West Wilson Middle School, Brooks Robertson, Grade 8, Pre AP ELA (This original student narrative is a prequel a short story that relates how a young Native American boy got his name.) 

The parched grass crunched loudly, explosively, across the barren field as the boy placed his foot on the ground in front of him. He glanced around, hoping that the sound had not frightened any game. The other members of his hunting group wheeled around at the noise, and the boy shrank into the shadows cast by the large yet timeworn chief. The chief, quite apart from reacting at the noise, instead stood firm, gazing out at the empty fields. He raised a wrinkled, crooked finger to his lips.

“Game!” he whispered, just loud enough for the group to hear him. The boy squinted as hard as he could, observing the plains beyond. Just behind the branches of a sage bush, the boy saw the thick, bushy hide of a single, male buffalo. The boy’s dog, One-Eye, growled quietly, and the boy placed a hand on the dog’s neck to calm him.

“Quiet, now,” the boy said, softly speaking into One-Eye’s perking wolfish ears. The chief swiftly pulled a long, sturdy arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow; the deadly tip almost shaking with anticipation. The chief slightly jerked his head, commanding them to follow.

The hunters inched slowly forward, listening to the soft steady sighs of the wind. A drought was approaching fast, and though the tribe had some meat left from their last hunt, they needed to make the kill to get them through the hard times.

They stopped a few feet from the buffalo concealed behind a large rock. The animal was scrounging about for food, and as a result, it had not noticed them yet. The chief raised his bow, expertly aimed at the animal’s exposed hide, and took his shot. The arrow sailed through the air, screaming with delight at being freed and hit its target point-blank. The buffalo roared and charged, not at the mountainside toward safety, but instead headed right for the hunters.

“Kill!” the chief screamed louder than any of them would have thought possible, and he readied his arrow. But it was too late, and the buffalo thundered past like a rolling boulder.

The boy readied his lance and thrust it wildly; he felt it drive into the animal’s side, but there was too much force, and with an ear-splitting crack, the hilt broke. In a second, the game had passed, slipped right through their fingers. The chief, cold determination etched into every line on his face, loosened another arrow, but this time his aim was off. The arrow thudded into the grass, missing the bull by inches. The hunters watched as the bull vanished beyond the horizon.

It was quiet that day; silent disappointment was carved into every face as they trudged back to the camp. 

“Game?” asked the son of the chief as he rose to his feet.

“Gone,” the chief said, sitting upon the ground with difficulty. Wearily, the chief glanced around. Roasting on the spit was their only remaining food. A large cow was turning slowly as the red-orange heat licked its body. As small as the tribe was, the cow wouldn’t last them long. A few weeks or a month at the most. With a great sigh, the chief picked up a long, thin stick and stoked the fire.

As the boy sat, One-Eye tucked safely and securely under his arm, he promised himself something. No matter what it took he would find food for everyone. He would be the one to save his people.