“I’ve seen what they haul away,” said Reverend Thrower, “and I can’t begin to guess what they use to pay you. Nobody makes cash money around here, and not much they can trade that’ll sell back east.”

“They pay with lard and charcoal, ash and fine lumber, and of course food for Eleanor and me and—whoever else might come.” Only a fool wouldn’t notice that Eleanor was thickening enough to be about halfway to a baby. “But mostly,” said Armor, “they pay with credit.”

“Credit! To farmers whose scalps might well be traded for muskets or liquor in Fort Detroit next winter?”

“There’s a lot more talk of scalping than there is scalping going on,” said Armor. “The Reds around here aren’t stupid. They know about the Irrakwa, and how they have seats in Congress in Philadelphia right along with White men, and how they have muskets, horses, farms, fields, and towns just like they do in Pennsylvania or Suskwahenny or New Orange. They know about the Cherriky people of Appalachee, and how they’re farming and fighting right alongside Tom Jefferson’s White rebels to keep their country independent from the King and the Cavaliers.”

“They might also have noticed the steady stream of flatboats coming down the Hio and wagons coming west, and the trees failing down and the log houses going up.”

“I reckon you’re half right, Reverend,” said Armor. “I reckon the Reds might go either way. Might try to kill us all, or might try to settle down and live among us. Living with us wouldn’t be exactly easy for them—they aren’t much used to town living, whereas it’s the most natural way for White folks to live. But fighting us has got to be worse, cause if they do that they’ll end up dead. They may think that killing White folks might scare the others into staying away. They don’t know how it is in Europe, how the dream of owning land will bring people five thousand miles to work harder than they ever did in their lives and bury children who might have lived in the home country and risk having a tommyhock mashed into their brains cause it’s better to be your own man than to serve any lord. Except the Lord God.”

“And that’s how it is with you, too?” asked Thrower. “Risk everything, for land?”

Armor looked at his wife Eleanor and smiled. She didn’t smile back, Thrower noticed, but he also noticed that her eyes were beautiful and deep, as if she knew secrets that made her solemn even though she was joyful in her heart.