Winnebago lodge. A circle of
orange flame spread out quickly. It was still raining, but not enough to
slow the fire down much.

Raoul's men whooped. Eli and Armand led the way in hurling flaming
sticks into the dark brown Indian huts.

Armand, grinning, handed Raoul a long pole he'd pulled loose from the
wall of a lodge, afire at one end. Waving his broad-brimmed hat, Raoul
rode through the town touching the burning pole to the flimsy wall of
each lodge he passed. The men of the battalion scattered, setting fires
everywhere. Beyond the town the remaining militiamen stopped breaking
camp to watch.

Soon, the roar of the burning lodges thundered in Raoul's ears like a
big waterfall.

If they could catch Black Hawk, he thought, what glory that would be. No
matter how many fighting men Black Hawk had, Raoul felt sure his
battalion could crush them. The burning lodges, the whiskey in his
blood, the hatred in his heart, all ran together so that Raoul felt like
a prairie fire racing after the British Band.

14

First Blood

White Bear tried to think only about guiding his brown-spotted white
pony over the grasslands and watching his two companions. He tried to
put fear out of his mind.

_I did not even have a chance to say good-bye to Redbird._

Redbird was a day's ride up the Rock River from here, at the camp the
Potawatomi had allowed Black Hawk's people to set up. White Bear's body
went cold with the thought that he might be killed today, and she be
left alone and pursued by enemies.

_I should have asked Wolf Paw to be her protector if I die. He hates me,
but he cares for Redbird._

It was for Redbird and Eagle Feather, and for the baby growing inside
Redbird, that he was risking his life today. His family was going
hungry. It had been over six weeks, by pale eyes reckoning, since Black
Hawk had led them across the Great River into Illinois. White Bear and
Redbird, like other British Band families, could carry little food with
them, and most of that was gone. With the long knives pressing behind
them, White Bear had no time to hunt or fish, nor Redbird to gather food
from the woodlands.

She must not go without food, especially not while carrying their child.
The children of the British Band walked about hollow-eyed; the crying of
hungry babies rose from every part of the camp. Old people, looking
nearly dead, lay on the ground trying to husband their strength.

At a secret meeting last night the