Free Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 by Sitting Bull Page A

a name. It meant that great things were expected of him … perhaps even greater things than those of which he dreamed. And it meant, too, that things would change for his father. JumpingBull had been the second name given by the medicine buffalo, representing the second stage of life, and he wondered for a moment whether it meant that his father was moving through some sort of invisible barrier and, if so, whether he had been the cause of it.
    His father was not finished yet. He handed the newly christened Sitting Bull a brand-new lance, one that had never been into battle, one that he had fashioned with his own hands. The bright iron blade glittered like a shooting star as it was waved overhead, and when his father finally placed it in his hands, he traced the perfect symmetry of the polished wood with trembling fingers.
    Already the warriors were shouting out, telling the rest of the village about his dash against the Crows, how he had struck the enemy with his coup stick, and how he had shown the nerve of a great warrior.
    The young Sitting Bull felt his head swimming. The women were crowding in around him now, singing of his triumph, their shrill wailing sending chills down his spine. He spotted Blue Eagle and Little Calf, two of his closest friends, pressing in among the women, trying to get to the front of the circle surrounding him now. The two boys stood there slack-jawed, their eyes big as the full moon. They were in awe of him now, stunned into immobility by the news. Later, they would remind each other that they had known him when, but for the moment, all they could do was gape.
    Jumping Bull had slipped away, but Sitting Bull had not noticed. Now his father was back, oncemore pushing through the crowd and calling attention to another gift. When he reached the side of the big bay, he handed the gift to Sitting Bull without a word.
    Sitting Bull stared at it, turning it this way and that to let the light catch the brilliant colors. It was a shield, brand-new, like the lance never used in battle. Like all Lakota shields, it was a circle of wood covered with tough hide. At the four cardinal points, a tuft of eagle feathers fluttered in the hot breeze, one each representing North, East, South, and West. The center of the circle contained an image that had come to his father in a vision. Some said it was a bird, perhaps an eagle, while others said it was a man. Still others argued that it was both—a birdman. But Sitting Bull knew that it had been painted on the thick buffalo hide by a holy man, and that it was powerful medicine. The bright red, dark blue, and deep green paints seemed to glow with an inner fire as they reflected sunlight back into the sky.
    Raising the shield high overhead, Sitting Bull uttered a war cry, and unlike the dry squawk of a few days before, this time his voice was full and rich—not as powerful as his father’s, but no longer the reedy squeak of a boy. It was a man’s voice, and a man’s war cry. He nudged the bay into a walk and circled the camp, waving to friends, and reveling in the friendly slaps of the warriors. This would be a day he would never forget.
    When he had completed his circuit of the village, he dismounted in front of Jumping Bull and solemnly embraced him, as if meeting him for thefirst time. He heard the catch in his father’s voice and patted his shoulder. As he started to back away, he caught sight of his mother, standing a few feet behind Jumping Bull. Her face seemed composed of warring halves, one emotion after another passing across her features. Pride was there, certainly, but fear, too. She knew what this day meant, knew what might happen to him. She had lost him, now. The ghostly sorrow of some future day when he might not come home seemed to suffuse her features for a moment, until her joy at his victory gained control. She gave him a smile, at first pale and weak, just a flicker. But when he stepped around Jumping Bull and wrapped her in his arms, she