Before White Bear could answer, Black Hawk stood up, his face in the firelight a mask of wrath. White Bear trembled.
"Black Hawk will never be Sharp Knife's prisoner!" the war chief roared. "Black Hawk will die first."
Someone else was standing up before the fire. A woman.
Redbird.
White Bear felt himself trapped in a nightmare. Had his wife gone mad? She could not speak to a council of chiefs and braves. His heart beating furiously, he reached out to silence her. But she was already speaking.
"You are fools if you do not listen to White Bear," she cried. "He is gifted with the power of prophecy." She turned to Owl Carver. "My father, you know that the whole tribe crosses the river from east to west every year for the winter hunt. If the Turtle says few will cross back over the Great River, he means the rest of us will be dead."
Her words were greeted not with anger but with shouts of scornful laughter. White Bear knew that the chiefs and braves did not care what she said; they were merely amused that a woman daredtry to speak to them at all. He burned with shame for himself and Redbird.
Beyond the circle of firelight he saw the shadows of men and women standing in the twilight. Word of the dispute at the council fire must be spreading through the camp and drawing more people to hear, perhaps to speak their own minds, as was their right. He glimpsed Sun Woman hurrying toward him, picking her way through the seated men.
Wolf Paw strode toward White Bear, holding in his hands the bundle of red and blue cloth Little Crow had brought him. He glared at Redbird.
"It is bad medicine for women to speak to the council."
Redbird stepped in front of White Bear to face Wolf Paw. "A medicine woman tells you: the words of White Bear aregoodmedicine."
"How can White Bear tell the British Band what to do when he cannot make his wife behave as a woman should?" Wolf Paw said. "Sit down, Redbird." And he pushed her aside.
Rage shot White Bear forward like an arrow from a bow, arms outstretched to grapple with Wolf Paw. He lifted his medicine stick as if to strike at the red-crested brave.
Hands gripped his arms. He struggled, blind with fury, flailing his arms and kicking. Wolf Paw, his teeth bared, wrenched the medicine stick from White Bear's hand.
"Do not harm the medicine stick!" shouted Owl Carver.
Without looking at the old shaman, Wolf Paw handed him White Bear's medicine stick. Two big warriors held White Bear as Wolf Paw approached him, stretching his lips in a grin.
"A woman speaks for peace with the pale eyes," Wolf Paw said, "because peace is women's way. I once saw Redbird going to White Bear when he was on his vision quest. Maybe he gets his visions from her."
More and more men were on their feet, and they roared with laughter at Wolf Paw's gibe.
Sun Woman had made her way into the inner ring around the fire and now held Redbird.
"Come away, daughter," she said in a strong but soothing voice. "This does not help White Bear."
"Look!" shouted Wolf Paw. "Now he has both his wife and his mother at the council fire."
He shook out the red and blue cloth. It was a woman's dress.
"He speaks like a woman," Wolf Paw said. "He says what women tell him to say. Women speak for him. Let him dress like a woman. A pale eyes woman."
Wolf Paw flung the dress over White Bear's head, and the two men who held him pulled it down around him. White Bear felt wrapped in hopelessness as the cloth covered his head.
And he had wanted to be a prophet for the Sauk.
The truer his words, the less they hear him.
He struggled halfheartedly. He no longer cared what they did to him. His own failure and the sure destruction of his people chained him so that he could barely move. The warriors pulled the dress straight down over his arms, pinioning them to his sides. As his head emerged through the collar, laughter battered at him. Teeth gleamed in the firelight.
He saw Sun Woman holding Redbird. Tears squeezed through his wife's tightly shut eyelids. The face of his mother was heavy with woe.
Too despairing to resist, he let Wolf Paw and his men push and drag him away from the council fire and run him through the camp. He was blind to the laughing faces around him, deaf to the mocking cries.
But he saw one sight that all but killed him—looking up at him from somewhere in the crowd, the hurt, bewildered eyes of his son, Eagle Feather.
Nicole and Frank had walked halfway across the main room of the trading post blockhouse when Nicole heard Raoul's voice thundering from the stone-walled counting office in the far corner.
"You and the boys will stay at Victoire!"
Nicole touched Frank's arm, and they stopped and drew back a little, standing beside the long black barrel of the six-pounder naval cannon Raoul had set up in the blockhouse. It would be best not to intrude on Raoul when he was in the midst of a quarrel.
"But none of them French people there like me," a woman answered, high, nasal, with a Missouri twang. "It's downright lonesome." Nicole recognized Clarissa Greenglove's voice.
"I'm going to be gone and your father's coming with me. Where the hell else would you stay?"
"With my Aunt Melinda in St. Louis. That'd be a perfect place. You could send me down on theVictory.'"
"Of course I could." Raoul's voice was creamy with sarcasm. "And then do you know what would happen? Half those men who are out in the courtyard now volunteering for my militia company would quit. Because if I send you and Phil and Andy away, it meanstheirfamilies aren't safe. And so they'd insist on staying home to protect them."
His voice rose to a shout. "Do you understand now, goddamn it? Then get the hell out of here."
A moment later Clarissa scurried out past the iron-reinforceddoor of Raoul's counting room. The two small boys she'd borne to Raoul ran beside her floor-length calico skirt. She'd gotten to be round-shouldered, Nicole saw.
Clarissa nodded. "Mister, Miz Hopkins."
"Morning, Clarissa," said Nicole. To call her by her first name felt not quite respectful, but to call her "Miss Greenglove," especially with her two sons right there with her, seemed cruel.
Clarissa gave Nicole a woebegone look that seemed to be asking for something—Nicole wasn't quite sure what. Then she ducked her head, and her bonnet hid her eyes.
Phil, the five-year-old, looked up at Nicole. He had very light blond hair, almost silver, and large eyes that seemed set deep in his pale, thin face. A little ghost.
"My dad's gonna fight Injuns."
"That's fine." Nicole didn't know what else to say. Clarissa, who had taken a few steps ahead, reached back and jerked Phil's arm so hard that he hollered.
Raoul, when they entered his office, seemed unperturbed by his argument with Clarissa. But his eyes widened and flashed with momentary anger when he saw Nicole. Then he grinned, teeth white under his black mustache.
"Well, Nicole and Frank. Come to lay your hatchets to rest? Now that the Indians are waving theirs around?"
"That's why we're here, Raoul," said Frank.
"Yeah, I've read your paragraphs in theVisitor," said Raoul, one side of his mouth twisted up in a contemptuous smile. "Seems you'd just love to give Illinois back to the Indians."
"Nothing of the kind," Frank said gruffly.
How unfair, Nicole thought. Frank had written only that if the 1804 land agreement had been obtained through fraud, it would be better to negotiate a new treaty with the Sauk and Fox rather than meet them with armed force.
