A dog barked as he approached the camp, its yelping muffled in the thick snow-padded air, and a woman wrapped in a rough, striped blanket stepped from behind the first tipi. She stared impassively as he raised a hand in greeting, and went back inside her shelter. He let the disappointed hand fall as he entered the encampment, and walked along the flattened snow path between the cones of hide that concealed the occupants, grateful to be out of the knee-deep snow.

There was no mistaking Hunting Wolf’s tipi, painted as it was to mark a great chief and shaman. A primitive eagle spread its wings above the entrance and a band of reddish brown paint encircled the whole structure, dotted with white circles and vertical lines.

Henderson stood outside, looking up at the wisps of smoke from the tipi’s fan of sticks, unsure what to do. He cleared his throat, and said in Siouan, ‘It is Henderson.’

He heard low voices inside, and a man’s hand pulled back the stitched hide door-flap. Powderhand’s face followed. He looked up at Henderson with a mixture of contempt and disinterest, then made a small head movement for him to enter.

It was gloomy inside, and when Henderson’s eyes adjusted to the amber light that filtered through the walls, he realized there were about half a dozen people in the tipi, sitting silently round the edge, looking up at the tall white man as he entered in a clumsy stoop. By the small fire in the centre, Hunting Wolf lay on some crudely-cut and stitched furs, his eyes closed and his mouth open, panting. Singing Tree was kneeling by his side, and the boy, Walks Alone, crouched at his feet.

Henderson, feeling the awkwardness of his height, knelt, looking anxiously at Singing Tree. No one spoke and he swallowed as he tried to formulate a question that would not result in his ejection. He had never been invited into a tipi, and he was lost as to the etiquette and formality of such a visit. But concern for Hunting Wolf won over his fear of error and he risked speech.

‘Hunting Wolf sick?’

Singing Tree looked back at him silently with black, liquid eyes that reflected the firelight and, though he fought to deny it to himself, made sparks ignite in James Henderson’s heart. She said nothing. It was Powderhand who replied.

‘We found him on the path of the iron horse. He does not wake.’

Hunting Wolf was panting hard now, his eyeballs moving rapidly beneath their lids.

‘How long since?’

Powderhand sighed, as though it were a chore speaking to such an imbecile. ‘Not long. This morning.’