The Hunting Tree Trilogy
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HE STOOD IN BACK between his brother and his father, but he really wanted to be nearer to the edge of the cliff. On the journey he’d caught a glimpse of the spectacular view through the trees. From up here they could probably see all the way to where the big rivers came together—the place they would meet with the other families at the end of summer. On his toes, he could at least spy the fuzzy, purple horizon. At sixteen, Crooked Tree already stood taller than any of his relatives. He was even taller than his brother, Running Deer, who was the strongest and most popular youngster of their whole group.
Crooked Tree flexed his legs. His muscles ached from travel. Their four-dozen family members had walked for days to arrive at this cliff on this warm spring day, but Crooked Tree had run most of it—back and forth between his father and Talking Bird. Talking Bird led the group and his father brought up the rear. The tall boy was their messenger, repeating each string of words verbatim.