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.