White Bear heard it too. A chugging sound. It had been a while since he had heard a noise like that. He followed Taylor's gaze down the river. All he could see was a column of gray smoke in the sky to the south. But he knew what it was. A steamship. Because he could not ride to warn his people, he wanted to cry out in agony. He saw what would happen--those few frail canoes, the steamship bearing down on them, two long knife armies marching inexorably toward the mouth of the Bad Axe. _The many who follow Black Hawk across the Great River will be few when they cross back._ 20 River of Blood Raoul uncorked the jug standing on the chart table and held it out to Bill Helmer, captain of the steamship _Victory_. A portly man with muttonchop whiskers, his hands firmly gripping the polished oak steering wheel, Helmer silently shook his head. Raoul lifted the jug in a mock toast. "May we have a merry day of Indian fighting." He took two long swallows, and decided he felt strong and happy. Helmer shook his head. "Mr. de Marion, there's nothing merry about fighting Indians." "If that's your opinion, Captain, I'll thank you to keep it to yourself," said Raoul. He wanted a little warmth right now besides what he was getting from the jug, and he despised this dour man for not giving it to him. Helmer shrugged and bent his gaze on the river. Raoul knotted his fingers behind his back, and found that the effort relieved the tightness in his belly. He went to stand at the pilot house window and stared out at the forested bank where the Bad Axe River emptied into the Mississippi. Militiamen were wading across the Bad Axe from south to north, holding their rifles, bayonets fixed, over their heads. The Bad Axe was more a creek than a river, shallow now in August, winding through a channel thick with bright green reeds. As the men slogged up the north bank, they leveled their rifles and plunged into the trees. A blue haze of powder smoke already drifted amidst the pine and spruce north of the Bad Axe mouth. The popping of rifles carried to Raoul across the water over the wheeze and clank of the _Victory_'s steam engine, fueled with oak and split pine. Raoul wondered what was happening in those woods. Were the Indians fighting back, defending their women and children? He hoped the militiamen would go on killing until they'd exterminated the whole band. After four months of chasing the Indians across Illinois and the Michigan Territory, after all the innocents murdered--_Clarissa_, _Phil_, _Andy_--surely the militiamen would not be soft. He felt tears starting up, and he quickly took another pull at the jug. He wished he could be in at the kill instead of out here in the river. _I want their blood on my own hands._