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attempt to form streets. His eye roamed the kitchen gardens and the fields and he saw food growing in abundance. At the head of the village stood a much larger rectangular building, built like the others of bark and hides, which he identified as the tribe’s council house. This village, then, was the chief’s castle.
    “Is it—all right?” Becky asked him anxiously, and he realized that she could not see it through his eyes; to her it was only a meaningless and terrifying pattern laid out before them.
    “It is all right,” he said. He did not tell her that even if they were enemies they would be treated with courtesy inside the village. He did not tell her lest she want to know what happened to enemies when they left the encampment. It would be up to him to convince these people that he and Becky were not enemies.
    They had been seen now, and smelt as well, for the inevitable cur dogs set up a frantic howling and yapping. Almost as soon as they reached the plateau a stream of dogs, women and children issued from nowhere to surround them. Eseck lifted his chin and continued his long stride to show Becky that he was not afraid. Stealing a quick glance he noted that she was pale but calm; as he watched he saw her nostrils dilate at the strong smell of the Indians and he hoped fervently the odor would not bring back any memories.
    Blue Feather bid them pause when they reached the council house. Opening the deerhide flap he signaled them to wait and disappeared inside. From the smoke that drifted lazily through the hole in the roof Eseck guessed the chiefs had gathered to spend the day in council.
    The waiting was the hardest. The women pressed close in curiosity, fingering their clothes and giggling over Eseck’s hair. At length Blue Feather reappeared and beckoned to them, and he and Becky were ushered into the lodge.
    It seemed dark inside after the brightness of the day. The air was thick with smoke and he heard Becky’s sharp intake of breath at the smell. To his own nostrils it seemed very familiar, for once he, too, had rubbed his hair with bear fat every day and smoked his body in the sweat lodge after bathing in the creek. As he looked around his eyes picked out the chiefs squatting near the fire. He wondered which might be the medicine chief and which the peace chief but his glance kept returning to the smallest of the men, a very old warrior whose hand rested on what to Becky might have resembled a shepherd’s crook adorned with feathers but which Eseck knew to be a coupstick. A very brave man, he judged, narrowing his eyes to count the eleven feathers on the stick—eleven Iroquois—or might some of his victims be white men? He did not look for scalps; white men valued scalps but Indians found them of little use.
    Taking care not to walk between the fire and the chiefs, lest he be thought without manners, Eseck moved slowly to the spot Blue Feather indicated. “Sit,” he said to Becky, and they both sat down on the tamped earth with their legs crossed under them.
    Nothing was said. A new pipe had been started by one of the sagamores and Eseck watched it move full circle toward him and Becky. When it reached him he accepted it from his neighbor and puffed on it placidly. Not tobacco, he noted; they were not important enough for tobacco, which was the gift of the Great Spirit. This was only dried leaves and bark and he hoped Becky would not gag at the taste.
    “Smoke,” he told his sister, and she took several quick puffs, her hand steady.
    “Good,” he murmured under his breath.
    Now at last the sign talk began. Yes, they had come a long way, they had been walking for three suns. They came in peace, with small gifts. He directed his talk to the old chief and it was this man who answered him. Eseck could see the chiefs were not unimpressed and this head chief talked to him as a friend. Because I speak their language, Eseck thought, and they can see that I talk without greed in my eyes. But now I must be