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During the lulls between cannon volleys； Miller could hear men crying。 Not the Reds； the ones still living； huddled in an ever…smaller mass down toward the river。 No； the men crying were his neighbors； White men standing beside him； or behind the line。 Some of them were talking； pleading。 Stop it； they said。 Please； stop it。
Please stop。 Were they talking to the cannon？ Or to the Red men and women； who insisted on standing there； not trying to escape； not crying out in fear？ Or to their children； who faced the guns as bravely as their parents？ Or did they speak to the terrible gnawing pain in their own hearts； to see what they had done； were doing； would yet do？
Miller noticed that the blood didn't soak into the grass of the meadow。 As it poured out of the wounds of those most recently hit； it formed rivulets； streams； great sheets of blood flowing down the slope of the meadow； toward the Tippy…Canoe Creek。 The morning sunlight on this bright clear day shone vivid red from the water of the creek。
While he was watching； all at once the water of the creek went smooth as glass。 The sunlight didn't dance on the water now； it reflected like a mirror； near blinding him。 But he could still see a solitary Red man walking on the water； just like Jesus in the story； standing on the water in the middle of the creek。
It wasn't just a whimper behind him anymore。 It was a shout； from more and more men。 Stop shooting！ Stop it！ Put down your guns！ And then others； talking about the man standing on the water。
A bugle sounded。 The men fell silent。 〃Time to finish them； men！〃 shouted Harrison。 He was on a prancing stallion at the head of the meadow； leading the way down the blood…slick hill。 None of the farmer folk were with him； but his uniformed soldiers formed a line and came along； bayonets fixed。 Where once ten thousand Reds had stood； there was just a field of bodies； and maybe a thousand； a ragged remnant； gathered near the water at the bottom of the hill。
That was the moment when a tall young White man ran from the wood at the bottom of the hill； dressed in a suit too small； his feet bare； his coat and waistcoat all unbuttoned； his hair wet and tousled； and face grimy and wet。 But Miller knew him； knew him before he heard his voice。
〃Measure！〃 he cried。 〃It's my boy Measure！〃
He threw down his musket and ran out into the field of corpses； down the hill toward his son。
〃My boy Measure！ He's alive！ You're alive！〃
Then he slipped in the blood； or maybe he tripped on a body； but whatever happened he fell； his hands splashing into a river of blood； spattering his chest and face。
He heard Measure's voice； not ten yards away； shouting out so every man could hear him。 〃The Reds who captured me were hired by Harrison。 Ta…Kumsaw and Tenskwa…Tawa saved me。 When I came home two days ago； Harrison's soldiers captured me and wouldn't let me tell you the truth。 He even tried to kill me。〃 Measure spoke slow and clear； so every word carried； every sound was understood。 〃He knew all the time。 This whole thing； Harrison planned it all along。 The Reds are innocent。 You're killing innocent people。〃
Miller stood up from the bloody field and raised his hands high over his head； thick blood running from his scarlet hands。 A cry was wrung from his throat； forced out by anguish； by despair。 〃What have I done！ What have I done！〃 The cry was echoed by a dozen； a hundred； three hundred voices。
And there was General Harrison on his prancing horse； out in front of everybody。 Even his own soldiers had thrown down their guns by now。
〃It's a lie！〃 cried Harrison。 〃I never saw this boy！ Someone has played a terrible trick on me！〃
〃It ain't no trick！〃 shouted Measure。 〃Here's his kerchief they stuffed it in my mouth yesterday； to gag me while they broke my bones！〃
Miller could see the kerchief clearly in his son's hand。 It had the WHH embroidered in large； clear letters in the corner。 Every man in that army had seen his handkerchiefs。
And now some of Harrison's own soldiers spoke up。 〃It's true！ We brought this boy to Harrison two days ago。〃
〃We didn't know he was one of the boys they all said the Reds had killed！〃
A high； howling cry floated over the meadow。 They all looked down to where the one…eyed Prophet stood on the solid； scarlet water of the Tippy…Canoe。
〃e to me； my people！〃 he said。
The surviving Reds walked； slowly； steadily toward the water。 They walked across it； then gathered on the other side。 〃All my people； e！〃
The corpses rustled； moved。 The White men standing among them cried out in terror。 But the dead were not riging up to walk only the wounded who still breathed； they were the ones who rose up； staggered。 Some of them tried to carry children； babies they had no strength for it：
Miller saw and felt the blood on his own hands。 He had to do something； didn't he？ So he reached out to a struggling woman； whose husband leaned against her for support； meaning to take the baby from her arms and carry it for her。 But when he came near； she looked into his face； and he saw his own reflection in her eyes his face haggard； White； spattered with blood； his hands dripping with blood。 Tiny as it was； he saw that reflection as clear as if it had been on a mirror held in front of his own face。 He couldn't touch her baby； not with hands like his。
Some of the other White men on the hill also tried to help； but they must have seen something like what Miller saw； and they recoiled as if they had been burned。
Maybe a thousand wounded got up and tried to reach the creek。 Many of them collapsed and died before they got there。 Those that reached the water walked； staggered； crawled across； they were helped by the Reds on the other side。
Miller noticed something peculiar。 All those wounded Reds； all the uninjured ones； they had walked on this meadow； they had walked across the blood…red river； and yet there wasn't a spot of blood on their hands or feet。
〃All my people； all who died e home； says the land！〃
