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Broken Trail felt like laughing, partly from relief and partly from amusement at the sight of scuffed deerskin leggings below the splendid scarlet coat.
    â€œNow we leave this place,” said Red Sun Rising. “Find horses.”
    â€œNot yet.” Broken Trail glanced around the battlefield. “I’m looking for something.”
    â€œNo guns here. Soldiers and Over Mountain men take every one.”
    â€œI’m looking for… a hat.” Broken Trail felt suddenly defensive. He could not explain about Elijah. Not here. Not now. Red Sun Rising, walking ahead, had not seen the young soldier who left off piling rocks to step forward and call out, “Moses.” And even if Red Sun Rising had heard it, the name would have meant nothing to him.
    â€œHat no good. Why not get new coat?” With a shake of his shoulders, he set the golden fringes of the epaulettes swinging. “Be quick. I wait where we leave horses.”
    â€œJust a minute. Tell me. Did the rebels take prisoners?”
    â€œMany, many prisoners. Like trees in the forest.”
    â€œWhere did they go with them?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, what direction?”
    Red Sun Rising pointed north. “That way.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œAt sunrise.”
    â€œOnly this morning?”
    Red Sun Rising nodded. “Everybody make camp here all night. They leave this morning.”
    â€œThen they can’t have gone far.” Broken Trail looked northward, as if he still might see the army marching away. All he saw was a rutted, muddy track winding into the distance before it disappeared between wooded hills.
    â€œNow I look for horses,” Red Sun Rising said. “I wait for you.”
    â€œNo. Don’t wait. If you find the horses…” He hesitated. “If the horses are still there, take one and leave without me.”
    â€œBut you travel with me to Chickamauga.”
    Broken Trail shook his head. “I must go home.”
    â€œYou not come with me?” He sighed. “I think all times maybe you not come.”
    Broken Trail turned his face away. He wished that he knew how to repay his friend for having guided him all the way to Kings Mountain. But making war on white settlers was not the right way. Besides, it was certainly true that he must go home.
    â€œSomeday we’ll meet again,” Broken Trail said, not believing that they ever would. He forced himself to meet the Cherokee’s gaze as they clasped hands in farewell. “Be strong,” he added, for that was the Oneida way to say goodbye.
    His eyes followed Red Sun Rising, resplendent in the scarlet coat with its shining adornments, until he was out of sight down the hill. Then Broken Trail renewed his search.
    It was very quiet. Hard to imagine that only yesterday screams, gunfire and the shrill blast of a silver whistle had rent the air. Broken Trail walked on and on, crossing the battlefield back and forth.
    As he walked, he wondered what Carries a Quiver would think if he could see him now. Many times his uncle had instructed him to forget his white family. Always, Broken Trail had hidden the fact that he could not. For a long time he had felt ashamed about his feelings as well as about deceiving his uncle. He still felt guilty about the deception, but somewhere along the way to Kings Mountain his opinion had changed about the rest. To care about Elijah was not wrong, nor did not make him any less an Oneida. Or did it?
    Broken Trail was mulling over this question when right at his feet he saw, lying in the mud, a forage cap displaying a green badge.
    Just a cap. No fallen soldier nearby. He picked up the cap. It was a cocked hat made of coarse felt, bound with white tape. Inside the band, he found a long, brown hair. Thatproved nothing. Elijah had brown hair. So did he. So did half the white people he had ever known.
    Broken Trail pulled his knife from its sheath, severed the threads that