eenglove shrugged. "Go chase Injuns, then, if that's your heart's
desire." Then he smiled in a knowing way Raoul found strangely
disturbing. "But you'll maybe find a surprise waiting for you up there
in Michigan Territory. Almost makes me want to stay with you, just so's
I could see the look on your face."

Raoul felt a chill. Why the hell was Greenglove grinning like that?

"Damn you, you can't just walk off, Eli! You took an oath. You signed up
for another thirty days when your enlistment was up in May. I can have
you shot for desertion."

"Go ahead. Shoot me yourself."

Eli slowly raised the tent flap and stood there a moment, turning to
give Raoul one last, strange, unmirthful smile. Raoul eyed the pistol at
Eli's belt. Most likely all primed and loaded. His own pistol, unloaded,
was hanging from a tent pole behind him.

_If I went for my pistol, that'd give him an excuse to put a ball in me.
And he'd do it before I could even get a damned cap in place._

Eli gave Raoul one final nod, as if he knew what Raoul had been
thinking, and let the tent flap fall behind him.

Raoul reached for the jug. It felt light in his hand, and he shook it.
Empty.

Everything. Empty, empty, empty!

He got up, weaving slightly, and walked to the opening of the tent.

"Armand!" he shouted.

_Oh my God, now I'll have to give Armand the news about Marchette._

* * * * *

Raoul awakened, sweating. One side of his tent was glowing white, the
sun beating down on it; he had been sleeping in an oven. He sat up, and
his vision went black and his head spun. He swung his feet, still in
dirty gray stockings, over the side of his cot. He nearly stepped on
Armand, who was lying flat on his back on the straw-covered floor, his
beard fluttering as he snored through his open mouth.

Standing, Raoul saw Nicole's letter and the _Victor Visitor_ lying on
his camp table beside a burned-down candle and four empty jugs. He
remembered what had happened at Victor. He fell back onto his cot and
pounded his fist on his chest, trying to numb the pain in his heart.

_God damn the Sauk! Damn them! Damn them!_

Armand, when he learned what happened at Victoire, had not blamed Raoul
as Eli had. He'd wept over Marchette--whom he'd beaten almost daily when
she was alive--and had sworn vengeance on her murderers, the British
Band. And he had sat with Raoul till both of them were drunk enough to
sleep.

Raoul's head and b