All around them； the meadow was strewn with bodies by far the majority of those who had stood there as living families only an hour before。 Now； at the Prophet's words； these bodies seemed to shudder； to crumble； they collapsed and sank into the grass of the meadow。 It took perhaps a minute； and they were gone； the grass springing up lush and green。 The last of the blood skittered down the slope like beads of water on a hot griddle and became part of the bright red creek。
〃e to me； my friend Measure。〃 The Prophet spoke quietly； and held out his hand。
Measure turned his back on his father and walked down the grassy slope to the water's edge。
〃Walk to me；〃 said the Prophet。
〃I can't walk on the blood of your people；〃 he said。
〃They gave their blood to lift you up；〃 said the Prophet。 〃e to me； or take the curse that will fall on every White man in that meadow。〃
〃I reckon I'll stay here； then；〃 said Measure。 〃If I'd've been in their place； I don't figure I'd've done a thing different than what they did。 If they're guilty； so am I。〃
The Prophet nodded。
Every White man there felt something warm and wet and sticky on his hands。 Some of them cried out when they saw。 From elbow to hands； they dripped with blood。 Some tried to wipe it off on their shirts。 Some searched for wounds that might be bleeding； but there were no wounds。 Just bloody hands。
〃Do you want your hands to be clean of the blood of my people？〃 asked the Prophet。 He wasn't shouting anymore； but they all heard him； every word。 And yes； yes； they wanted their hands to be clean。
〃Then go home and tell this story to your wives and children； to your neighbors； to your friends。 Tell the whole story。 Leave nothing out。 Don't say that someone fooled you you all knew when you fired on people who had no weapons that what you did was murder。 No matter whether you thought some of us might have mitted some crime。 When you shot at babies in their mothers' arms； little children； old men and women； you were murdering us because we were Red。 So tell the story as it happened； and if you tell it true； your hands will be clean。〃
There wasn't a man； on that meadow who wasn't weeping or trembling or faint with shame。 To tell of this day's work to their wives and children； their parents； their brothers and sisters； that seemed unbearable。 But if they didn't； these bloody hands would tell the story for them。 It was more than they could bear to think of。
But the Prophet wasn't through。 〃If some stranger es along； and you don't tell him the whole story before you sleep； then the blood will e back on your hands； and stay there until you do tell him。 That's how it will be for the rest of your lives every man and woman that you meet will have to hear the true story from your lips； or your hands will be filthy again。 And if you ever； for any reason； kill another human being； then your hands and face will drip with blood forever； even in the grave。〃
They nodded； they agreed。 It was justice； simple justice。 They couldn't give back the lives of those they killed； but they could make sure no lie was ever told about the way that they were killed。 No one could ever claim that Tippy…Canoe was a victory； or even a battle。 It was a massacre； and White men mitted it； and not one Red raised a hand in violence or defense。 No excuse； no softening； it would be known。
Only one thing remained the guilt of the man on the prancing stallion。
〃White Murderer Harrison！〃 called the Prophet。 〃e to me！〃
Harrison shook his head； tried to turn his horse； the reins slipped from his bloody hands； and the horse walked briskly down the hill。 All the White men watched him silently； hating him for how he lied to them； stirred them up； found the murder in their hearts and called it forth。 The horse brought him to the water's edge。 He looked downward at the one…eyed Red who had once sat under his table and begged for drops of whiskey from his cup。
〃Your curse is the same；〃 said the Prophet； 〃except that your story is much longer and uglier to tell。 And you won't wait for strangers to e along before you speak every day of your life you'll have to find someone who has never heard the story from your lips before； and tell it to him every day！ or your hands will drip with blood。 And if you decide to hide； and live with blood…soaked hands rather than find new people to tell； you'll feel the pain of my people's wounds； one new wound each day； until you tell the story again； once for every day you missed。 Don't try to kill yourself； either you can't do it。 You'll wander from one end of this White man's land to the other。 People will see you ing and hide； dreading the sound of your voice； you'll beg them to stop and listen to you。 They'll even forget your old name； and call you by the name you earned today。 Tippy…Canoe。 That's your new name； White Murderer Harrison。 Your true name； till you die a natural death as an old； old man。〃
Harrison bent onto the mane of the horse and wept into his bloody hands。 But his were tears of fury； not grief or shame。 Tears of rage that all his plans had gone awry。 He would kill the Prophet even now； if he could。 He would search far and wide for some witch or wizard who could break this curse。 He couldn't bear to let this miserable one…eyed Red defeat him。
Measure spoke to the Prophet from the shore。 〃Where will you go now； Tenskwa…Tawa？〃
〃West；〃 said Tenskwa…Tawa。 〃My people； all who still believe in me； we'll go west of the Mizzipy。 When you tell your story； tell White men this that west of the Mizzipy is Red man's land。 Don't e there。 The land can't bear the touch of a White man's foot。 You breathe out death； your touch is poison； your words are lies； the living land won't have you。〃
He turned his back； walked to the Reds waiting for him on the other shore； and helped an injured child walk up the far slope into the trees。 Behind him； the water of the Tippy…Canoe began to flow again。
Miller walked down the slope to where his son stood on the bank of the creek。 〃Measure；〃 he said； 〃Measure； Measure。〃
Measure turned and reached out his hands to embrace his father。 〃Alvin's alive； Father； far to the east of us。 He's