My giant was dead. He had taken the blow
meant for me.
Pierre was dead, and Simon and Labarthe and Leclerc. I had brought
them to the wilderness because I believed in a western empire for
France. I left Pierre and went on.
But I had not gone far when a cry rose behind me. It was louder than
the calls of the dying. It was the wail of an Indian woman for her
dead. I ran back. Singing Arrow lay stretched on Pierre's body.
I looked at her. I did not ask myself how she came there, though I had
thought her safe in the Malhominis village. So she had loved the man
enough to follow secretly. I left her with him and went on.
I stepped over men who were mangled and scalped. Some of them were not
dead, and they clutched at me. But I went on my way.
Indians and troops were gathered at the north of the camp. The warfare
was over. Corpses were stacked like logs, and the savages were binding
their captives and chanting of their victories. The French stood
together, leaning on their muskets. I saw Cadillac unhurt, and went to
him.
"Is the bugler alive? Have him sound the call."
The commandant turned at sound of my voice. He was elated and would
have embraced me, but seeing my face his mood altered.
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