He Who Moves Alertly offered was a trap. What Black Hawk offered
was freedom, but with it the prospect of death.

He and Redbird could pack their belongings and leave after this council
was over. White Bear was sure other families would be doing that.

But could he turn his back on Black Hawk, who had just spoken for him at
his marriage, on Owl Carver, the father of his wife? On Sun Woman, who
he was sure would stay with the British Band? On the people who had been
part of his life as far back as he could remember?

Staying meant facing the long knives' guns. It meant starvation. It
meant pain. Those who whooped for Black Hawk tonight did not see that.
Or maybe they did see it but still embraced it. To see it clearly and
accept it, not only for himself but for Redbird and Eagle Feather, hurt
like biting off one of his own limbs. But he would not abandon his
people. He had run away from his last fight over land. He would not run
away from this one.

Owl Carver, holding up his owl-headed medicine stick with its red
feathers, stood before the council fire. "He Who Moves Alertly thinks he
is the only one who knows the Americans. But one of our own British Band
has been to the big towns in the East. And he is a shaman to whom the
Turtle has given special visions. I ask White Bear to tell us what he
has seen."

At the sound of his name, White Bear felt a coldness spread upward from
the base of his spine. He saw the look of earnest invitation on Owl
Carver's face, he saw Black Hawk's expectancy. He would as soon spit at
these two men he respected so much as disappoint them deeply. But now he
must.

Redbird's fingers dug into his arm. Her slanting eyes were wide.

"Speak truly," she whispered.

Slowly he stood up. It hurt to pull his arm from Redbird's grip, as if
he was stripping his own skin from his arm. His eyes momentarily met
those of He Who Moves Alertly, who stared at him intently.

As Owl Carver had, he raised the medicine stick he had cut for himself
after his first vision, decorated with a single string of red and white
beads. He held it up uncertainly. He hoped his shaman's adornments, the
paint, the earrings, necklaces and bracelets, would impress them.

He was prepared in another way, as well. He had never spoken before the
leaders of his band; but at St. George's School each boy was required to
give a short speech to the members of his class once a week and a longer
one before the whole school twice a