All that was left for him was to die with honor.
He raised his voice to sing louder.
I must put all my strength into this. It is the last song I will sing on earth.
"Stop that goddamned caterwauling!" Raoul shouted.
White Bear watched numbly as Armand Perrault brought his rifle to his shoulder, stepped up to Little Crow, put the muzzle of the rifle to the brave's head and pulled the trigger. The flint clicked down and sparked, and powder sizzled in the pan. The rifle went off with a roar, enveloping the brave's head in a pink cloud of smoke, blood, bits of flesh and bone.
White Bear staggered backward, dizzy with shock and terror.
Three Horses shouted, "I will not die so!" He jerked free from the men who were holding him and plunged into the grass, hands still bound behind him. He ran toward the Rock River.
Rifles boomed.
In his panic, White Bear felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of him. Three Horses might have a chance. He was a short man, and the grass was tall. And light was fading moment by moment.
If White Bear stood where he was an instant longer he would be dead. This was his only chance. No one was holding him. No one was even pointing a gun at him. All of them, even Raoul, were staring after Three Horses. Many of the men had fired and would need time to reload.