“He also swore, which I do not appreciate.”

“If he's from Carthage, he learned to talk English from a class of White man that thinks words like 'damn' are punctuation, if you catch my drift, Reverend. But listen, Lolla-Wossiky. This man here, he's Reverend Philadelphia Thrower, and he's a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, so mind you don't use no bad language around him.”

Lolla-Wossiky hadn't the faintest idea what a minister was– there was no such thing in Carthage City. The best he could think of was that a minister was like a governor, only nicer.

“Will you live in this very big house?”

"Live here?" asked Thrower. "Oh, no. This is the Lord's house.

“Who?”

“The Lord Jesus Christ.”

Lona-Wossiky had heard of Jesus Christ. White man called out that name all the time, mostly when they were angry or lying. “Very angry man,” said Lofla-Wossiky. “He live here?”

“Jesus Christ is a loving and forgiving Lord,” said Reverend Thrower. “He won't live here the way a White man lives in a house. But when good Christians want to worship– to sing hymns and pray and hear the word of the Lord– we'll come together in this place. It's a church, or it will be.”

“Jesus Christ talks here?” Lolla-Wossiky thought it might be interesting to meet this very important White man face to face.

“Oh, no, not in person. I speak for him.”

From below the hill came a woman's voice. “Armor! Armor Weaver!”

Armor-of-God came alert. “Supper's ready, and there she is calling out, she hates when she has to do that. Come on, Lolla-Wossiky. Drunk or not, if you want supper you can come, and get it.”

“I hope you will,” said Reverend Thrower. “And when supper is done, I hope to be able to teach you the words of the Lord Jesus.”

“Very most first thing,” said Lolla-Wossiky. “You promise not to lock me up. I don't want lock-up, I got to find dream beast.”

“We won't lock you up. You can walk out of my house any time.” Armor-of-God turned to Reverend Thrower. “You can see what these Reds learn about White men from William Henry Harrison. Likker and lock-ups.”

“I am more moved by his pagan beliefs. A dream beast! Is this their idea of gods?”

“The dream beast isn't God, it's an animal they dream about that teaches them things,” explained Armor. “They always take a long journey till they have the dream and come home. That explains what he's doing two hundred miles from the main Shaw-Nee settlements on the lower My-Ammy.”

“Dream beast real,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“Right,” said Armor-of-God. Lolla-Wossiky knew he was saying that only to avoid offending him.

“This poor creature is obviously in dire need of the gospel of Jesus,” said Thrower.

“Looks to me like he's in more need of supper at the moment. Gospel is learned best on a full belly, wouldn't you say?”

Thrower chuckled. “I don't think it says that anywhere in the Bible, Armor-of-God, but I dare say you're correct.”

Armor-of-God put his hands on his hips and asked Lolla-Wossiky again. “You coming or not?”

“Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

Lolla-Wossiky's belly was full, but it was White man's food, soft and smoooth and overcooked, and it grumbled inside him. Thrower went on and on with very strange words. The stones were good, but Thrower kept going on about original sin and redemption. One time when Lolla-Wossiky thought he understood, he said, “What a silly god, he makes everybody born bad to go to bunung hell. Why so mad? All his fault!” But this made Thrower get very upset and talk longer and faster, so after that Lolla-Wossiky did not offer any of his thoughts.

The black noise came back louder and louder the more Thrower talked. Whisky wearing off? It was very quick for the likker to go out of him. And when Thrower left one time to go empty himself, the black noise got quieter. Very strange– Lolla-Wossiky never before noticed anybody making the black noise louder or softer by coming or going.

But maybe that was because he was here in the dream beast place. He knew this was the place because the white light was all around him when he looked, and he couldn't see where to go. Don't be surprised at bridges that make black noise soft and White minister who makes black noise loud. Don't be surprised at Annor-of-God with his land-face picture who feeds Red man and doesn't sell likker or even give likker.

While Thrower was outside, Armor-of-God showed Lolla-Wossiky the map. “This is a picture of the whole land around hem. Up to the northwest, there's the big lake– the Kicky-Poo call it Fat Water. Right there, Fort Chicago– it's a French outpost.”

“French. One cup of whisky for a White man scalp.”

“That's the going rate, all right,” said Armor-of-God. “But the Reds around here don't take scalps. They trade fair with me, and I trade fair with them, and we don't go shooting down Reds and they don't go killing White folks for the bounty. You understand me? You start getting thirsty, you think about this: There was a whisky-Red from the Wee-Aw tribe here some four year back, he killed him a little Danish boy out in the woods. Do you think it was White men tracked him down? Reckon not; you know a White man's got no hope to find no Red in these woods, specially not farmers and such like us. No, it was Shaw-Nee and Otty-Wa who found him two hours after the boy turned up missing. And do you think it was White men punished that whisky-Red? Reckon not; they set that Wee-Aw down and said, 'You want to show brave?' and when he said yes, they took six hours killing him.”

“Very kind,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“Kind? I reckon not,” said Armor-of-God.

“Red man kills White boy for whisky, I never let him show brave, he die– uh! Like that, quick like rattlesnake, no man him.”

“I got to say you Reds think real strange,” said Armor. “You mean it's a favor when you torture somebody to death?”

“Not somebody. Enemy. Catch enemy, he shows brave before he die so then his spirit flies back to home. Tell his mother and sisters he died brave, they sing songs and scream for him. He doesn't show brave, then his spirit falls flat on the dirt and you step on him, grind him in, he never goes home, nobody remembers his name.”

“It's a good thing Thrower's out at the privy right now, or I reckon he'd wet his pants over that doctrine.” Thrower squinted at Lolla-Wossiky. “You mean they honored that Wee-Aw who killed that little boy?”

“Very bad thing, killing little boy. But maybe Red man knows about whisky-Red, very thirsty, making crazy. Not like killing man to take his house or his woman or his land, like White man all the time.”

“I got to say, the more I learn about you Reds, the more it kind of starts to make sense. I better read the Bible more every night before I turn Red myself.”

Lolla-Wossiky laughed and laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Many Red men turn White and then die. But never does a White man turn Red. I have to tell this story, everybody laugh.”

“You Reds have a sense of humor like I just don't understand.” Armor patted the map. “Here's us, right here just downriver from where the Tippy-Canoe flows into the Wobbish. All these dots, they're White man's farms. And these circles, they're Red villages. This one's Shaw-Nee, this one's Winny-Baygo, see how it goes?”

“White Murderer Harrison tells Reds that you make this land-face picture so you can find Red villages. Killing everybody, he says.”

“Well, that's just the kind of lie I'd expect him to tell. So you heard about me afore you came up here, did you? Well, I hope you don't believe his lies.”

"Oh, no. Nobody believes White Murderer Harrison. "

“Good thing.”

“Nobody believes any White man. All lies.”

“Well, not me, you understand that? Not me. Harrison wants to be governor so bad that he'll tell any lie he can to get power and keep it.”