Thrower sighed. “I suppose you know these Reds better than I do.”

“I know them better than anybody.” He laughed bitterly. “So they call me a Red-lover and don't listen to a word I say. Now they're calling for that whisky-dealing tyrant from Carthage City to come up here and take over. No matter what he does he'll be a hero. They'll make him governor for real, then. Heck, they'll probably make him President, if Wobbish ever joins the U.S.A.”

“I don't know this Harrison. He can't be the devil you make him out to be.”

Armor laughed. “Sometimes, Reverend, I think you are as trusting as a little child.”

“Which is how the Lord told us to be. Armor-of-God, be patient. All things will work out as the Lord intends.”

Armor buried his face in his hands. “I sure hope so, Reverend. I sure do. But I keep thinking about Measure, as good a man as you can hope to find, and that boy Alvin, that sweet-faced boy, and how much store his papa sets by him, and–”

Thrower's face went grim. “Alvin Junior,” he muttered. “Who would have imagined that the Lord would do his work through the hands of heathens?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Armor.

“Nothing, Armor, nothing. Just that everything about this may be exactly, exactly what the Lord intends.”

Up the hill at the Miller house, Al still sat at the breakfast table. He didn't eat no supper the night before, and when he tried to eat breakfast he like to gagged on the food. Faith cleared it all away, and now she stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. She never once said to him, I told you not to send them. But they both knew it. It hung between them like a sword, and neither dared reach out to the other for fear of it.

The silence broke when Wastenot came in, a rifle over his shoulder. He set it beside the front door, swung a chair between his legs, and sat and looked at his parents. “They're gone, down to fetch the army.”

To his surprise, his father only lowered his head and rested it on his arms, which were crossed on the table.

Mother looked at him, her face haggard with worry and grief. “Since when did you learn how to use that thing?”

“Me and Wantnot been practicing,” he said.

“And you're going to kill Reds with it?”

Wastenot was surprised at the loathing in her voice. “I sure hope so,” he said.

“And when all the Reds are dead, and you pile all their bodies together, will Measure and Alvin somehow wriggle out of that pile and come on home to me?”

Wastenot shook his head.

“Last night some Red went home to his family, all proud because he killed him some White boys yesterday.” Her voice caught when she said it, but she went on all the same, cause when Faith Miller had aught to say, it got said. “And maybe his wife or his mama patted him and kissed him and made him supper. But don't you ever walk through that door and tell me you killed a Red man. Cause you won't get no supper, boy, and you won't get no kiss, and you won't get no pat, and no word, and no home, and no mama, you hear me?”

He heard, all right, but he didn't like it. He stood up and walked back to the door and picked up the gun. “You think what you like, Mama,” he said, “but this is a war, and I am going to kill me some Reds, and I'm going to come back home, and I'm going to own up to it proud as can be. And if that means you don't want to be my mama no more, then you might as well stop being my mama now, and not wait till I come back.” He opened the door, but stopped before slamming it shut behind him. “Cheer up, Mama. Maybe I won't come back at all.”

He never talked that way to his mother in his life, and he wasn't real sure that it felt good to do it now. But she was being crazy, not understanding that it was war now, that them Reds had declared it open season on White folks and so there wasn't no more choice about it.

What bothered him most, though, as he got on his horse and rode out to David's place, was that he couldn't exactly be sure but he thought, he just suspected anyway, that Papa was crying. If that didn't beat all. Yesterday Papa was so hot against the Reds, and now Mama talked against fighting, and Papa just sat there and cried. Maybe it was getting old that made Papa like that. But that wasn't Wastenot's business, not now. Maybe Papa and Mama didn't want to kill them as took their sons– but Wastenot knew what he was going to do to them as took his brothers. Their blood was his blood, and whoever shed his blood was going to shed some of their own, too, a gallon for every drop.

Chapter 9 – Lake Mizogan

In his whole life Alvin never saw so much water all in one place. He stood on the top of a sand dune, looking out over the lake. Measure stood beside him, a hand resting on Al's shoulder.

“Pa told me to keep you away from water,” said Measure, “and now look where they bring you.”

The wind was hot and hard, gusting sometimes and shooting sand around like tiny arrows. “Brought you, too,” said Al.

“Look, there's a real storm coming.”

Off in the southwest, the clouds got black and ugly. Not one of them summer-shower storms. Lightning crackled along the face of the clouds. The thunder came much later, muffled by distance. While Alvin was watching, he felt suddenly like he could see much wider, much farther than before, like he could see the twisting and churning in the clouds, feel the hot and cold of it, the icy air swooping down, the hot air shooting upward, all writhing in a vast circle of the sky.

“Tornado,” said Al. “There's a tornado in that storm.”

“I don't see one,” said Measure.

“It's coming. Look how. the air is spinning there. Look at that.”

“I believe you, Al. But it's not like there's any place to hide around here.”

“Look at all these people,” said Alvin. “If it hits us here–”

“When did you learn how to tell the weather?” asked Measure. “You never done that before.”

Al didn't have an answer to that. He never had felt a storm inside himself like this. It was like the green music he'd heard last night, all kinds of strange things happening now that he was captured by these Reds. But he couldn't waste another minute trying to think about why he knewit was enough that he knew it. “I've got to warn somebody.”

Alvin took off down the dune, sliding so that each step was like leaping off the face of the hill, then landing on one foot and leaping again. He'd never run downhill so fast before. Measure chased after him, shouting, “They told us to stay up there till–” The wind gusted and whipped away his words. Now they were off the hill, the sand was even worse; the wind lifted big sheets of sand off the dunes, hurled it a ways, then let it fall. Al had to close his eyes, shield them with his hand, turn his face out of the wind– whatever it took to keep the sand from blinding him as he ran to the group of Reds gathered at the edge of the water.

Ta-Kumsaw was easy to spot, and not just cause he was so big. The other Reds left a space around him, and he stood there like a king. Al ran right up to him. “Tornado coming!” he yelled. “There's tornadoes in that cloud!”

Ta-Kumsaw leaned his head back and laughed; the wind was so loud Al barely heard him. Then Ta-Kumsaw reached over Al's head, to touch the shoulder of another Red standing there. “This is the boy!” shouted Ta-Kumsaw.

Al looked at the man Ta-Kumsaw touched. He didn't carry himself like a king at all– nothing like Ta-Kumsaw. He was stooped somewhat, and one eye was missing, the lid just hanging empty over nothing. He looked taut, his arms wiry rather than muscled, his legs downright scrawny. But as Al sat there looking up into his face, he knew him. There wasn't no mistake.

The wind died down for just a minute.

“Shining Man,” said Al.

“Roach boy,” said Tenskwa-Tawa, Lolla-Wossiky, the Prophet.