To my further relief, the sun shone, although it was a cold sun because wind blew steadily from the north. Only stragglers in the bird kingdom were still heading south, almost as if they missed the message. I reckoned we were near the end of September, in the white man’s world.

That afternoon, I was privileged to witness a display of aboriginal zeal that might have terrified Elizabeth Ann Everett back in Omaha, but which satisfied some less-cultivated part of Liz.

Our scouts chanced upon a hunting camp of River Crows. No words passed between anyone, but Ollokot painted his face in record time and dashed out with a silent knot of warriors right behind. Hawk went along, of course. He daubed on some of his red and white paint, took a quick count of his arrows and charged out behind Ollokot, after handing me the wrangler’s rifle with a meaningful look and the command to use it if something went amiss.

Several of us followed at a discreet distance. A few days ago, I would have been too frightened to do anything but wait behind with my hands over my ears, but that hell with the wrangler had left me without much of the burden of fear that had cluttered my summer journey. After all, what else could happen? I wanted to watch.

Some of the older youths and I waited on a rise not too far distant from the Crow camp. The Crow had obviously enjoyed good hunting. The men were cutting up two buffalo when the Nimiipuu swooped down on them, silent no longer.

I doubt those River Crows could have been the scouts who gave us so much heartache at Canyon Creek, but revenge is sweet. Several of the hunters managed to escape on horseback and split for Reed’s Fort. The rest were cut down as they worked over the slain buffalo. It was a singularly gory sight, with its mounds of red meat, and the hunter toppled into them with red blossoms on their chests and heads.

When it was over, Ollokot motioned to us to join them in the Crow camp, where his warriors set fire to the Crow tipis. They didn’t scalp any of these Crow, although the young boys who had ridden down with me played at counting coup until Poker Joe ordered them to stop. The warriors loaded us down with meat and we rode back to the rest of The People, singing. I sang, too. I didn’t know their songs, but “We’ll Rally Round the Flag, Boys” worked for me. I think it was the first song I ever learned, right before the Civil War ended.