians delighted to watch.

Weasel Moccasin was to shoot first. He took his stand with his left foot well forward, his right leg slightly bent at the knee, and his lithe brown body swaying back as he gripped his bow and held his right hand poised above his muscular shoulder ready to pull out an arrow.

When Long Hair gave the signal, he nipped the first arrow from his quiver, fixed it on the bowstring and, aiming straight upward, gave a firm strong pull that drew the arrow point almost to his hand. The released shaft flashed upward into the blue air and the string trembled still when a second arrow took its place. With sure and unfaltering regularity the boy’s deft fingers went to and fro between the string and the quiver; and the arrows followed in quick succession. The first one had not turned in its vertical flight when two were mounting behind it.

As the first curved over for the fall, a fourth left the bow, and as the former sped downward, a fifth was drawn, and the bow again twanged. There were now five arrows in the air; but as Weasel Moccasin reached for a sixth, the first one plunged its point into the turf. A great shout burst from the watching crowd.

It was then Softfoot’s turn. Instead of standing, he went down on one knee, bunching himself together, and some of the warriors clapped their hands. His first arrow soared as high, but not so directly upward as his opponent’s. He gave it a curving flight which would take it farther away in its descent. His second and third flew on the same course; his fourth and fifth went straight upward, and his sixth was barely notched on the bowstring when the first alighted. The competitors were equal, although Softfoot gained on points. But there was a second turn for each. This time Weasel Moccasin imitated Softfoot by kneeling, and he finished, just as Softfoot had done, with his sixth arrow in the grip, but the bow not drawn.

It seemed impossible that so many as six arrows could be in flight all at the same time. But in his second round Softfoot gave extra impetus to his leading arrow, and with such effect that he succeeded in getting his sixth away an instant before the first one touched the ground. He was therefore acclaimed the victor and the winner of the coveted feather.

The excitement had not subsided when Mishe-mokwa and his mounted medicine chiefs rode across the plain to make the awards in the various games of skill.

Great Bear announced that he had decided to hold a buffalo hunt on the following morning and that the six boys who had been foremost in the shooting match were to join with their elders and ride out to take part in the surround, choosing their own buffalo ponies and taking marked arrows.