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the tattoos of our people adorn his body. His face seems stone carved, giving no sign of his thoughts to the train of torches crawling toward us from the woods.
    “Where is our war chief?” A brave whispers behind me. “Why does he not stand with Sturdy Oak? Both should be here.”
    His question reflects my own, though the beating drums give me little time to dwell on such thoughts. I stand as one with the group, the murmurs growing silent when a lone stranger steps away from the woodland safety and onto our territory.
    He walks beside his horses, signaling he comes in peace, and he wears a necklace of bear claws. His scarred body reflects the fierceness radiating in his face.
    I am conflicted whether I dislike his prideful air or respect it, even as my gaze lowers to the wampum belt he bears toward our chieftain. I stare at the belt, admiring the handsome make of shell beads strung together. Its beads appear crimson in the torchlight, their original hue dyed to match the color of war.
    “Greetings to you, cousins,” says the brave, his voice deep and gaze penetrating. “I am called Two Ravens. My people and I would ask you join us on the war path.”
    “And whom do you mean to war upon?” our chief asks.
    “The Iroquois,” says Two Ravens.
    My eyes widen at such a claim, and those behind me gasp.
    Two Ravens seems pleased with our reactions, judging the look on his face.
    My chief’s laughter cuts the tension. “I think you are a madman, or have toked too long of the calumet .”
    The foreign chief grins.
    “You sound like my wife, Grandfather,” says Two Ravens. “And yet, you speak true of my love for the smoke pipe. But call me no madman.”
    “What would you have me name one who asks us to war on the Iroquois?”
    “Defender of the people,” says Two Ravens. “Survivors from a lesser tribe to the northeast came among us seeking refuge with odd claims a rogue band warred on them. Those who escaped said the raiders were Mohawk. Others believe the Seneca.”
    “How is that odd?” asks Sturdy Oak. “The Iroquois are a united nation. Each aiding the other in battle when agreed upon.”
    “I speak of a different oddness,” says Two Ravens. “The survivors say these warriors fought with uncommon strength. One not gifted ordinary men.”
    Whispers ensue among my people, fear of an unseen threat. It would catch me also if I lent the words such credence. A memory from the life before stirs within me. I fight it off, not wishing to give sway to such thoughts when I should face the here and now.
    “The survivors said also that women fought alongside the braves.”
    “Squaws?” our chief says.
    “I said nothing of squaws,” says Two Ravens, finding my face in the crowd. “They say those who fought were white women.”
    He points at me. “You, girl. Come. I would look upon your pale face, much as I despise it.”
    My fingers clench the handles of my weapons as I step forward, rather than be thought a coward. I meet his gaze and keep his stare, never glancing away, even as his eyes work over me.
    Two Ravens laughs. “Why, it is no pale face that stands before me. It is a fearsome squaw.”
    I glare at Two Ravens that he might understand his words truer than he realizes.
    “Tell me, girl, how did you come to live among these peace lovers? Desire for war marks your face.” Two Ravens studies me closer still. “Would you avenge our fallen cousins? Or do you live here for another purpose?”
    I do not take his meaning. My face must reveal such for our chief comes to my aid.
    “She is no traitor,” says Sturdy Oak. “The girl came among us near fifteen year ago. She and her sister.”
    Two Ravens sneers. “You keep two of these among you then?”
    My fingers quiver on the edge of my long knife. I study the neck of Two Ravens, wonder if I could have my knife to it before he might react.
    “Two Ravens speaks with hate,” says Sturdy Oak, his tone grave as he moves between us. “I see no pale faces