White Bear felt himself trembling with rage. He remembered Raoul coming toward him, grinning, pistol raised—right on this spot—and he prayed that now his uncle might be lying dead somewhere on the prairie. An arrow in his back, killing him as he fled Black Hawk's warriors. A hole in his scalp, and his hair dangling from some brave's belt.
O Bear spirit, O Turtle, O Earthmaker, let it be so!
Then his fury faded away and became fear as he realized that he had just done, in his mind, a thing more terrible than murder. A man might call on the spirits for the strength and skill to fight an enemy—but to direct the power of the spirits against another man, no matter how wicked, was forbidden. He prayed no harm would come to him because of it.
Black Hawk said, "We have no choice now. The long knives have forced war upon me."
White Bear spoke up quickly, before Wolf Paw or Flying Cloud could call for war, as they were certain to do.
"It was my uncle, the brother of Star Arrow, who ordered us three to be killed. He has hated our people all of his life. He especially hates me. A different long-knife war chief might have opened his arms to us. Now that Black Hawk has shown the long knives that they will be hurt if they come against us, let us offer peace again. I am ready to go again with a white flag to talk of surrender with other long-knife war chiefs."
Black Hawk made a flat, rejecting hand gesture. "You have seen what happened. Pale eyes warriors would not let you get close enough to talk to their chiefs."
A warrior came over to the fire, holding a tin cup. He offered it to Black Hawk.
"The long knives left five barrels of whiskey, but they are almost empty."
Black Hawk turned the cup over, letting the whiskey soak into the dirt.