“He will, I am certain, try to kill you with his own hands.” The look in Mary’s eyes stopped Branch for a bare moment. “He will return before sunset to let me know the effect of his speech on the chief. You must go off to the thicket beyond our house and stay there until the moon is the only light. Then come quietly to the door of our house. If you are to be killed—” She broke off, considering. “If you are to be killed, I will bake a small cake and put it outside the door. If you find it there, take your son to the large creek and wait until you hear from me. If you see no cake, come inside. You must get up now and get a blanket for the night.”

Mary made no move.

If I am to be killed . . .

“GET UP.”

They regarded each other.

“Get up. Remember who you are. Remember the story you told me about the young man you saved from the Shawnee? He got up. In all his misery he got up. Besides, you have a son. Get up.”

WHEN she moved beyond the bushes and tangled vines she crouched down and reached out, and her hand disappeared in blackness because the moon’s light did not extend to the porch boards. In the spacious dark, her fingers touched something grainy. It was the edge of a cake of corn.

And though Black Coals had not as yet touched me, the edge of the mealycake was a violence unto me; it rocked me back and stunned me to the soles of my feet.

HER SMALL son was curled up against her like a fist when she opened her eyes at the place called Samp’s Creek. The first thing she saw was her brother’s stern face. He was standing over them.

Then he smiled. “The old chief could not find you. He has given up and gone to Niagara.”

After a minute Mary stood up and then stepped back from her brother. He pointed his finger at her as if he thought she was being inattentive.

“I said he has left. You are safe. What’s the matter with you?”

“I am safe from the chief?”

“Yes.”

“And from you?”

Her brother blinked. “From me?”

“You were going to kill me.”

“Yes—”

“Without asking me what I thought about a redemption.”

“Better death than being taken somewhere by force. You know that.”

His sister stepped to one side, as if she thought she was standing between him and something he should see. Then she asked him to whom he was talking.

“To a Seneca.”

“What is a Seneca, then?”

He turned impatiently away from her. But she followed his motion, his turning, and moved close in to him.