Raoul's tanned face reddened and his nostrils flared. "Give back Illinois," he persisted, "just like you wanted to give Victoire to Pierre's mongrel bastard."
Nicole saw not a trace of guilt on that broad, hard face over what he had done to Auguste. She clenched her fists. She must try to contain her anger.
Frank spoke. "Don't bring up Auguste now, Raoul. He's whatdivides us, and we oughtn't to be divided now. We want to talk to you about protecting Victor."
Heat lightning flickered in Raoul's eyes, shifting quickly to a derisive gleam. "Well, that should be easy, Frank, with your attitude. You can make a white flag out of any bedsheet."
Nicole thought,He's just using our coming here as an opportunity to rub our faces in the dirt.
"Don't make this so hard for us, Raoul," she said. "We need each other."
"Really? What do I need you for?" His eyes were cold.
Many answers crowded Nicole's mind, but she thought for a moment before speaking.
"You need the people of this town to make a success of the estate, now you've taken it over, your orchards and farms, your shipping line, your trading ventures. Most of the people who live in Victor work for you, directly or indirectly. And you're leaving them unprotected."
Before Raoul could answer, Frank joined in. "From what I've seen, you plan to march every man who knows how to shoot a rifle away from here to fight the Indians down by the Rock River. If you take all the fighting men away, who's going to defend Victor and Victoire?"
Raoul threw back his head and roared with laughter. "God, I can't believe I'm hearing you right. Ever since last fall you've wished I would disappear from the face of the earth. Now you come to me begging for protection."
"It's not for ourselves that we're asking," said Nicole. "We just want you to leave enough men behind to defend the women and children and noncombatants who stay here."
Raoul's eyes narrowed and fixed on Frank. "Noncombatants like you, Frank? You won't pick up a rifle yourself, but you want some of my men to stay and guard you."
Frank looked back steadily. "I'm learning to shoot. Your father is teaching me." Nicole felt a rush of love for Frank, and pride in his willingness to learn to do something he hated, because he had to.
Raoul spread his hands. "Good for you, and good for Papa." He looked down, and his face reddened slightly. When he looked up, his dark eyes met Nicole's.
"How is Papa?"
Nicole checked the urge to remind him that he had nearly killed their father, and said, "He's tolerably well. The little house Frank has been building for him is finished. And he's able to walk. Guichard takes care of him."
Raoul clapped his hands together. "Good, good! Then that's two riflemen you've got right there. And I'll bet old Guichard could even shoot if it came to that. And you'll have David Cooper, he's a veteran of 'Twelve. He's going to keep an eye on the trading post for me, along with Burke Russell. I'm sure there'll be a few others. As for the rest of the men, if I didn't lead them down to the Rock River, they'd go anyway. They're raring to hunt redskins."
Nicole recalled the line of men she had seen just now in the trading post courtyard signing up for the Smith County volunteer militia. There must have been over a hundred of them, some wearing coonskin caps and fringed buckskins, others with straw hats, calico shirts and tow-linen pantaloons, two dozen or so sporting the head kerchiefs favored by men of French descent. They'd been in high spirits, laughing and talking about bringing back scalps.
Frank said, "Of course you don'twantto think there'll be an Indian attack on Victor while you're gone. What you want is to go down to the Rock River country with the militia and win a great victory over the Indians. Or something you can call a great victory."
Raoul held out his hands. "Frank, you printed Reynolds's proclamation in your damned paper."
He pointed over his shoulder, where a copy of the Illinois governor's call to arms, cut from theVictor Visitorfor April 17, 1832, was nailed to the wall. Nicole's eyes traveled over the opening lines.
FELLOW CITIZENSYour country requires your services. The Indians have assumed a hostile attitude and have invaded the State in violation of the treaty of last summer.The British Band of Sauks and other hostile Indians, headed by Black Hawk, are in possession of the Rock River country, to the great terror of the frontier inhabitants. I consider the settlers on the frontiers to be in imminent danger ...
FELLOW CITIZENS
Your country requires your services. The Indians have assumed a hostile attitude and have invaded the State in violation of the treaty of last summer.
The British Band of Sauks and other hostile Indians, headed by Black Hawk, are in possession of the Rock River country, to the great terror of the frontier inhabitants. I consider the settlers on the frontiers to be in imminent danger ...
Raoul said, "He doesn't say stay home and defend your town. He says rendezvous at Beardstown. That is a lot closer to Black Hawk than it is to Victor."
Frank said, "That proclamation is for towns that are in safe territory. We're the settlersonthe frontier, the ones Reynolds says are in danger. I was talking yesterday to a man from Galena, Raoul. Up there, the volunteers have formed a militia company, but they're going to stay right where they are, in case of Indian attack. We aren'texpectedto supply troops to chase Black Hawk."
Raoul shook his head. "We've got to hit Black Hawk hard and fast with all the men we can muster. Once we do, there'll be no danger to Victor."
Frank said, "If something like what happened at Fort Dearborn happens here at Victor, innocent people will pay for your decision. You want that on your conscience?"
At the mention of Fort Dearborn, Raoul's face had gone expressionless. He sat there and stared at Frank for a moment, then stood up abruptly.
"My conscience is clear," he said.
You have no conscience, Nicole thought. She stared sadly into the bright blue eyes that looked so blankly at her now, and wondered where her smiling little brother had gone, so many years ago. The smile still came readily to his face; but now it only mocked and taunted. Did those years of captivity with the Indians fully explain Raoul, or was he a throwback to some robber-baron ancestor whose only law was the sword?
"When a man goes off to war, Miss Nancy, it means the world to him to know he has someone to come home to."
Raoul smiled down from his chestnut stallion, Banner, at Nancy Hale in the driver's seat of her black buggy. At nineteen, she was a woman in full bloom. She'd probably have married a long time ago if she'd stayed back East. There were a lot of men out here on the frontier, but few good enough to court a woman like her.
She'd be a fool not to take my offer seriously. It's the best one she'll ever get.
Nancy looked first at the dusty road over the grass-covered hills between Victoire and Victor, the morning sun beating down on it, then up at him. The deep blue of her eyes was a marvel.
"You already have someone to come home to, Mr. de Marion. And children."
Children, yes, but the mingling of his de Marion blood with thenondescript Greenglove line could hardly produce the children he wanted. Nancy, on the other hand, from an old New England family that probably went back to even better English stock, was just the sort of woman he wanted to breed with.
"Clarissa and I have never stood up before a priest or a minister, Miss Hale. I've just been passing my time with her until the right lady came along."
