mber. His own mother,
Helene had gently explained to him, had gone to Heaven when he was born.

When Raoul heard no more screams from the woods, he knew Helene had gone
to Heaven, too.

The next morning, as the Indians began the march back to their village,
dragging their bound captives, Raoul had seen Helene's naked body, with
stab wounds in a hundred places, lying face down, half submerged in Lake
Michigan's surf. He saw a round, red patch on top of her head. Later he
saw a brave who had tied to his belt a long hank of silver-blond hair,
surely Helene's, a circular piece of skin dangling down.

The Indians had chosen not to kill Raoul, perhaps because at ten he was
too young to be a satisfying victim, but old enough to work. And so
Black Salmon had taken him for his slave. It made no difference whether
he worked well or poorly; Black Salmon let not a day go by without
whipping him, and fed him entrails and hominy grits. Only after Raoul
had endured two years of slavery did his father, Elysee, find him and
ransom him from Black Salmon.

And when Raoul was older he came to understand the full horror of what
the Indians had done to Helene. They must have raped her over and over
again. And he hated himself and Pierre and Elysee all the more for
letting it happen.

But most of all he hated Indians.

Indians living at Victoire? He had to kill that notion of Pierre's right
now. He would put on his clothes and saddle Banner and ride up to the
chateau and set his father and brother straight.

But would they understand? Pierre, with his oh-so-tender conscience, who
had lived with the damned Sauk and Fox for years and slept with one of
their dirty squaws? Elysee, buried in his books? Raoul remembered their
marble faces, as he had seen them in his dream.

They'd never understood him.

"Where did you get them scars?" Clarissa asked, interrupting his
thoughts as she ran her fingers lightly over the hard ridges on his
back.

Raoul told her about Black Salmon. "He liked whipping me even better
than he liked whiskey. And when he got hold of whiskey he liked beating
me even better."

"Poor Raoul! And such a little boy." Clarissa's face drew down with
sympathy. "I'm powerful sorry for you." She pulled him to her.

He lowered his head to her breast and drew the nipple into his mouth,
pressing it with his teeth. They lay back together, and he enjoyed the
feel of the soft, feather-filled mattress and pillows billowing up
ar