More than half a month later.
On a tamped-earth path east of the Creek Tribe's small town, Father Vigne was drawn by distant shouts of "Awoo-loo-loo!" He looked up to see dozens of serious-looking Indian youths holding flintlock guns, chaotically sprinting forward for a bit, then forming up in stances to aim their weapons.
He knew those were Indian warriors in training, so he lowered his head and continued on his way. The Stone Eagle High Priest's residence was still five or six kilometers away, and he rather regretted not asking Chekilie for a few horses.
Father Lorier, walking alongside, furrowed his brow as he watched the Indian cavalry, shaking his head: "They probably think this counts as charging in formation?"
"Father Vigne, perhaps we ought to tell them they should fight in infantry line formations.
"At this rate, I fear they'll have little hope of holding off an American militia attack."