Her gaze was cool and level. "As far as I'm concerned you're as good as married, and you have no right to be talking to me this way."
"Necessity makes your bedfellows out here on the frontier."
"Not mine." She shook her head, blond braids swinging. He could picture all that honey-gold hair spread out on a pillow, and he felt a pulse beat in his throat.
Nancy went on, "You must know how wrong it is for you to speak to me this way. Otherwise you wouldn't have ambushed me out here."
"I've waited days for a chance to speak to you in private."
Josiah Hode, Hodge Hode's boy, had ridden fast to the trading post this morning to tell Raoul that Miss Hale was driving her buggy into town and was traveling, for once, without her father. It was the news Raoul had been hoping for ever since the governor's proclamation had arrived in Victor. Knowing Miss Nancy was indignant over his treatment of the mongrel, Raoul had delayed approaching her. Now he could delay no longer.
"I leave with the militia next Monday," he said. "That gives you three days to think it over. I hope to carry your favorable answer with me when I ride off to defend you from the savages."
She smiled, but the smile was without humor or warmth. "Carry this answer with you if you wish: No." She flicked the reins, and her dappled gray horse speeded up to a trot.
Raoul spurred his own horse to keep pace with her. "Take time to consider."
"The answer will always be no."
White-hot anger exploded within him. His fists clenched on Banner's reins.
"You'll end up an old maid schoolmarm!" he shouted. "You'll never know what it is to have a man between your legs."
Her face went white. He had hurt her, and that made him feel better.
He kicked his heels hard into Banner's sides and the stallion uttered an angry whicker and broke into a gallop, leaving Nancy Hale and her buggy enveloped in dust.
He wished the country around here weren't so damned open. If he could have dragged her out of that buggy and into the woods, given her a taste of the real thing, she'd have changed her mind about him.
Is she still pining for the mongrel?
Well, he thought, as the gray log walls of the trading post came into sight around a bend in the ridge road, hewouldcarry her answer to the war. And the Indians would suffer the more for it.
Prophet's Town was deserted. Black Hawk and his allies had fled.
Raoul reined up Banner in the very center of the rings of dark, silent Indian houses. Armand Perrault, Levi Pope, Hodge Hode and Otto Wegner stopped beside him. He did not know whether he was relieved or disappointed. His cap-and-ball pistol drawn, the hammer pulled back, he drew angry breaths and glared about him. He felt exposed, realizing that at any time an arrow aimed at his heart could come winging out of one of those long loaf-shaped bark and frame Winnebago lodges.
Because of Raoul's experience in the skirmishing around Saukenuk last year, General Henry Atkinson had commissioned him a colonel and put him in command of the advance guard, known as the spy battalion. He enjoyed the prestige of leading the spies, but he felt a constant tightness in his belly.
He reached down for the canteen in the Indian blanketwork bag strapped to his saddle, uncorked it and took a quick swallow of Old Kaintuck. It went down hot and spread warmth from his stomach through his whole body. He cooled his throat with water from a second canteen.
For three weeks now, slowed by heavy spring rains that swelled creeks to nearly impassable torrents, the militia had followed Black Hawk's trail up the Rock River. To the whites' disappointment, the Indians had bypassed Saukenuk, doubtless aware that the militia had come out against them. Instead, Black Hawk's band had trekked twenty-five miles upriver, reportedly stopping at Prophet's Town. Now, they were not here either.
Raoul hated the Indian village on sight. Built on land that slopedgently down to the south bank of the Rock River, it surrounded him, threatened him, lay dark, sullen and sinister under a gray sky heavy with rain. It reminded him too vividly of the redskin villages where he'd spent those two worst years of his life.
He saw no cooking fires, no drying meat or stacks of vegetables by the dark doorways, no poles flaunting feathers, ribbons and enemy scalps. That characteristic odor of Indian towns, a mixture of tobacco smoke and cooking hominy, hung in the air but was very faint. He figured the Indians had left here days ago.
"Otto," Raoul said, "ride back to General Atkinson and report the enemy has abandoned Prophet's Town."
Wegner gave Raoul a strenuous Prussian salute, pulled his spotted gray horse's head around and rode off.
The two hundred men of the spy battalion were trickling in behind Raoul, hoofs pattering on the bare earth. In their coonskin caps and dusty gray shirts and buckskin jackets, the men didn't look like soldiers, but they had taken the oath and were under military discipline till their term of enlistment was up at the end of May.
The men called to one another and laughed as they gazed around at the empty lodges. They were enjoying themselves immensely, Raoul thought. This time of year most of them would be breaking their backs doing spring plowing and planting. Now they could earn twenty-one cents a day while going on something like an extended hunting trip.
Most men would rather fight than work any day.
Eli Greenglove, on a brown and white pony, trotted up beside Raoul. His silver lace captain's stripes glittered on the upper arms of the blue tunic Raoul had bought for him. A long cavalry saber hung from his white leather belt.
Eli grinned, and Raoul had to look away. It seemed that every other tooth in Eli's head was missing, and the ones that were left were stained brown from years of chewing tobacco.
And now Clarissa had taken up pipe smoking, making it even harder for Raoul to enjoy bedding down with her.
If only Nancy—
But Nancy had made it plain that she despised him.
Damn shame. Of course, old Eli here would slit his throat if he had any idea what Raoul was thinking.
Eli said, "You figger the Prophet's Town Injuns have joined up with Black Hawk's bunch?"
"Of course," said Raoul. "And that means Black Hawk now has about a thousand warriors behind him."
A movement on the south edge of the village in the surrounding woods caught Raoul's eyes. He swung around in that direction, pointing his pistol.
"Eli, get your rifle ready," he said.
"Loaded 'n' primed," said Greenglove, pulling his bright new Cramer percussion lock rifle—another present from Raoul—from its saddle sling, controlling his pony easily with his knees alone.
Indians walked out of the woods, four men. They held their empty hands high over their heads and shuffled forward slowly.
"Watch 'em," said Eli. "They may just be trying to get close enough to jump us."
Raoul studied the four advancing men. Two had their heads wrapped in turbans, one red, one blue. All four wore fringed buckskin leggings and gray flannel shirts. He saw no weapons.
Then he caught sight of more shadowy figures in the trees beyond the Indians. Instantly, he straighted his arm in that direction and pulled the trigger. His pistol went off with a boom, puffing out a cloud of gray smoke. He handed it to Armand to reload it while he reached for his own new rifle, a breech-loading Hall.
The Indian with the red turban was shouting something. Raoul recognized the language—Potawatomi. The sound of it made the blood pound in his temples.
"Those are only squaws and papooses," the Indian called in Potawatomi. "Please do not shoot them."
