“When the morning star looked over the edge of the world, we ate again. And when we had bunched the horses and started driving down the valley of the creek, a streak of day was growing away off yonder towards our home. We drove all that day, but sometimes we stopped a little while to let the herd rest and drink and graze. There were many lame ones, and it was hard to keep them going with the others, for we were in a hurry yet. Maybe the enemy had caught enough strays by now to follow with a large party. Maybe they thought there were many of us, and so they waited until they could find enough horses. We talked about this, and we said if they came we would fight them; it was not good to grow old; nothing remained but the hills; we were men and we could die. But all day, whenever we came to a ridge and looked behind us, the back trail was empty. I think the pipe helped us, the pipe and the vow we made on the high hill.” The old man fell silent, and for some time he sat with closed eyes, head bowed, his hands on his knees. “It was many snows ago,” he said at length, emerging slowly from his reverie. “That was my first victory. Before it was dark that day, we began to know our own country again, and we sang to see all the good horses we had, for we began to feel safer. There were about seventy-five of them, and they were the good ones. We had done great deeds; the people would praise us; and we would not be boys any more, but men. “There was a ridge that looked down on our village, and there next day, when the sun was high above us, the people saw us coming with the horses. They were getting ready for the sun dance, and the other bands had come to camp with the Oglalas in one big circle, because it was a good place for the dance. Some rode out to meet us, singing as they came. These took care of the horses and went back with them to the village, telling the people to prepare for a kill-come-back and a victory.