One more time Alvin went inside himself and worked his way down to the wound. Only this time he didn’t have much to do with the skin and muscle. It was the bones he worked on now. It surprised him how lacy it was, pocked with little hollows all over, not solid straight through like the millstone was. But he learned the way of it soon enough, and it was easy after a while to knit the bones up tight.

Still, there was something wrong with that bone. Something in his bad leg just wouldn’t get exactly like the good leg. But it was so small he couldn’t see it clear. Just knew that whatever it was, it made the bone sick inside, just a little patch of sickness, but he couldn’t figure how to make it better. Like trying to pick up snowflakes off the ground, whenever he thought he had ahold of something, it turned out to be nothing, or maybe just too small to see.

Maybe, though, it would just go away. Maybe if everything else got better, that sick place on his bone would get better by itself.

Eleanor was late getting back from her mother’s house. Armor believed that a wife should have strong ties with her family, but coming home at dusk was too dangerous.

“There’s talk of wild Reds up from the south,” said Armor-of-God. “And you traipsing about after dark.”

“I hurried home,” she said. “I know the way in the dark.”

“It’s not a question of knowing the way,” he said sternly. “The French are giving guns as bounty on White scalps now. It won’t tempt the Prophet’s people, but there’s many a Choc-Taw who’d be glad to come up to Fort Detroit, gathering scalps along the way.”

“Alvin isn’t going to die,” said Eleanor.

Armor hated it when she turned the subject like that. But it was such news that he couldn’t very well not ask after it. “They decide to take off the leg, then?”

“I saw the leg. It’s getting better. And Alvin Junior was awake late this afternoon. I talked to him awhile.”

“I’m glad he was awake, Elly, I truly am, but I hope you don’t expect the leg to get better. A big wound like that may look to be healing for a while, but the rot’ll set in pretty soon.”

“I don’t think so this time,” she said. “You want supper?”

“I must have gnawed down two loaves just pacing back and forth wondering whether you were even coming home.”

“It isn’t good for a man to get a belly.”

“Well, I got one, and it calls out for food just like any other man’s.”

“Mama gave me a cheese to bring home.” She set it out on the table.

Armor had his doubts. He figured half the reason Faith Miller’s cheeses turned out so good was because she did things to the milk. At the same time, there wasn’t no better cheese on the banks of the Wobbish, nor up Tippy-Canoe Creek neither.