Raoul felt like shooting them all, just for being Potawatomi, but he held the impulse in check. He had to find out whatever they could tell him.
He addressed the Indians in their language, indelibly engraved in his mind by the acids of fear and hatred. "Tell them all to come out. We will kill anyone who hides from us."
The red-turbaned Indian called over his shoulder, and slowly a group of women and small children came out of the woods.
Raoul took his reloaded pistol back from Armand and walked Banner over to the little group. They started to lower their hands.
"Keep them up." He gestured with the pistol. Slowly the copper-skinnedmen straightened their raised arms again, looking at one another unhappily.
Probably thought we'd welcome them with kind words and gifts.The muscles in his neck and shoulders were so rigid they ached, and his stomach was boiling. In his mind he saw again the scarred face of Black Salmon, the brown fist raised, holding a horsewhip to beat him. The sounds of Potawatomi speech brought it all back.
He handed his horse's reins to Armand, who tied Banner to an upright post in front of a nearby lodge.
"Who are you?" Raoul demanded.
"I am Little Foot," said the Indian wearing the red turban. "I am head of the Deer Clan. We live here in the town of the Winnebago Prophet."
Little Foot's skin was dark, and he had a wide, flat nose. He wore no feathers on his head, probably not wanting to look warlike. Black hair streaked here and there with white hung down from under his turban in two braids to his shoulders. Raoul judged him to be in his fifties.
He could have been at Fort Dearborn twenty years ago.
One thing was certain. Little Foot was Potawatomi. Raoul felt his fingers tightening on his pistol as he held it at waist level.
Raoul turned to Levi Pope and some of his other Smith County boys who were seated on horses nearby. "Tie them up."
Levi, who wore six pistols at his belt, all primed and loaded, got down from his horse and unhooked a coiled rope from his saddle. "The squaws and little ones too?"
"Put their families in one of the lodges and keep a guard on them." Another thought occurred to him. "Eli, take some men and search these huts. Make sure there aren't any more Indians hiding out somewhere in this town."
Levi went to the red-turbaned Indian and pulled his arms down roughly to his sides. In a moment he had Little Foot's hands securely tied behind his back, while other grinning Smith County boys had done the same to the other three Indian men.
"Ankles too," said Raoul, and Levi and his men cut lengths of rope and knelt to hobble the Indians.
With his free hand Raoul took another long drink from the whiskey canteen hanging from his saddle.
He walked close to Little Foot and looked him in the eye. He did not like the way the Indian looked back at him. He saw no fear.
With a sudden movement he hooked his boot behind the Indian's hobbled ankles and pushed him hard. Little Foot fell heavily to the ground on his back, wincing with the unexpected pain.
As he pushed himself awkwardly into a sitting position, there was no mistaking the hatred in the way he looked up at Raoul.
"Why did you stay here?" Raoul asked.
"We do not think Black Hawk can win. We hope the long knives will treat kindly those who do not make war on them."
Raoul said, "Where has Black Hawk gone? What is he planning? Where are the people who were living in this town?"
"I promised the Winnebago Prophet I would say nothing about where they went. I will be accursed if I break my promise."
"The Winnebago Prophet's curse is nothing. You should be more afraid of me."
Little Foot remained stone-faced and silent.
What a pleasure to have a bunch of Potawatomi right where he could do anything he wanted to them.
A light rain started to patter down on the bark roofs and the hard-packed earth.
While Raoul had been talking with the Indians, more militiamen had reached Prophet's Town. Columns of men on horseback, four abreast, came to a halt in the grassland to the south of the village and fell out at their officers' commands. They climbed off their horses and walked them.
Otto Wegner rode up and dismounted.
"General Atkinson is going to encamp the rest of the army outside Prophet's Town, sir," he said, giving Raoul his usual vigorous salute, nearly dislodging the big hunting knife sheathed in a pocket of his leather shirt.
Raoul returned the salute carelessly, went back to Banner and took another swallow from the whiskey canteen.
Surprising that Atkinson should decide to set up camp here, when the day was only half over. Well, Henry Atkinson had a reputation for going slowly. Raoul had heard from friends among the regular officers that Atkinson had already received a sharply worded letter from the Secretary of War in Washington City reprimanding him for not moving fast enough to crush the Indians.
If I get a chance to take a crack at them I sure as hell won't be slow.
The early arrivals already had their tents up. Officers' tentswere of white canvas, six feet from the ground to their peaked tops. Enlisted men set up pup tents just large enough to cover two men lying down. Most men didn't bother to carry tents and slept out in the open, rolled up in the coarse blankets they all carried.
Men were wandering through Prophet's Town peering into the lodges. They walked with slow caution, rifles ready.
Raoul watched Justus Bennett, in civilian life Smith County's land commissioner, ordering two privates in buckskins and coonskin caps to put up a tent for him. Bennett was always trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. His packhorse carried his tenting, a big bag full of fancy clothes, and a couple of heavy law books. Why on earth a man would think he needed such things in the wilderness, Raoul had no idea.
"Bennett!" Raoul called. "Take charge of the guard on those Indians."
Bennett looked annoyed, but gave some final instructions to the men putting up his tent and slouched over to the four Indians. A round-shouldered man of slight build, he looked decidedly unmilitary, but he'd explained to Raoul that for anyone who wanted to get ahead in politics, a war record would be a godsend.
Raoul called out, "Levi, you leave off guarding the Indians and get my tent up."
A crowd of men had gathered in a circle around the Indians. Maybe they wanted to give the redskins a few licks of their own.
"Afternoon, Colonel."
Raoul was used to looking down at other men, but he had to look up, a little, at the man who addressed him. His skinniness was like Pierre's in a way, but this man was a heap uglier than Raoul's brother had been. He looked like a half-starved nag.
I'll bet he trips all over himself when he walks, and when he rides he drags his feet on the ground.
Raoul gestured to the seated Potawatomi. "You boys ever see Indians up close before?"
"The way you've got them trussed up and guarded, Colonel," said the tall man, "I'd say they must be pretty desperate characters."
Raoul heard the smile in the drawling voice and felt heat rising up the back of his neck. He took a closer look at the man. He couldn't be much over twenty, but he looked a well-worn twenty.A farmer's face, darkened by the sun. The gray eyes, set in deep hollows under heavy black brows, crinkled humorously. But Raoul saw cold judgment deeper in those eyes.
Like most of the volunteers, the tall man wore civilian clothes. His were gray trousers tucked into farmer's boots and a gray jacket over a blue calico shirt printed with white flowers. An officer's saber hung from a belt around his waist.
Raoul said, "Well, I reckon you signed up with the militia to fight Indians, so take a good look at your enemy."
The tall man walked around to stand in front of Little Foot, hunkered down and said, "Howdy."
