In the hard-baked earth, with his face flat in the dirt, he thought he heard his father"s voice, shouting to him from across the prairie. Ignoring the pain, he lifted his head and turned and there his father was, sitting astride his piebald pony, a hunting bow in one hand, the other raised in greeting.
“Pick yourself up, my son, and follow me.”
So Deep Water did. He pushed down with his palms and got to his knees. The bullet had skimmed across his shoulder, leaving a deep furrow in the flesh. The bullet, however, had not struck home. The wound burned with an intensity he would never have believed possible, but he lived, and more importantly, the blood seeping from his damaged flesh coagulated, growing crusty.
“You are alive, my son, and you have much to do.”
As if in a daze, Deep Water
