From that time on, so long as the buffalo were seen, I went out with the men of the camp.  Sometimes I went alone, or with companions of my own age, and we tried to kill calves, but more than once I went with my uncle.  The second time I rode with him he said to me that I had killed calves, and now I must try to kill big buffalo.  I remembered what he had said about riding close to the buffalo, but I was afraid to do this, and yet I was ashamed to tell him that I was afraid.  When the surround was made, my uncle and I were soon among the buffalo.  I was riding my uncle’s fast buffalo horse.  My uncle rode on my right hand, and when we charged down and got among the buffalo we soon passed through the bulls and then drew up slowly on the cows, and those younger animals whose horns were yet straight.  I thought we were going to pass on through these, and kill calves, but suddenly my uncle crowded his horse up close to me, and, pointing to a young bull, signed to me to shoot it.  I did not want to, but my uncle kept crowding his horse more and more on me, and pushing me close to the bull.  I was afraid of it; I thought that perhaps it would turn its head toward me and frighten my horse, and my horse could not get away because of my uncle’s horse, and then my horse, and perhaps I, myself, would be killed; but there was not much time to think about it.  I felt that I was not strong enough to kill a buffalo; I did not want to try; but all the time my uncle was signing to me, “Shoot, shoot.”  There was no way for me to escape, and I drew the arrow and shot into the buffalo.  The point hit the animal between the ribs, and went in deep, yet not to the feathers.  When I shot, my uncle sheered off, and I followed him; and in a moment, looking back, I saw that the blood was coming from the bull’s nose and mouth; and then I knew that I had killed it.  In a few moments it fell, and I went back to it.  Then truly I thought that I had done something great, and I felt glad that I had killed a big buffalo.  I forgot that a little while before I had been frightened, and had wanted to get away without shooting.  I forgot that, except for my uncle, I should not have made this lucky shot.  I felt as if I had done something, and something that was very smart and great.  You see, I was only a boy.

This feeling did not last very long; after a little I remembered that except for my uncle I should have still been afraid of big buffalo, and should not have dared to go near enough to kill one, but should have been content to kill calves.  My mind was still big for what I had done, and I felt thankful to my uncle for making me do it.  I wanted to pass my hands over him—­to express my gratitude to him—­for all his kindness to me.  No father could have done more for me than he had done, and always did.

That night when we came back to the camp my horse was carrying a great pile of meat; and when I stopped in front of the lodge, I called out to my mother to come and take my horse, and take the meat from it; for so my uncle had told me to do.  “Now,” he said, “you have become a man; you are able to hunt, and to kill food, and you must act as a man acts.”