White Bear felt the clench of nausea in his middle. Only pride kept him from doubling up and vomiting in his terror.
"Don't do this, please," he cried. "We came to you to make peace."
"They mean to kill us," said Little Crow. "Talk no more to them, White Bear. Do not plead. It is unbecoming a Sauk." White Bear felt a rush of admiration for the strength and calm in Little Crow's voice. Here, truly, was a brave.
Little Crow raised his voice in song.
"In your brown blanket, O Earthmaker,
Wrap your son and carry him away.
Fold him again in your body.
Let his bones turn to rocks,
Let his flesh turn to grass.
Give his eyes to the birds,
Give his ears to the deer.
Grow flowers from his heart."
White Bear and Three Horses joined in. There was nothing else to do. White Bear wanted to die singing, not weeping.
What a miserable death this was, even so! And still, he found that the song made his heart feel strong and his terror give way to a stern anger. Murdered because of the simple, stupid bad luck that Raoul's band of militiamen happened to be the advance guard of the long knives. Surrounded by drunken savages—yes, they were the savages, not himself and Three Horses and Little Crow.
Infuriating to think of the love and education his father had lavished on him, all wasted now. All the years of following the shaman's path, ended by a lead ball. Before he had accomplished anything.
And Redbird and Eagle Feather and the baby to come— If not for them he might accept the inevitable. Step onto the Trail of Souls with grace and dignity. But, even more for their sake than for his own, he did not want to die.
Frantic with fear and anger, he looked for a way of escape. The camp was in the midst of prairie grass almost as high as a man's head. The sun had gone down, and twilight was deepening. But Raoul was walking toward him, holding his pistol high. And beyond him, between White Bear and the grass, was a ring of men with rifles.