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caused Duncan to hesitate. The Nipmuc had indeed died a warrior’s death. “I think he was tortured for some knowledge,” Duncan continued, “some secret, and when he would not talk they lined up the others in front of him. I think the raiders meant to leave no witnesses in any event, but they made sure to kill the others in front of him, slowly, one at a time, meaning to break him. When they finished with the others and he still did not speak, they found another way to threaten him.” Duncantouched the strange medallion he had found in front of the Nipmic’s body, still in his pocket. “He finally spoke, and they finished him with a blade to his chest.”
    Sagatchie frowned, as if not certain he could accept Duncan’s words. “You speak as though you were there with the killers, like Sergeant Hawley said.”
    â€œI was trained as a healer, to understand the many ways of the human body. I came with Conawago to celebrate with Hickory John, not to bury him.”
    Duncan returned Sagatchie’s intense stare. It was the way Conawago had studied him when they had first met. It was as if certain members of the tribes could see into another human in ways unknown to others. Sagatchie took a beep breath and raised a hand to the sky. Duncan was not certain what had just happened, but the distrust was gone from Sagatchie’s voice when he spoke.
    â€œYour friend would not let go of this one when we found him,” the Mohawk said. “He was wild in the eyes and frail in the body. I took him to a bed in one of the houses.”
    Relief washed over Duncan. Conawago was safe.
    Sagatchie made one more solemn circuit around the body, holding the smoldering wood near it. “You are finished?”
    When Duncan nodded, Sagatchie gestured for Duncan to help remove the dead Nipmuc’s shirt. “They must see the greatness of the man who is coming to their door,” the Mohawk declared, and he pointed to the intricate designs tattooed over much of Hickory John’s upper torso. Each of the tattoos told a story, Duncan knew, stories of great achievements and spiritual victories, some no doubt lost in the fog of time. Some might well be from rituals no longer known by the tribes. Duncan found himself looking back at the trail. Conawago should be here, Conawago would recognize the stories.
    Sagatchie touched the small amulet pouch hanging from his neck, which Duncan knew contained a token of his protector animal spirit, thenlifted his face to the sky. “Hear me, oh great ones! I am Sagatchie of the Wolf clan, born of the Mohawk! I give you Towantha of the Nipmuc people! He knew how to release the spirits that live inside wood. He brought joy to the young of the tribes. As a boy he ran in forests that had been untouched by ax and saw.” The Mohawk ran his fingers along the tattoos, gazing at them as if reading from a book. “He journeyed to the big water. He carried wampum belts to the Huron to seek peace between our peoples.” A twig snapped, and they looked up to see several deer. The animals were not frightened, but seemed to be listening. Sagatchie raised a hand in their direction as if in respectful greeting then continued, studying another tattoo of wavy parallel lines and small horned animals. His brow furrowed for a moment then lit with surprise. “He journeyed long ago to the great Mississippi and saw bison that covered the land like blades of grass.”
    As he gazed upon the dead Nipmuc, Duncan regretted more than ever that he and Conawago had not met the man. Surely if Hickory John had kept up his search, the two men would have connected. But he had given up and settled in the little community of Indians who followed a god not his own, making implements for people not his own, so he could give young Ishmael a steady life.
    As Sagatchie rose, Duncan silently followed his gestures and lifted Hickory John to the high platform. He knew some of the death