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.