Okwaho had run as hard as he could, but his legs were not as long as those of the men pursuing him. Even though what Tawis had done gave him a head start, he knew from the sounds behind him they were gaining on him. So he had taken shelter in the bushes, hearing their voices come closer.

Okwaho clenched his fists. If only I were a grown man. If only I had a weapon with me. Then I would make them sorry.

Usually Okwaho was aggressive or ready to fight. He was not like Clouds Forming. A girl of the same age as him, she had been Okwaho’s second-best friend. Gentle and strong, she was the perfect match for the both of them. She knew just what to say or do to calm Okwaho when he was angry, encourage Tawis when he was uncertain. She was also funny, always saying something to make them laugh. The three of them had always done things together before his family left the big village. Whenever they played such games as throwing spears or shooting arrows, it was Clouds Forming who was always best.

“Perhaps,” she used to say to Okwaho, “when we are grown, I will be the one to go out and fight enemies while you will stay home and sing songs to our children.”

Such teasing had never bothered him. Let her fight if she wanted to fight. The one thing he could do much better than her was to make up songs. In fact, Clouds Forming admired him for that—despite her teasing. In one of her rare serious moments, she told him that.

“Being able to make up songs as you do, Okwaho,” she said, placing her finger gently on his lips, “that is truly a gift from our Creator.”

Okwaho always used to think that was what he wanted to do—make songs. He could still be a good hunter and one day a good father and uncle, but the thing he would do best of all would be the making of songs.

That was what he used to think. But now, now, his hands wanted nothing more than to hold a bow and loose one arrow after another at those enemies, those arrogant Standing Stone men.

It was no surprise that Standing Stone warriors had come into Onondaga lands to raid them. Less than a moon ago, Atatarho had led a hundred of his men on a raid against the nearest Standing Stone village, a long day’s walk from Onondaga. Word of that raid sent out by Atatarho had reached their little community, even though none of their people took part in it. They heard how five Oneida boys and two women had been brought back—either to be adopted or treated as slaves. The Onondaga warriors who secretly visited relatives in their breakaway community had boasted of killing two Oneida men, as well.