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asks.
    “In this matter, aye.”
    Tired of her discontent, I step to leave our home.
    “Mayhap you are right,” Sarah whispers. “After all, you and he have spent many a night in the wood together while at the hunt. He has ever been a shadow in my home.”
    A sister’s bond calls me back. Sarah sits forlorn beside the fire and the bundles of fur. The sheer number of them speaks plain to the time he and I have spent tracking together. All of it time she could not spend with us.
    “And like a shadow, Priest will never abandon you,” I say. “Nor will I.”
    Sarah frowns. “You already have, sis—”
    An ominous sound outside our hut cuts my sister short. The rhythm comes slow and steady, approaching from the northeast.
    My sister’s face pales. “Drums…” she says, her breath rapid.
    My body turns cold at her nervousness, she having been sore affrighted of beating drums since ever I can remember. I have no such fear, and reach for the weapons tucked in my belt. I loose both my tomahawk and long knife, and bring them to bear, even as I struggle to control my wits.
    “Drums, Rebecca…” Sarah says. “Were there a dance planned for this evening?”
    I raise my hand, ushering her silent.
    My ears well recognize the music drawing steadily toward our village, even if my sister’s do not.
    The approaching drums play not for the corn dance, or even feasting.
    The drums call for war.

- 4-
    I burst out of our hut and find our village bustling.
    Young braves whoop as they race toward our village’s main entry, many of them bearing torches. Children follow their lead with barking dogs running alongside them. The elderly move slower, escorted by squaws. The faces of the old ones tell me there be no enemy among us yet.
    My pulse slows, and I pause to listen again on the drums.
    They sound more familiar now—similar to our own, and yet not.
    “Becca!”
    I turn to find my friend and heart-sister, Numees, wife of Deep River.
    Tall and lithe, I envy her copper skin and natural beauty. Beaded quillwork adorns her buckskin dress, the design marking her as possessing an artful hand. She stands outside the shared hut of her mother-in-law, shouldering a buckskin robe to fight the fall chill.
    Not for the first time, I think it little coincidence our homes neighbor one another.
    Numees and I share a bond not like many in our village, both of us outsiders when first we came to live here as children. Though I am white and she Mohican, our tribe welcomed us both to dry the tears of those in mourning.
    Now we are both Miamiak.
    “Becca!” Numees waves again.
    I acknowledge her with a wave of my hand. “Where is your husband?”
    “Gone to meet the war party with the other men,” says Numees. “Does your father not join them?”
    “I know not where he is.” I look back to my home, thinking of Sarah inside. Again I turn to Numees. “I would know more of who beats these drums. Will you look after my sister?”
    She nods. “Go.”
    I sprint for the main entrance to our village, calling swiftness from my legs. My head pounds from the absence of food. I will myself on, weaving around the other bowl-shaped homes in my path.
    A few braves guard the ring of wooden palisades encircling our village. Their presence gives me further peace of mind at leaving my sister with Numees.
    I pass the council longhouse, and see familiar faces shouldering logs that require three men to carry. They bear the wood to the sprawling center of our village. The lean-to stack they build has the makings of a great fire to come. My mind wonders for what purpose.
    A horde of braves congregates across the open space, their backs to me.
    I cross the empty field quick enough, entering the throng. The men relent in my maneuvering for a better view, a sign I have earned my place among them. I halt near the front, just inside the opening to our village.
    A lone sentry stands beyond our protective wall—our peace chief, Sturdy Oak. Shirtless, despite the cold,