re
is no place for them to swim to."

It was true; the opposite shore of the Mississippi was too far away, and
this shore was lined with Federal troops and state militia, who would
shoot any swimming redskin they saw. The Indians must have known they
were doomed, but still they came on, little groups jumping into the
water, each one probably hoping to be lucky enough to escape alive. Most
of the heads Raoul saw in the water streamed black hair; must be women
and children, not scalplocked warriors.

But it didn't really matter what they were.

_They killed my woman and my kids._

He saw a head trailing long black hair and blood in the water not ten
feet off the starboard bow. Close enough to see it was a boy. He was
trying desperately to swim with one arm, his face distorted with agony.
Raoul aimed his rifle between the wide, terrified eyes that stared into
his own. He pulled the trigger. The brown face sank below the water.

_That's for Phil and Andy._

Groups of Indians threw themselves into the river from the distant parts
of the island, but the steamboat turned quickly upstream and downstream,
back and forth again and again, to pursue them, Raoul's sharpshooters
wiping out each party of swimmers in turn. Captain Bill might not enjoy
this work, but he did it well.

Raoul heard himself laughing under his breath as he thought of all the
Indians who were dying before his eyes, because of _his_ ship and _his_
cannon and _his_ riflemen.

Then the _Victory_ resumed steaming slowly along the length of the
island, stopping at intervals for the cannoneers to blast the forest.
Kingsbury changed elevation with each shot, so that showers of grapeshot
blanketed the island from side to side.

Finally Raoul decided that they had done all they could from the ship.
All that blood in the water made a fine sight, made him yearn all the
more to wet his hands with blood.

Climbing back up to the pilot house, he said, "Take her to the south end
of the island, Captain Bill. As close as you can. We're going to land."

Helmer stared at him, but said nothing.

He'd better say nothing.

Raoul took his pistol out of its holster and checked to see that it was
primed and loaded. He unsheathed his replica of Bowie's knife. He
hefted it, heavy as a meat cleaver, in his hand and tested the edge with
his thumb. It would cut. By God, it would cut. He slid it back into its
sheath.

He opened his mouth, gulping air in his excitement. Hi