Little Foot did not look back but gazed ahead with a blank face.
The lean man straightened up. "A mighty mean customer, sir."
Some of the other men in the ring around the Indians chuckled at this. Even Justus Bennett snickered.
Raoul was feeling angrier and angrier. He had looked forward to questioning Little Foot and the other Potawatomi, looked forward to having them resist and to breaking their resistance down with fear and pain. He'd even hoped they might give him reason to shoot them. These strange militiamen were becoming a nuisance.
"You seem to think this is pretty funny. Who the hell are you?" Raoul put a threat into his voice.
"I'm Captain Lincoln of the Sangamon County company, sir. We're with the Second Battalion."
Raoul let his gaze travel over the other Sangamon County men.
"Any of the rest of you able to talk?"
One man laughed. "When Abe's around we mostly let him do the talking."
"That so? If you let somebody else do your talking for you, he may talk you into a spot you won't like."
Abe said, "Oh, I always make sure I say what the men want said, sir." That brought another laugh.
Raoul's anger at the Potawatomi found a new target in this bony volunteer. The heat of the whiskey raced through his bloodstream.
There was one simple way to show this upstart who was master here, and at the same time have his way with the redskins.
Raoul drew his pistol and hefted it in his hand.
The tall captain eyed Raoul warily and said nothing.
Raoul said, "I'm going to give this Potawatomi one more chanceto tell me now where Black Hawk went, and if he disobeys me again I'm going to shoot him dead."
He stood before Little Foot and pointed the pistol at his head.
In Potawatomi he said, "Tell me what Black Hawk plans to do. Is he lying in ambush farther up the trail? Does he have a secret camp for his squaws and papooses? Tell me, or I will shoot you." Swinging the muzzle of the pistol to the man in the blue turban beside Little Foot, he said, "And then I will ask this man, and if he does not tell me, I will kill him too."
The bony young man said, "With all due respect to your rank and experience, sir, I must say that what you propose to do is wrong."
Raoul's rage threatened to boil over. Tension jerked his right arm. So as not to risk wasting a shot, he took his finger off the trigger.
In a mild but somehow penetrating voice the Sangamon man said, "I'll tell you why this is wrong, sir, if you'll allow me."
The man's politeness was infuriating. Raoul turned to him, letting the pistol fall to his side.
"Go on, Captain. Preach to me."
"If you had a white prisoner at your mercy, you would not shoot him because he refused to betray his comrades. You would think it honorable in him to answer your questions with silence. But this red man is a human being with the same God-given right to his life that you and I have."
Raoul realized all at once that the lean captain's backwoods manner of speaking had fallen away like an unneeded cloak. He sounded like a lawyer or a minister.
"I was a prisoner of the Potawatomi for two years. I can tell you from experience they're not human at all."
How angry Pierre had been when Raoul had said Indians were animals. But it was true.
"They treated you badly? Made a slave of you?"
"Damned right."
The young captain looked calmly at Raoul. "If to hold slaves and treat them badly marks a man as less than human, then you must so brand every wealthy white man in the Southern states."
A few of the men standing around laughed. "That Abe! Got an answer for everything."
Again Raoul's hand tightened convulsively on the pistol grip. He'd wasted enough words on this walking skeleton from Sangamon County. He was quivering with rage.
There was one quick way to put an end to the arguing.
He swung around and stepped close to Little Foot, holding his pistol less than a foot from the red-turbaned head. With his left hand he pulled the hammer back to half-cock, then full. The double click sounded loud in a sudden, astonished silence.
And Little Foot's arms, unbound, shot up. Both his hands gripped the barrel of the pistol and yanked it to one side. About to pull the trigger, Raoul froze his finger as the muzzle was pulled aside from its target.
—And knew with a sudden sinking of his heart what a deadly mistake he had made in that instant.
The Potawatomi's powerful two-handed grip tore the pistol from his fingers.
I should have fired. Now I am a dead man.
Raoul saw a coil of rope lying on the ground beside Little Foot. The Indian must have been working his wrists loose while everyone's attention was on the argument.
Little Foot had already turned the loaded and cocked pistol around in his hands and pointed it at Raoul's heart. Raoul stared into black eyes that had no mercy for him.
A blurred figure seemed to fly across Raoul's vision.
The pistol went off with a boom.
Coughing, blinded, Raoul saw dimly through the gunsmoke that the skinny captain had thrown himself at Little Foot and thrust the pistol aside. Now Lincoln and Little Foot were wrestling, thrashing about like two wild animals.
By the time the smoke had cleared, the lean man had full control. Little Foot's ankles, Raoul saw, were still tied, and Lincoln's arms had snaked up under the Indian's. The Sangamon County man's big hands were behind Little Foot's head, pushing his chin down into his chest. His long legs were wrapped around Little Foot's middle, holding him in a crushing scissors grip.
Raoul stood shaking, his eyes watering from the faceful of powder smoke he'd taken. His heart was pounding frantically against his breastbone.
"Nicely done, sir!" Justus Bennett said to Lincoln.
And what the hell were you doing?Raoul thought, furious at Bennett.
With a trembling hand Raoul seized Bennett's pistol.
The four guards had their rifles pointed at Little Foot. Any one of them could have saved Raoul's life by shooting, but none of them had reacted quickly enough.
Only Lincoln had moved in time.
The lanky captain's comrades were cheering him. "Old Abe's the best wrassler in this army, Colonel, and now you've seen it for yourself."
Raoul wiped his eyes and shouted, "Stand aside, Lincoln. Now I'm going to blow this redskin's brains out." The quaver he heard in his own voice made him even angrier.
From behind Little Foot came a calm response. "I'm going to ask you not to do that, sir."
"He tried to kill me. Get up and stand aside, God damn you!"
"No, sir."
Lincoln did unwrap his arms from Little Foot's head and shoulders, but still held him with his legs. The Indian sat motionless, as if his effort to kill Raoul had taken the last of his strength. He muttered under his breath. Probably his death song, Raoul thought.
Lincoln quickly retied the Indian, then stood up, placing himself between Raoul and Little Foot. He held Raoul's empty pistol out to him, butt first.
"Colonel, I believe you're a fair man, and you'll agree that I just saved your life."
Raoul took his pistol and handed it to Armand, realizing that the tall man was maneuvering him into a difficult position. Too many men had seen what happened.
"Yes, you did save my life." The words hurt his throat, same as if that pistol ball had hit him and lodged there. "And I thank you. You have my most profound gratitude."
"That being so, and since I have done you what you might think a favor, will you grant me a life for a life?"
For a moment Raoul could not think of anything to say or do.
