“So-so,” Mr. Grimes answered. “Found me a new hole last winter that I figure on trying before snow comes. What you giving for near-prime pelts this year, Spot?”

“You mean in money or trade?”

“Money.”

“Two dollars—if it’s a big one.”

“Seems kinda low …”

“I might go three, if I knew the trapper and knew he wasn’t out just to give me his culls.”

“Fair enough. You got yourself a deal. Now, about provisions. You got everything?”

“All but sugar. It’s running three dollars a pint—wholesale. So I’ve put off ordering it, hoping it would go down a mite.”

“Fine. We’ll need the usual. Your oldest boy can put it together tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve got some questions that need answering.”

They had to stop talking to eat the stew and biscuits, which proved to be worth at least a ten-day ride. Francis ate four bowls of stew and half a dozen fresh biscuits before Bird Dance cleared the table.

“Now,” Spot said, lighting a pipe and propping his legs on a small three-legged stool. “What kind of questions you got, Jason?”

“About Indians, Spot. There’s something downright funny going on and I can’t pin it down. Take Braid, for instance—”

“You take him,” Spot cut in. “I’ve had enough of that skunk to hold me for all my days.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing—to me. But Braid’s thinking of taking over the whole Pawnee nation, way it looks, and for nothing but war. He was here a while back asking for things—powder, mostly, and caps. Only he didn’t ask for ’em the way a man might. He said, ‘The Pawnee want powder and the Pawnee want caps,’ just like he was talking for the whole tribe. I don’t like it.”

“I thought he was getting a little feisty,” Mr. Grimes said.

“It’s not just things like taking this boy,” Spot said, gesturing toward Francis. “That’s bad enough. But Braid’s also been raiding. There’ve been two wagon trains through here, and they both lost some people to Pawnees being led by Braid.”

“Those two trains,” Francis said, interrupting, “did any of the people in them mention losing a little girl?”

Spot scratched his head. “No … mostly they didn’t want to talk about those they’d lost, so they didn’t talk about the Indians much at all. One woman—I think it was a brown-haired woman—asked me if the Indians always killed captives. She was pretty broken up about losing a boy—”

“I’m that boy,” Francis said. “She’s my mother.” He sighed. Then at least his mother was alive, and most likely his father. “She didn’t mention a girl named Rebecca?”

“Nope—at least not that I recollect. But as I said, the people mostly didn’t talk about the raid.”