For a moment, Wyatt thought the girl had directed her question at him, but when he turned he saw that it was the boy who was being addressed. There was an awkward silence.

“His name’s Tam,” Wyatt said, thinking: He can kill a man with an axe, but he’s lost his tongue to a preacher’s daughter?

At the mention of his name the dog pricked up his ears.

“And that’s Matthew,” Wyatt added.

“Does he bite?” the girl asked nervously.

“No,” Wyatt said. “Leastways, Tam doesn’t. Can’t say as I can speak for his master.”

Wyatt’s reply drew a bark of laughter from De Witt.

The girl giggled as she held her hand out to the dog. To her delight, Tam rose to his feet and licked at her outstretched fingers. With his interrogator distracted, the boy caught Wyatt’s eye. For the second time he looked awkward and unsure. Shifting in his saddle, he stared off over Wyatt’s right shoulder, to where Tewanias was standing.

The war paint was gone. While the effect was not as fearsome, there was no disguising the Mohawk chief’s striking features, his calm repose and the strength of his gaze.

Curious as to the boy’s obsession with the stern-faced warrior, Wyatt said, “If you want to say ‘goodbye’, it’s O:nen ki’ wahi’.”

“Interesting-looking fellow,” De Witt mused, breaking into Wyatt’s thoughts. “He’s Mohawk, yes?”

Wyatt hid his surprise. Most civilians took one look at an Indian and thought heathen savage. For a preacher to show such equanimity, no matter how enlightened, was unusual.

“Yes,” Wyatt said.

“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Tewanias,” the boy called softly.

There was no response. It was as though the Indian had not heard or had chosen not to acknowledge the words. Several seconds went by. Wyatt saw the expectancy on the boy’s face give way to confusion and then to disappointment. The slim shoulders drooped. It was at that point that the warrior’s expression changed. It was, Wyatt thought, like watching someone awaken from a trance.

When the Mohawk raised his head the pastor’s daughter was first to react, letting out a sharp gasp and shrinking back against her mother’s skirts, her play with the dog forgotten. Moving with cat-like grace, Tewanias lifted his musket and strode directly towards her.

The pastor tensed.

“No,” Wyatt said quickly. “It’ll be all right.”

Paying no heed to the reaction he’d provoked, Tewanias halted beside the boy’s horse. Wordlessly, he reached up with his free hand and removed from around his neck a rawhide thong from which was suspended a small piece of carved yellow bone. He held it out. Finally, he spoke.

“O:nen ki’ wahi’, Mat-huwa.”

“Take it,” Wyatt instructed. He realized he’d been holding his breath, though he wasn’t sure why.