Free Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 by Sitting Bull

things for the dead man. He was still dead, and that was permanent. And what was a few minutes when you measured it against forever?
    For Slow, though, the homecoming was more complicated. The headlong charge against the Crows would seem like nothing compared to his mother’s anger. The Lakota never struck their children, but that didn’t mean they didn’t get angry. And Her Holy Door would certainly be angry. She would shriek at him until his ears burned, and then she would turn her back. The cold shoulder would freeze him then, and his teeth would chatter as if he were stranded in a blizzard without a robe to protect him.
    At first, Sitting Bull would try to calm Her Holy Door down, but sooner or later he would fail. Slow knew that, too. And then his father would just stand aside and let the tantrum run its course. He would tell Slow then that it was better than having Her Holy Door mad at both of them. For Sitting Bull, maybe. But for Slow, it would be like having the weight of the world on his own still slender shoulders. And for a time, he would feel like anorphan. For a time, he might even wish he were, because anything would be better than having to endure his mother’s wrath. But sooner or later she would forgive him. She would understand, even through all the scolding, that he had done what he was born and bred to do. And when she had given voice to her own anxiety, changing it first into rage and then into complaint, she would hug him. And the thought of her arms around him was almost enough to steel him for the onslaught. Almost, but not quite, because Her Holy Door could be formidable when she was angry, worse than any Crow.
    The warriors, as was their custom, started to circle the camp, boasting of their exploits, and the women and children were forced to back away to make room for the horses. Slow, watching from the back of his gray, realized that Sitting Bull had not joined the victory celebration. Instead, he dismounted and lifted Slow from his pony. Slow was sure he was in for it now. Sitting Bull dragged him toward his lodge and hauled him inside. Her Holy Door tried to come in, but Sitting Bull shouted for her to stay outside.
    Slow began to stammer that he was sorry, but Sitting Bull waved off the explanation, sweeping him up in a bear hug, nearly crushing his lungs in the process. Then he moved into the shadows at the edge of the tipi and reappeared with a small pot. Without a word, he began to daub black paint all over Slow, starting at his forehead and working his way down until the boy was covered from head to foot in the black paint of victory.
    Still saying nothing, Sitting Bull dragged Slow back into the open. Once more lifting the boy in his arms, he clapped him down on the back of a fine bay stallion, Sitting Bull’s favorite horse. “He’s yours now, son,” Sitting Bull said, his voice shaking a bit as he stepped back to examine the young warrior on his new warhorse.
    Then, in a loud voice, Sitting Bull called out to the camp at large. The strong voice seemed to echo from the hills behind the camp, and everyone stopped what they were doing and began to move toward Sitting Bull’s tipi. Taking the bay by the bridle, Sitting Bull moved toward the center of the camp.
    When he reached the middle of the circle of tipis, he raised his voice again. “My son has struck his first enemy!” he announced. “He is no longer to be called Jumping Badger or Slow. Instead, I give him the name
Tatanka lyotanka.
And from this day forward I will be known as Jumping Bull.”
    Slow gasped. His father had given up his own name, surrendering it to his son. He was now to be known as Sitting Bull. The boy remembered the story of how his father had come by the name, the visit from the big medicine buffalo, and he felt a lump in his throat. This was no ordinary name. This name was special. Not only had it been his father’s, but it had come from
Wakantanka.
It would be a burden as well as an honor to carry such