All he had to do was shove this Lincoln aside, put the muzzle of his pistol to Little Foot's head and pull the trigger.
He realized, too, that the longer he hesitated the more a fool he looked.
What right did the skinny captain have to demand that he spare Little Foot?
Raoul became aware that the crowd around them had grown to perhaps a couple of hundred men. The ones he could see wore little half smiles. Whoever came out the winner, they were having a fine old time watching.
Raoul was broader and maybe stronger than Lincoln. But how ridiculous he would look if he had to fight the man to get past him to shoot Little Foot.
And what if this bag of bones beat him?
Old Abe's the best wrassler in this army, Colonel.
The truth was bitter as vinegar, but the only course that would preserve his dignity would be to let Lincoln have his way.
"Ah, hell," he said loudly, and was pleased to hear that while he'd stood silently thinking, his voice had regained its strength. "Sure, I'll let the Indian live. He's nothing to me."
He noticed that his hand still shook a little as he gave Bennett's pistol back to him. He took his own, reloaded, from Armand and holstered it, hoping no one could see his tremor.
"My hand on it," he said, holding out his right hand, willing it to be steady.
The grip that met his was crushing. Even though he'd seen the bony young man immobilize Little Foot, Raoul was surprised.
He felt the men would expect him to do more to show his gratitude.
"Come and have a drink with me, Abe."
"My pleasure, sir."
Armand had finished putting Raoul's tent up. In the tent Armand uncorked a jug and handed it to Raoul, who offered it to Lincoln. The young man hooked his finger in the ring at the neck of the jug and raised it to his mouth. Raoul watched the prominent Adam's apple rise and fall as he took a long swallow.
"I normally don't touch whiskey, sir," Lincoln said, handing the jug back to Raoul. "I've seen it ruin too many good men. But I do appreciate this. It's not every day I grab a pistol as it goes off, wrestle an Indian and disobey a colonel."
"Well, that's the best whiskey there is. Old Kaintuck—O.K."
"Three things Kentucky makes better than anyplace else," said Lincoln. "Quilts, rifles and whiskey. I should know. That's where I hail from."
It was because of men like this, Raoul thought with some disdain, that Illinoisians got their nickname, "Suckers." The weak shoots of the tobacco plant that had to be stripped off and thrown away were called suckers, and Illinois was said to be largely populated by ne'er-do-well emigrants from tobacco-growing states like Kentucky.
"Then here's to Kentucky," said Raoul, loathing the tall, ugly man for spoiling his revenge.
He lifted the jug to his lips and let the burning liquid roll over his tongue and slide down his throat, grateful to it for the warmth that would melt away the chill of death he still felt around his heart.
A few more swigs and Raoul found himself wanting to bring Lincoln around to his way of thinking. The man, after all,hadsaved his life.
"You know, you went to a whole lot of bother over that Indian now," he said. "It's a waste of time. We're only going to have to kill them all later anyway."
Lincoln winced, as if Raoul's words had hurt him. "Why do you say that, sir?"
"I've got a big estate in Smith County, beside the Mississippi, miles and miles of wonderful fertile land just begging for the plow. And too much of it is growing nothing but prairie flowers, because I can't get enough people to come and work it for me. They're afraid of Indians!"
"Treat the Indians fairly and there would be nothing to fear," said Lincoln.
"Treat them fairly and they'll just continue to attack our settlements."
"I'd like to think you're wrong, Mr. de Marion."
"Why the hell did you volunteer for the militia, if you don't like killing Indians?"
Lincoln smiled faintly. "Well, a war record won't hurt when I make a run for the legislature."
Just another slimy politician. Same as Bennett.
A bluebelly, a blue-uniformed officer of the Federal army, pushed through the tent flap. He doffed his tall, cylindrical shako.
"General Atkinson's compliments, Colonel de Marion. We're breaking camp and moving on up the Rock River in pursuit of Black Hawk and his band. And he asks you to once again take up the lead position."
"How does the general know where the Sauk are?" he asked irritably.
"A couple of Winnebago known to the general came into camp and offered to guide us, sir. They say Black Hawk and the Winnebago Prophet are leading their people upriver to try to persuade the Potawatomi to join them. Black Hawk's whole band, except for the warriors, are on foot. The general thinks that if we ride hard we can catch them."
Lincoln held out his hand and shook again with Raoul.
"Thank you for the whiskey, sir."
"Thank you for turning that pistol aside."
Lincoln grinned. "Colonel, thankyoufor sparing that red man. I'll be going now, or by the time we finish thanking each other, Black Hawk will be in Checagou."
When Raoul emerged from his tent he saw that the Potawatomi prisoners were gone. He felt a surge of fury that someone had turned them loose without his permission. He still longed to put a ball into the skull of that sneaking Little Foot.
The next Indian who falls into my hands won't be so lucky.
By the time the men of his spy battalion had struck their tents and mounted up, he had decided on half a loaf of revenge. Seated on Banner, he held up a burning stick.
"All right, men, the Winnebago who lived here have joined up with Black Hawk. They're running ahead of us. Let's not leave them anything to come back to."
He drew his arm back and snapped it forward. The torch flew end over end and landed on the bark roof of the nearest Winnebago lodge. A circle of orange flame spread out quickly. It was still raining, but not enough to slow the fire down much.
Raoul's men whooped. Eli and Armand led the way in hurling flaming sticks into the dark brown Indian huts.
Armand, grinning, handed Raoul a long pole he'd pulled loose from the wall of a lodge, afire at one end. Waving his broad-brimmed hat, Raoul rode through the town touching the burning pole to the flimsy wall of each lodge he passed. The men of thebattalion scattered, setting fires everywhere. Beyond the town the remaining militiamen stopped breaking camp to watch.
Soon, the roar of the burning lodges thundered in Raoul's ears like a big waterfall.
If they could catch Black Hawk, he thought, what glory that would be. No matter how many fighting men Black Hawk had, Raoul felt sure his battalion could crush them. The burning lodges, the whiskey in his blood, the hatred in his heart, all ran together so that Raoul felt like a prairie fire racing after the British Band.
White Bear tried to think only about guiding his brown-spotted white pony over the grasslands and watching his two companions. He tried to put fear out of his mind.
I did not even have a chance to say good-bye to Redbird.
Redbird was a day's ride up the Rock River from here, at the camp the Potawatomi had allowed Black Hawk's people to set up. White Bear's body went cold with the thought that he might be killed today, and she be left alone and pursued by enemies.
I should have asked Wolf Paw to be her protector if I die. He hates me, but he cares for Redbird.
