He was about to step out on the prairie when he heard the rumble of hooves coming toward him. He stopped in the shelter of the trees. He heard shots, screams of pain and terror.
Against the lighter prairie grass, men on horseback were dark shapes rushing at him from the horizon.
Their voices were high-pitched, fearful. They were crying out in English.
"Make a stand in the woods!"
"No! There's too many of them!"
"Just keep a-running. Follow the river."
White Bear looked about for a hiding place. The moon showed him that he was standing beside a big old oak, with branches low enough for him to jump to.
Grandfather Oak, will you shelter me?
Just before he jumped for a branch he noticed that a hollow had rotted out in the base of the tree. It was big enough for him to hide in, but then he would be on the same level as the militiamen. Safer up high.
He forced his tired legs to spring, managed to grip the lowest limb, one hand on each side of it, bark scratching his palms. He pressed the soles of his moccasins flat against the trunk and walked his body up, panting, until he was able to pull himself up over the limb and reach for the next one. The branches were stout and close together, and soon he was high above the floor of the wood.