"We don't bury dead Indians," said Raoul. "Let them rot. Let the buzzards get fat on them." He raised his voice. "Every man mount up and chase the ones there in the woods across the creek. This may be our chance to finish Black Hawk."
"What happened to that other Injun that ran away?" Greenglove asked.
"We got him," a militiaman said. "He made it almost to the river. But he's got enough lead in him now to start his own mine."
Grief filled White Bear's motionless body. Little Crow and Three Horses, both killed. Three Horses' death had given him back his life. Three Horses, the first Sauk to greet him on his return to the tribe. His two comrades surely deserved to escape death as much as he did. Why had he alone been spared? He wanted to cry out, as sorrow for his fallen comrades tore into him, but he drew in his lower lip. He bit down on it hard, clenching his teeth in his flesh until he felt no pain anywhere else, in mind or body.
Good-bye, Three Horses. Good-bye, Little Crow. I will burn tobacco to the spirits for you.
Boots clumped through the prairie grass all around him. Hoof-beats pounded past him. He feared he would be trampled, and it took back-breaking effort to hold still. But the horses avoided his body.
Gradually the thundering passage of Raoul's men died away to the north.
For a long time White Bear heard nothing but the creek rippling over its bed of stones, the wind in the trees, crickets buzzing on the prairie. Tiny creatures tickled his flesh as they hurried over his face and body. To them he had already become part of the earth.
The burning in his ear settled down to a numb ache.