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deaths of his friends, if he could, to stir the entire Southern Arapaho tribe to war.
    But the bloody bastard wasn’t going to get away with capturing Edmond Dulaney’s son, Innes vowed. “Not while I have breath in me body.”
    “What?” Carson asked.
    “Just hold tight, lad. I’ll get ye oot o’ this mess, or die tryin’.”
    Carson was not comforted. Judging from the looks of those around them, they were all, himself, Innes, the girls, more than likely to die before the sun rose again.
    Little Raven sat alone in his lodge, listening to the shouts and cries from without, and praying to Man-Above for guidance. He knew, because the shouts told him, that the six men of the Dog Lodge who had ridden out for vengeance the day before had returned victorious. That they had brought back a prisoner.
    What was to be done? He closed his eyes and rocked forward and back, forward and back.
    Man-Above, give me wisdom to guide Our People.
    Little Raven had been young once. His blood had been as hot as that of those men outside. He understood their need for revenge. He had not been at Sand Creek when the Bluecoat, Chivington, had massacred so many that day three autumns ago, but he knew what had happened. He had been with the main body of Our People encamped several miles from the site.
    Never again did he want to lead Our People on a flight for their lives as he’d had to do that day. Never again did he want to have to impose upon the Kiowa and Comanche for safety. Our People needed their own land where they would be safe, where whites would not bother them. Where the hot blooded young men would not be tempted to raid white settlements or accost white travelers. A place where they could hunt their own food without depending on handouts from the Bluecoats. A place where the buffalo roamed free and water flowed sweet and swift. Where their children and grandchildren could grow up knowing only laughter and love and safety, rather than hunger and hate and fear.
    Peace. That is what he wanted for Inuna-ina .
    Now the dog soldiers had taken a white captive.
    There would be a gathering tonight around the central fire. They would smoke, and they would talk. About what was to be done with this white man.
    Man-Above, give me courage, give me strength, give me wisdom.
    The council fire flared with the addition of a new log, then settled into a steady flame that warmed those closest and lit the night. Sparks danced crazily on the updrafts of hot air.
    Crooked Oak waited impatiently as the pipe yet again made its way slowly from man to man around the circle. He wanted this confrontation over and finished, so he could kill the white prisoner. How was he ever to become a great war leader of Our People if he could not kill enemies?
    He would have had the white man’s scalp on his lance that afternoon, had it not been for Red Beard. The scalps of the girls, too, although that would not have been as impressive. It wasn’t important to him to kill children, except that if they were ever to wipe the white man off the face of Mother Earth, the children would have to die, too.
    But Red Beard had been there. The white man was Red Beard’s friend.
    Crooked Oak hadn’t wanted to honor Red Beard’s wishes by not killing the captive, but he could not afford to alienate the man just yet. First he must get Red Beard to give him his daughter.
    Two Feathers had suggested that Crooked Oak might come closer to his goal of taking Winter Fawn to wife by letting the captive go. But Crooked Oak thought such an action would make him appear weak in the eyes of Red Beard. Weak and too eager to please.
    No, he had to prove his honor and valor by standing up for what he believed in, and what he believed in, everyone knew, was killing the enemy. Once Red Beard saw him as a strong man, a brave warrior able to take care of what was his, Crooked Oak would be able to ask for Winter Fawn.
    So instead of killing the captive, Crooked had agreed to let the elders decide the