They pointed toward the Delaware.

The Minisink lies there." I nodded.

"Now let the Red Wings fold his feathers and go to rest," I said, "until I have read my letters and considered them." The Oneida immediately threw himself on the ground and drew his pouch under his head.

Before I could open my first letter, he was asleep and breathing quietly as a child.

And, on his naked shoulder, I saw a smear of balsam plastered over with a hazel leaf, where a bullet had left its furrow.