_Most men would rather fight than work any day._ Eli Greenglove, on a brown and white pony, trotted up beside Raoul. His silver lace captain's stripes glittered on the upper arms of the blue tunic Raoul had bought for him. A long cavalry saber hung from his white leather belt. Eli grinned, and Raoul had to look away. It seemed that every other tooth in Eli's head was missing, and the ones that were left were stained brown from years of chewing tobacco. And now Clarissa had taken up pipe smoking, making it even harder for Raoul to enjoy bedding down with her. _If only Nancy--_ But Nancy had made it plain that she despised him. Damn shame. Of course, old Eli here would slit his throat if he had any idea what Raoul was thinking. Eli said, "You figger the Prophet's Town Injuns have joined up with Black Hawk's bunch?" "Of course," said Raoul. "And that means Black Hawk now has about a thousand warriors behind him." A movement on the south edge of the village in the surrounding woods caught Raoul's eyes. He swung around in that direction, pointing his pistol. "Eli, get your rifle ready," he said. "Loaded 'n' primed," said Greenglove, pulling his bright new Cramer percussion lock rifle--another present from Raoul--from its saddle sling, controlling his pony easily with his knees alone. Indians walked out of the woods, four men. They held their empty hands high over their heads and shuffled forward slowly. "Watch 'em," said Eli. "They may just be trying to get close enough to jump us." Raoul studied the four advancing men. Two had their heads wrapped in turbans, one red, one blue. All four wore fringed buckskin leggings and gray flannel shirts. He saw no weapons. Then he caught sight of more shadowy figures in the trees beyond the Indians. Instantly, he straighted his arm in that direction and pulled the trigger. His pistol went off with a boom, puffing out a cloud of gray smoke. He handed it to Armand to reload it while he reached for his own new rifle, a breech-loading Hall. The Indian with the red turban was shouting something. Raoul recognized the language--Potawatomi. The sound of it made the blood pound in his temples. "Those are only squaws and papooses," the Indian called in Potawatomi. "Please do not shoot them." Raoul felt like shooting them all, just for being Potawatomi, but he held the impulse in check. He had to find out whatever they could tell him. He addressed the Indians in their language, indelibly engraved in his mind by the acids of fear and hatred. "Tell them all to come out. We will kill anyone who hides from us." The red-turbaned Indian called over his shoulder, and slowly a group of women and small children came out of the woods. Raoul took his reloaded pistol back from Armand and walked Banner over to the little group. They started to lower their hands. "Keep them up." He gestured with the pistol. Slowly the copper-skinned men straightened their raised arms again, looking at one another unhappily.