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enemies and stopping only after dark and in unpopulated, defensible spots on the shore. Each night they had taken turns standing guard, and all four had drunk enough water before sleeping to ensure the urge to urinate would wake them early enough to have them safely back on the water before daylight. But the level of effort demanded of them had dramatically increased when they reached the big river that flowed in on their left, for thereafter, they had to paddle upstream for many days. They had loaded all the robes into two canoes, which had then been towed behind the other two canoes, each of which carried two men. Finally, after paddling up another, smaller river that flowed in from their right, they had reached the place to leave the water and cross the mountains directly toward the rising sun. But before beginning their ascent, they had carefully hidden the canoes for the return trip and constructed their four travois, which had promptly reminded them that dragging a heavy load of hides up a steep mountainside was no easier than paddling upstream. So all four had been eager to reach the summit and begin the easy downhill drag to the flatter land on the other side, and thence across it to the Great-Water-That-Cannot-Be-Drunk. Thus, when they had finally crossed the summit, their spirits had risen accordingly, as evidenced in more-frequent smiles and lighter conversation.
    The four men did not look or dress like the coastal people. All had full heads of long black hair that hung behind their shoulders to their waists and wore nothing but thin leather loincloths and rugged leather moccasins. But one looked different from the others. He had a smaller, straighter nose and less-prominent cheekbones and wore five white, black-tipped eagle feathers that protruded to the right in the shape of a fan behind his head. His dark eyes had a sharp depth to them that made them look like they could see inside a man’s soul, read its contents; while his occasional wry smiles revealed a quiet confidence and easy humor that belied the fact that the exhilaration of battle and the hunt supplanted all else in his demeanor—possessed him, filled him with the fierce, unshakeable fixation of a dangerous predator. He was a handsome man by any standard, and the others treated him with a soft deference that showed him to be their leader.

    Thomas and Emily Colman stood outside the cottage they shared with the Howes, swatted at the mosquitoes whining endlessly around them. As the sun approached the horizon, a dull gray slowly infiltrated the daylight and consumed it into darkness, bringing an imagined coolness to the air; but it did nothing to diminish the stifling humidity that draped itself like a heavy, wet, impenetrable blanket over every living thing. Thomas Colman said, “We saw you sitting with Master Tayler this afternoon while we were here working on the cottage. Both of you were smiling, so the conversation must have been agreeable?” She didn’t reply, so he continued. “Unfortunately, young George noticed, as well, kept looking over at you. He’s rather infatuated with you, you know.”
    “Oh?” It annoyed her that he mentioned George, had to state the obvious—the obvious being something she didn’t want to hear, and
this particular obvious
filling her with guilt. She knew seeing her with Tayler would have bothered George immensely, probably even hurt him; but now it bothered
her
, made her ache for any pain she’d caused him, frustrated her because she cared deeply for George but knew she’d someday have to rebuff his infatuation. The conflict tortured her, burned inside her.
    “So was it an agreeable discourse?”
    “Aye, Father.
’Twas
agreeable . . . do you have to know everything? He’s interesting, charming, and as clever a wit as I suspected. I like him, and I’ll see him again, probably often. He’ll soon be asking your permission. I’ve already given mine.” He doesn’t need to know the family background, she