Elysee, sitting by the bed staring into his grandson's face, looked almost as near death as Auguste. Guichard stood behind him, a clawlike hand perched on his master's shoulder. Nicole, her eyes round and dark with suffering, asked, "What can we do for him?" Nancy said, "The doctor says it's up to Auguste and God." Elysee grunted. "Where was God when this happened?" If Auguste were conscious, Nancy thought, he would be asking Earthmaker for help. In the camps of the British Band Nancy had never seen Auguste give up on a sick or wounded person. He had applied his remedies, gone into his trance, danced and chanted to summon the aid of his spirit helpers, wrestled with the hurt till either the man's soul left his body or the healing was well begun. At first his practices had seemed foolish and savage to her. But Auguste had done his work with such devotion that she came, watching him, to love him all the more. And, out of love, to respect what he did. _But he's not the only one who practices that calling._ Maybe that was what he needed now. One of his own people to call on the spirits for him. If only Auguste were awake, he could tell her what to do. Redbird had helped Auguste with his work. She remembered the last time she had seen Redbird, small, emaciated, holding the broken body of Floating Lily in her arms. Redbird was probably more in need of help than able to give it. And yet, Nancy had seen that she had a marvelous knowledge of healing. Besides, she had told Nancy that she wanted to be a shaman herself, like White Bear and Owl Carver. It would be better to go to Redbird than sit here and watch Auguste die. "I'm going to his people," Nancy said. "To find someone I think can help him." "No Sauk will be willing to come here," said Frank. "Not after what these people did to them." "This one will," said Nancy. * * * * * A heavy, cold rain drummed on the leather top of Nancy's buggy. Driven by a sergeant, the little carriage splashed into the Sauk camp that huddled beside the wooden walls of Fort Armstrong. A dozen peaked army tents, their grayish-white canvas sagging under the rain in a muddy field, were all Nancy could see. There were no people in sight. "I don't know how you're going to find anybody here, ma'am," said the sergeant. Nancy judged him to be a few years older than she was. His name was Benson. He had tomato-red cheeks and a blond mustache so thick that it completely hid his mouth. Dark faces started to appear at the tent flaps. She wanted to weep as she saw the misery of the women and children who slowly came out, some of them holding blankets over their heads, to stand in the mud and stare at her. _Shouldn't I be glad to see the Sauk brought so low?_