ong
knives' power. But when he did speak he sounded as defiant as ever.

"Why must I wear the clothing of my enemies?" Black Hawk stood in his
loincloth staring at the uniform that a soldier had laid out on his bed.
Auguste admired Black Hawk's lean, muscular body. It was hard to believe
that he had seen sixty-seven summers and winters. His wide mouth was
drawn down with distaste as he eyed the tall, red-plumed shako, the
dark blue jacket with its gold-trimmed collar, gold lace chevrons on the
upper arms and brass buttons, the lighter blue trousers, the white
leather belt.

"Sharp Knife wishes to show his respect for you by giving you the dress
of one of his war chiefs," said Auguste.

_It is also his way of reminding you that you are subject to him._

Owl Carver said, "It is a mark of hospitality. Just as Chief Falcon gave
us new doeskin garments when we surrendered to the Winnebago."

Auguste felt a thrill of pride as he recalled the amazing tale Owl
Carver had told him about Eagle Feather's part in that surrender. A boy
not yet seven summers old whose vision moved him and showed him how to
bring a war to an end was surely destined for great things.

Owl Carver looked strange, with his long white hair and megis-shell
necklace, in a peacock-blue cutaway coat and tight gray trousers.
Auguste was also wearing a pale eyes' suit with a dark brown jacket. The
Winnebago Prophet was dressed similarly in shades of green and gray.
Auguste had shown Owl Carver and Flying Cloud how to don the pale eyes'
clothing, and now they stood stiff and uncomfortable in the room they
shared, waiting for Black Hawk to put on his military garb.

Owl Carver said, "And the American pale eyes are not your enemies any
more. You have made your mark on the treaty paper."

"This time for all time," said Auguste, putting his heart into his
voice, remembering that Black Hawk had signed and broken treaties
before.

Black Hawk sighed. "The spirits of hundreds dead at the Bad Axe cry out
to me that the Americans are still our enemies."

That was ever Black Hawk's way, Auguste thought, brooding on old wrongs,
regretting agreements made with the pale eyes. Irreconcilable.

_He will never change. But we must change._

One hope had preoccupied Auguste throughout the month-long journey east,
by steamboat to Cincinnati, where he caught up with Black Hawk's party,
by horse-drawn coach and finally by that astonishing new pale eyes'
invention, the ra