Final instructions were given to the young braves, and the riding contest was on! There was a great cheer from all who were watching as each rider left the starting point. This was a friendly match among boys from many tribes that often fought each other the rest of the year. Down the steep slope a lone warrior could be seen stationed at each buffalo hide. Here he could not only retrieve arrows but help to judge the young braves as they rode by and fired at the target. Soon it was Swift Hawk’s turn. Remembering all that his father had taught him, he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and started his fast and dangerous ride. Carefully he drew an arrow from the quiver; then bending under the pony’s neck, he placed the arrow to the bow, and as the target came into view, Swift Hawk let his arrow fly! He heard the plunk as the arrow struck the hide. With his head still under the pony’s neck and riding so hard, he could hardly have seen where it had landed. But a loud cheer told him that he had made a good shot. Down the steep, winding course, Swift Hawk swiftly shot his arrows at the three other targets, and went back toward the starting point. As he reached the hilltop he heard a great shout go up. Looking down the course he saw a young Crow brave just turning his pony to return to the starting point. The loud cheer meant that he had ridden well and made many good hits. One by one each of the other young braves made his attempt but none could equal the riding and skill of the young Crow Indian. And so it was when the last contestant had made his ride and fired no better than the rest that the Crow brave was announced as the winner. Swift Hawk was one of the first to reach his side and congratulate him on his victory. Deep in his heart, Swift Hawk was sad. But he was also very happy for this young brave. Surely the young man had deserved to win; and, above all, Swift Hawk realized how happy the young brave and his family must be that he had won. The contest over, Swift Hawk returned to his home and his father, disappointed but not unhappy now. There would be other contests, and this was a time of celebration and joy. His father found him sitting beside a tree stump. “You did very well, my son,” Slow Tongue said, placing his hands upon Swift Hawk’s shoulders. “The Crow boy who won did just a little bit better, but all the Cree are proud of you. There will be other contests and many games. Soon your turn will come. But even if it should not, remember what I have told you. As long as you play fair with your fellow braves and obey the rules, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you lose to someone who plays fair and has great skill.” “Thank you, father, I shall always remember that.”