The Hunt
    
It was the day of the hunt. The entire tribe was excited. A large group of buffalo had been spotted grazing near Chiko-wanta Lake. All the hunters were getting ready, using dye from flowers to paint themselves and their horses. My horse was called Sheki, which means flying wolf in the Cherokee language. He had strong muscles rippling beneath his skin. He was the pride horse of the family. I got up onto Sheki, got out my bow, slung my quiver over my back, and followed the ugaweuwe at a swift trot. The hunt was beginning.
    
There was a grand procession. First came the hunters, riding proudly on their horses. Then came the women and children, leading the packhorses. All were heading toward where the buffalo were seen.

The group reached the buffalo about midday. There were about five hundred just standing there, lapping up water and munching grass. They were beautiful. They were big, with brown flesh that rippled and glistened in the sun. Big brown eyes, the eyes of the Great Spirit’s wisest creation. The bulls had big horns that could kill a hunter. It was an amazing sight. The procession stealthily crept toward the buffalo, surrounding them. Buffalo have very sensitive ears and can detect very faint noses. Then we were off.
    
The buffalo stampeded. I was in the midst of the herd, arrow to my bow, looking for a good buffalo. I saw it. Taking careful aim, I let loose the arrow. My aim was true. The arrow soared through the air in a graceful arc, striking the buffalo in the chest.

It was a big one. Enough to feed the family for two months. I returned to the campsite proudly carrying, one-by-one, my chunks of buffalo that I had cut up.

Other hunters returned, some with meat, and some without. We set up camp on the plain and had a large feast of buffalo. The rest of the meat was turned into jerky. I went back to the tipi and lay down for a rest. It had been an exciting hunt.