Singing Rock nodded. “If you look out on the bridge, you can see that they’re beginning to call him already.”

The captain shaded his eyes from the floodlights, and squinted for a while at Misquamacus and his medicine men. Then he stalked off to make a report over the transmitter.

Singing Rock pressed his fingers to his eyes. Harry watched him for a while, and then said, “Is there anything I can do?”

Singing Rock shook his head. “This is turning out to be a duel. The only trouble is, there are twenty-two of them—well, twenty-one now, if that makes any difference—and only one of me. I can’t fight them very much longer.”

“What about Ka-tua-la-hu? What can we do against him?”

Singing Rock shrugged. “I really don’t know. And even if I did, I don’t think I’d have the strength to do anything about it.”

Neil said, “You can’t give up now. If you beat them, I’ll get Toby back. Please.”

Singing Rock said, “I’m doing whatever I can, Neil. I promise you. But you mustn’t hold out too much hope.”

Neil said, “I’ve always had hope. Dammit, I’ve had hope when there was nothing else. When everybody thought I was crazy.”

“But, Neil—” said Harry.

“But nothing,” interrupted Neil. “The point is that white men beat the Indians once, including their medicine men, and if they did it once they can do it again. If Misquamacus was so great, how come the prairies are all farms now, and all the buffalo are dead, and the elder gods are all forgotten? How come the Indians are all living on reservations?”

Singing Rock tiredly ran his hand through his hair. “The Indians lost because they lost faith in their magic,” he said. “It wasn’t anything to do with the power of medicine men like Misquamacus. It was just that the medicine men couldn’t do anything without the support of their nations.”

“I don’t believe it,” snapped Neil. “I believe the white man won the West because he worked harder and fought harder and because he wouldn’t ever give in.”

“Neil,” said Harry, trying to calm his down.

“I don’t believe the Indians lost faith,” repeated Neil. “I just believe that the white men were stronger, and that was all.”

There was a rumbling noise from the direction of the lake. A humid wind blew for a while, and then died away. It left a strange smell behind it, a smell of fish and cold fog. All along the shores of Lake Berryessa, the water began to foam and grow agitated. A small tidal wave even washed into Pope Creek, below the bridge, in a swill of muddy froth.

Singing Rock turned and stared at the bridge. He could see Misquamacus, illuminated by the police floodlights, swaying from side to side and singing in a piercing, high-pitched tone.