Among them, in a robe of black and red that shimmered with gold and silver threads, with a headdress of outspread eagle’s wings and carrying a mystical, carved staff, was the greatest of the greatest, the wonder-worker whose name was still whispered by the grasses and the trees of the wide American continent. His high cheekbones were painted with blue and yellow and white, in the war decorations of the Iroquois, and his deepset eyes burned with pride and with a desire for righteous vengeance.

Neil, with a feeling of breathlessness and fear, knew that this was the being who had possessed and overwhelmed his son; who had come to life as a man of wood and tried to destroy him. It was Misquamacus.

Singing Rock said, “Gitche Manitou, protect us. Gitche Manitou, aid us. Gitche Manitou, see that our desire for peace is good, and guide our hands.”

He was about to cast the powders in front of them for protection, when Harry tugged at his sleeve. “Singing Rock—for Christ’s sake! Look what they’re doing!”

Through the barricade of police cars and armored trucks came a squad of ten National Guardsmen, young and fresh-faced under their khaki helmets. They formed a line across the road, and then knelt down, aiming their rifles at the medicine men.

Singing Rock, almost desperate, shouted: “They mustn’t! Don’t let them shoot! They mustn’t!”

But over the transmitter the order snapped: “Aim—fire!”

9

There was a sharp rattle of gunfire. But it was only because they knew what was going to happen that Harry and Neil and Singing Rock could follow the fatal action of the next split second. Misquamacus swept his arm across in front of him, dismissing the manitous of each bullet, and returning them to where they came from.

Unprepared, unprotected, the ten young guardsmen were shot down where they were kneeling—killed by their own bullets. They died on the road in dark stains of blood, twisted and crumpled like sleeping children. There was a stunned silence over the bridge and its surroundings, and even the news reporters stared without speaking. A brief sharp odor of gunpowder drifted away on the unsettled wind. The echoes died away.

Singing Rock bowed his head. “They never listen,” he said softly. “They never, ever listen. O ancient gods, protect us.”

It was too late now. A further detachment of National Guardsmen was running forward with rifles and rocket launchers, and making their way through the fallen bodies of their comrades. They knelt on the roadway and aimed their weapons, while corpsmen ran out with stretchers to collect the bodies.