The boy stood, facing the early morning. He let the gentle breeze caress his dark skin and play with his hair as he stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Today was the day of his first buffalo hunt. Today he had a chance to become a man. Ten years old, he had been waiting many months for the time to be right. He had been practicing his aim with his bow and arrows and had been working with his pony as well. He was determined that all would go well and he would be given a name by the end of the day. For the young Sioux warrior did not have a name. He would not be given one until he had proven himself in some way worthy of one. All he had was his nickname, Arrow. His friends had named him such because of his keen eyes and sharp hand. He rarely missed his targets. A nickname such as his was better than none, however. His friend, Wet Grasses, was named for the first time he was sent to gather grasses for the fire. He was not supervised, and gathered and dumped armful after armful of wet grass on the fire, causing the entire camp to be encased in smoke for the better part of the night.
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