This was a humiliation. It was not his fault that they had sent him. It was not his fault that he had become a cripple. The Chief bared his teeth. You'll cut roots and prepare animal skins.
Somebody has to do the dirty work.
The Chief's muscles swelled, he loudly hissed and started hitting his chest with both hands. He frightened the old woman. She jumped to one side and tripped over the Artist's wound with her hard, dry knee. The pain tore through him as if he was hit by the great fire from the sky. The Artist cried out as he jerkily shifted his position on the stinking animal skin.