My Life As An Indian

I have marked the winters upon the edge of this ancient bow of mine. It was my grandfather's bow; he made it in the days of his youth, and in his old age gave it to me. I made this first little crease in it to mark my eighteenth winter, the winter in which I for the first time met the enemy they were a war party of Crows and fought them, and took my first scalp. Count the creases; see, there are five tens, and one; it is, then, just fifty winters ago this very Moon of New Grass that we experienced a day of terrible disasters.'