It was for Redbird and Eagle Feather, and for the baby growing inside Redbird, that he was risking his life today. His family was going hungry. It had been over six weeks, by pale eyes reckoning, since Black Hawk had led them across the Great River into Illinois. White Bear and Redbird, like other British Band families, could carry little food with them, and most of that was gone. With the long knives pressing behind them, White Bear had no time to hunt or fish, nor Redbird to gather food from the woodlands.
She must not go without food, especially not while carrying their child. The children of the British Band walked about hollow-eyed; the crying of hungry babies rose from every part of the camp. Old people, looking nearly dead, lay on the ground trying to husband their strength.
At a secret meeting last night the Potawatomi chiefs, despite Flying Cloud's prophecy, had refused to join Black Hawk in fightingthe long knives or even to give his people supplies or let them remain long in Potawatomi territory. Black Hawk himself had been forced to admit that the only way to spare the band further hardship would be to go quietly back across the Great River.
To do that, he had to make peace with the long knives. Frightened though he was, White Bear, as the only member of the tribe who spoke fluent English, felt he must go with Black Hawk's emissaries.
White Bear's shoulders slumped in discouragement as he thought how Black Hawk and the rest of the band had been led astray.Noother tribes were willing to ally themselves with the British Band. There had beennotruth at all to the Winnebago Prophet's talk of aid from the British in Canada.
A delegation headed by Broth, the tribe's best speaker, had gone to the British fort at Malden, near Detroit, to ask for help. They had been sent back with the advice that the Sauk had better learn to live in peace with the Americans.
The people of Prophet's Town had left their homes with Black Hawk's band more out of fear of the oncoming long knives than out of a desire to help Black Hawk fight for Saukenuk. As Black Hawk's prospects worsened, most of them drifted away, even though the Prophet himself remained at Black Hawk's side.
Black Hawk had believed the Prophet because his promises gave the British Band the courage to defy the long knives. To White Bear's disgust, even now, when it was clear that Flying Cloud had simply made it all up, Black Hawk had forgiven the Prophet.
White Bear burned with resentment.
They mocked me when I told them the truth. That fat, posturing toad lied to them and they still honor him. Surely a false shaman is the worst kind of liar.
White Bear rode on Little Crow's right. As the oldest of the three men, Little Crow carried the white flag. Torn from a sheet the braves had found in a settler's hastily abandoned cabin, the flag was tied to a spear shaft from which the head had been removed. On Little Crow's left rode Three Horses.
Since they were not riding into battle, they had not taken any of the saddles with stirrups from the band's supply but were mounted with only blankets between themselves and the horses' backs. Thethree of them had painted their faces black, because they might be going to their deaths. But it was hard to believe that men might be killed on this beautiful afternoon in the middle of the Moon of Buds. A warm breeze blew over White Bear's bare chest and arms. Red, blue and yellow prairie flowers scattered over the land, as uncountable as the stars, delighted his eye in spite of his fear. All around him he heard red-winged blackbirds singing their spring challenges.
White Bear had left with Owl Carver everything he valued: his medicine stick, his Sauk medicine bag and his other bag of pale eyes' medical instruments, his megis-shell necklace, his brass and silver ornaments, hisParadise Lost, the deerhorn-handled knife his father had long ago given him. He had nothing with him but the clothing he wore, fringed buckskin leggings and a buckskin vest decorated with blue and green quillwork in diamond patterns.
He looked back and saw five mounted braves an arrow flight behind him on the prairie. Even from this distance he could tell that the tall one in the middle was Iron Knife. They would watch from hiding and would report back to Black Hawk how the long knives treated his peace messengers. Black Hawk himself, with Owl Carver, the Winnebago Prophet, Wolf Paw and about forty braves, waited a few miles farther up the Rock River at the place where he had met with the Potawatomi chiefs.
White Bear saw a small stand of woods ahead. Scouts had reported that beyond those woods, across Old Man's Creek, the long knives had set up camp. Glowing from behind young green leaves, set aflutter by the breeze, the setting sun dropped flecks of gold onto the blackened faces of White Bear's two companions. It would be almost nightfall by the time they encountered the long knives.
Three Horses said, "A man must be more brave, I think, to do this than to ride up to an enemy in battle and strike the first blow at him." His nose curved inward where the bridge should have been. White Bear had learned that a Sioux war club had done that to him while Auguste was studying Latin and geometry at St. George's School.
"I would much rather be fighting the long knives than trying to make peace with them," said Little Crow. "I do not trust them."
White Bear tried to reassure them and himself. "We must dothis. It is the only way we can get our people safely back across the Great River."
Little Crow said, "It seems you were right and we who wanted to take up the tomahawk were wrong."
In spite of his fear, White Bear felt a satisfied glow at Little Crow's words. Little Crow had been the one who brought the woman's dress that Wolf Paw had put on him that wretched night of the council.
They did not listen to me that night. The Turtle told me I would not be able to persuade the people not to cross the Great River, but I tried my best.
They entered the wood by way of a narrow trail, riding single file. Little Crow lowered the white flag to keep it from getting caught in the branches.
As they rode among the trees, the tightness of fear in White Bear's chest and stomach grew worse, until he had to struggle for breath. His palms sweat so much, the reins were slippery in his hands.
He turned and waved farewell to Iron Knife and the four other braves following them, who had halted their ponies at the edge of the woods and dismounted. They waved back. A moment more and White Bear looked back and could see them no more.
At least if I die today Iron Knife can tell Redbird how it came about.
He tried to guess how the long knives would greet them. They might shoot them down in spite of the white flag. He hoped they would be glad to learn that Black Hawk wanted to surrender and return in peace to Ioway. After all, that was what they were trying to force him to do, was it not? But some of the long knives, undoubtedly, wanted to kill "Injuns." Men like Raoul.
When they came out of the south edge of the woods, they found themselves on a grassy rise sloping down to a winding stream called Old Man's Creek. The sun was lower now and directly in White Bear's eyes. Across the creek was a sight that made him want to jerk his pony's head around and ride back into the trees as fast as he could go.
On high ground he saw the silhouettes of peaked tents and many men, some on horseback and some on foot, rifles in hand. The smoke of campfires drifted like gray feathers into the pale blue sky.He heard voices calling to one another in English. One man shouted and pointed in their direction.
White Bear said, "Don't wait here at the edge of the trees, or they will think we are attackers. Ride forward slowly, waving the flag."
The men across the creek were yelling excitedly now. Rifle fire crackled and smoke billowed. A ball whizzed past White Bear and cracked a tree limb behind him. He held himself rigid.
Long knives rode toward them, urging their horses down the far side of the creekbank. White Bear and his companions rode into the creek to meet them.
In a moment bearded white faces, angry eyes, coonskin caps and straw hats were whirling about the three emissaries in the middle of the creek. Rifles and pistols were pointing at them from every side. Little Crow, his face tight, held the white flag high with both hands.
