Marc felt at the floral beadwork adorning the front of his buckskin coat; red, white, and blue to match his sayncheur. His mother-in-law’s handiwork was exceptional. “Wii, kimaamaa would scold me for years.”

“Why must we fight? They should let us hunt in peace,” said Joseph.

“Maybe one day our people can make peace,” said Marc. “But for now, ready yourself for a fight. Besides, we have our rifles, we have each other and, above all, we have the Lord.”

“Taapway,” agreed Anne-Marie.

Marc ran his hand along his sayncheur, remembering his father’s words. “Make right with the Lord, Joseph, and He will lead you in the right paths. Then, moon frayr, you will not be fearing the fight.”

“You never come to Mass anymore,” said Anne-Marie. “Father Laflèche was happy to come on the Hunt with us.”

“True, true. Go see the Father tonight, then come to Mass in the morning. It’s never too late to make things right. Besides,” Marc smiled, “the prayers are beautiful out here on the prairies.”

“Okay, okay,” said Joseph. “Give me my pants back first, then.”

René tightened his grandfather’s sayncheur around his stomach, staunching the blood leaking from the shot there in his gut. He and Henry sat with their backs against the wall, admiring just how fine of a church they had built here in Batoche.


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