For the next half hour there was no more talk, Timothy forcing the pace along the narrow ribbon of the Otayouse’s bank sands.
Behind the trail-watching eyes of the Nez Percé chief, the thoughts of the time and place were galloping at war-pony speed. Well enough! All had gone too easily thus far. Ahead now, just a little way, the horses waited. And beyond them the huddled camp of the pony soldiers. But then what? What would the first sick light of the sun bring to the oak leaf chief and his little band? To the good, brave Ametsun and his quiet young woman? To Jason and Lucas, and to Timothy, their chief?
The knife-slash of the Nez Percé’s mouth twisted grimly with the answer. He had a word for it. A hard, dark, Chinook word. O’megt. To be killed. To die. Death!