Young Spikehorn
by
John W. Stevens

Young Spikehorn was a yearling buck,
Who roamed the great north woods.
Young Eagle was a hunter,
Who traded skins for goods.
T’was back in days when tribes were free,
And worked the land at will.
Some stalked their prey for many moons,
To make just one sure kill.
Young Eagle’s step could not be heard,
And still he kept his pace.
His arms now ached, his legs were soar,
And sweat ran down his face.
He’d stalked Young Spikehorn five full days,
And thought the end was near.
He slowed his pace and turned his head,
And cupped his hand to hear.
He heard a noise off to the west,
His heart began to pound.
His legs moved very carefully,
So as not to make a sound.
Young Eagle was quite happy,
He felt his hunt was through.
And from his raw-hide quiver,
An arrow length he drew.
Not forty arrow-lengths away,
Young Spikehorn quenched his thirst.
But, Young Eagle hadn’t seen him yet,
Young Spikehorn saw him first.