"We surrender!" White Bear shouted. "We are not armed. We have come to talk to General Atkinson."
"Listen to that, he's talking English," a blond boy exclaimed.
Another man yelled, "Shoot 'em. Then let 'em surrender."
White Bear's knees trembled against his horse's flanks. These were not regular U.S. government soldiers, but the volunteers, the armed settlers who had come out in answer to their governor's call. They would not wait for orders from their commanders. They would do whatever they felt like doing.
A red-bearded man stuck his face in White Bear's. "Get down off that horse, Injun! Now!" His shout blew a stink of whiskey into White Bear's face.
Others joined the outcry. "Get off them horses!"
"Ought to put a bullet in them right here in the creek."
"Look at them black faces. I thought they was niggers at first."
"Not even useful like niggers, damn redskins."
The man with the red beard grabbed White Bear's arm and jerked him half out of his saddle. White Bear slid down from his horse.
He stood up to his knees in the cold, rushing water of Old Man's Creek.
"We want to surrender," he said again. "We want to talk to your officers."
"Just shut up!" the red-bearded man roared, eyes rolling drunkenly.
White Bear felt a man grab him from behind. A rope scratched his wrists and tightened around them till the bones were crushed together.
He turned to see whether Little Crow and Three Horses were all right. The militiamen had bound them too. Both braves' black-painted faces were expressionless, but White Bear read fear in their eyes and in the set of their mouths—the same fear he felt, and tried not to show.
The red-bearded man leaned down from his saddle and grabbed a handful of White Bear's long hair. He jerked on it, dragging White Bear toward the bank. White Bear stumbled on the stony creekbed, bruising his feet through his moccasins.
"You wanna see our officers? Then step along!"
What had happened to the white flag? Without it, what did they have to show that they had come in peace?
"Will you bring our white flag?" he called desperately to a clean-shaven man wearing spectacles, who looked a little calmer than the others.
The man's face twisted into a snarl, and White Bear's heart fell.
"You'll get your white flag up your ass, redskin!"
"You sound just like a white man," said another militiaman. "You sure you ain't a white man in paint?"
"Listen to me," White Bear said hopelessly. He wanted to say,If we don't fight it will save your lives as well as ours.But how could he talk to these men, maddened by whiskey and war? His eyes met those of Little Crow and Three Horses. Again the red-bearded man jerked his hair, so hard White Bear thought he would pull it out of his scalp. He had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Worse than the pain was the indignity.
Horses splashing water, mud and pebbles on them, long knives shouting curses and threats, the three Sauk stumbled out of the creek and through shoulder-high prairie grass into the militia camp.
The sun's last rays fell on flushed, sweating white faces, on glistening rifle barrels. To White Bear, most of the men looked younger than he.
"Somebody get the colonel," said the man with the red beard. "Tell him they claim they want to surrender. Might be we could catch old Black Hawk himself."
The three Sauks' only hope, White Bear thought, was that thecommanding officer might be more willing to listen to them than his men were.
The Sauk and their captors stood in a circle where the grass had been trampled flat. A short distance away stood supply wagons and tents. The prairie surrounded them.
Some militiamen went to one wagon on which five kegs with spouts stood, filled tin cups from the kegs and drank from them. Whiskey, White Bear thought, seemed to be as important to these men as food.
The sun was down now, and the three stood in twilight, in the midst of the shouting mob.
"Look alive, you men! It's the colonel!"
The crowd opened up, and two men came through.
One of them, short, skinny, wearing a coonskin cap and a blue officer's coat, came up to White Bear and peered at him.
"I know you!"
Half his teeth were rotten and the rest were missing. White Bear knew him too. Eli Greenglove.
"By God, Raoul! I'll be a son of a bitch if it ain't that half-breed nephew of yours."
And there stood Raoul de Marion, gold epaulets glittering on his broad shoulders.
At the sight of that broad face with the black mustache, last seen looking at him over a pistol barrel, White Bear knew his life was about to end.
Could my luck be any worse?
All hope vanished as light faded from the sky.
Raoul stood before White Bear with his thumbs hooked into the white leather belt that cinched his blue uniform coat. His huge knife—the one that had cut White Bear's face years ago—hung at his left side, a pistol at his right. He grinned at White Bear.
"Well. I was hoping to meet you. I'd have liked it better on the field of battle, but here you are, in my camp. What were you doing, spying on us?"
White Bear sighed. Something crumbled inside him.
"Do you know this long knife?" Little Crow said in Sauk.
"Yes, he is my father's brother." A glimmer of hope appeared in Little Crow's eyes, but vanished when White Bear added, "And he is my worst enemy."
"Talk English around me!" Raoul shouted. "No Indian jabber."
"Black Hawk sent us," White Bear said. "He doesn't want to fight. We've come to make peace."
"The hell with that!" one of Raoul's men yelled. "We come out to fight Injuns."
"Well, hold on now!" cried another. "If they come peaceable, that means we can all go home and nobody hurt."
Raoul turned on the man. "I'll be the one to decide why they're here."
White Bear realized that the men with Raoul were barely under his control. There was no hope of talking to Raoul, but there might be others in this crowd, like the man who had just spoken, who would listen. He must keep trying.
Raising his voice White Bear said, "Chief Black Hawk knows you militiamen outnumber his warriors. He doesn't want to fight you. All he wants is to be allowed to go back down the Rock River and cross the Mississippi. He will never come back."
"Where'd that black-faced redskin learn to speak English so good?" one of the militiamen said.
"He's a renegade," said Raoul. "A part-white mongrel. He ought to be hanged as a traitor. Don't believe a word he says."
"They did come with a white flag," one of the men said.
"White flag, hell!" Raoul shouted. "They're trying to put us off guard." He swept a pointing finger across a group of men that included brown-bearded Armand Perrault. Among them White Bear recognized Levi Pope and Otto Wegner, the thick-mustached Prussian who worked at the trading post. He remembered Wegner had not wanted to kill him when Raoul offered a reward for his death, and he felt a little tremor of hope.
"Get on your horses," Raoul told his men. "Go out across the creek and look. If you don't find Indians skulking about in those woods, I'll be mighty surprised."
As Raoul's men rode off, White Bear was torn by indecision. Should he tell Raoul that other braves had followed them here, to see how they were treated? Or would that just endanger the lives of Iron Knife and the others?
He'll use everything I tell him against me.
Raoul's eyes stared death at White Bear. "Black Hawk's a damn liar. He's broken every treaty we ever made with you people. There'sonly one way to deal with your kind. If you can't be trusted to keep treaties, you have to be exterminated." He drew his pistol.