Chapter 8Cut hand was more a mother hen than a husband after our scrape with the man-stealers. He hovered close every minute of the day, but I was patient, allowing time to dim the memory of his fright. Eventually he resumed hunting and fishing and racing Arrow against other ponies when the tiospaye moved but a mile east of us in the spring. Many of the young men were inveterate gamblers, and while Cut was not immune to the affliction, neither did he indulge it to our bankruptcy.
Yellow Puma seemed to repair slightly, yet he was not well. Badger played the flute, sending his love medicine to Butterfly, but things were not to the point where anyone was making predictions. I sincerely hoped she would see he was a good man.
Spring and summer were ideal. Skan, the sky, remained mostly a clea
