You made a ladder for me. Thank you, Grandfather Oak.
Dozens of mounted militiamen were streaming past his tree, galloping right under him. The hoofbeats of the horses and the shouts of the men to one another, pitched high with terror, shattered the night air.
He saw the black shapes of more horses and riders swimming through the prairie grass. Their elated cries were Sauk war whoops.
The braves of his tribe, racing toward him as if to rescue him. A sun rose in his breast.
Rifles boomed and arrows whistled through the air after the fleeing militiamen, and he was thankful that he was up this high. He heard screams. Somewhere nearby a body crashed into shrubbery.
Some long knives, he saw, were trying to go around the woods, but the greater distance they had to travel gave the Sauk riders time to catch up with them. Rifle shots flashed like lightning in the darkness.
Two shadowy figures on foot, so close together they seemed one, stumbled out of the tall grass and pushed their way into the woods, careless of the noise they were making. White Bear held his breath, hoping they would not discover him above them.
A voice below him said, "You got to keep going. They'll catch you and tomahawk you sure."
Now the two men were standing by the tree in which he had taken shelter. He strained his ears to listen.
"Save yourself," said another voice, rasping with pain. "I cannot run. The arrow is under my kneecap. I will stay here and try to hold them off."