owers. Indians were coming at them. All of
them were moving slowly. White men backing up a step at a time. Indians
matching them step for step. A dance. The brave with the red crest was
still standing on the catwalk above the front gate, waving his tomahawk
and shouting orders. The caller.

Nicole pulled open the drawstring of a bag of cartridges, bit off the
end of a paper cartridge and poured the black powder down the muzzle of
her rifle. She detached the ramrod from the stock of the rifle and
wrapped a bullet in greased cloth, ramming it into place down the tight,
rifled barrel. She thanked Heaven she hadn't forgotten how to do this.

She dropped the fine grains of priming powder from the horn into the
powder pan, pointed her rifle at the red-crested brave and sighted down
the black barrel at the center of his chest.

Her finger quivered on the trigger. She couldn't kill a man. Her eyes
blurred.

If she didn't kill him, he might kill Frank. Or Tom or Ben. Or Papa. She
remembered Burke Russell's smashed, bloody skull.

She had to do it. Her vision cleared.

She took deep breaths, steadying herself.

She heard the click of the hammer as she pulled back the trigger. The
hammer snapped forward, the flint hit the fizzen, the spark struck the
powder pan. The rifle went off with a thunderclap that made her ears
ring, and her target was obscured by cream-colored smoke in front of the
rifle port.

When the smoke cleared, the brave was still standing on the catwalk.

She clenched her fist and whispered, "Damn!"

The red-crested Indian glanced down to his right, as if he had heard a
bullet strike the palisade wall there, then looked straight at her. She
knew he couldn't really see her. She was hidden behind a log wall, and a
hundred feet or more separated them. Even so, it seemed to her that his
malevolent stare met her eyes.

She handed her rifle back to Bernadette Bosquet, a cook from the
chateau, who gave her a loaded one.

Down in the yard, the Indians were charging the fur shop and the inn.
The white men, retreating, were converging on the front door of the
blockhouse.

She saw Elysee and Guichard emerge from behind the inn. The two old men
moved slowly, Elysee limping heavily, both walking backward. Guichard
fired a shot at the six or more crouching Indians coming at them.
Elysee, his walking stick in his left hand, raised his pistol. Guichard
worked quickly with powder horn and ramrod to load his rifle. E