She was looking forward to Robbie MacLachlan, although she barely dared admit this to herself. Only four days walking and she was tired to the bone, and gritty, and she feared that she smelled. Much of her exposed skin was itchy with welts; she had learned, finally, what Nathaniel meant with his threats of the black fly although Bears told her they weren't bad this year. He certainly seemed to suffer less from them than she did. Mrs. Schuyler had given her a home remedy, but thus far Elizabeth had resisted the pungent ointment.

The early morning sun shone on Bears' hair so that it cast out blue—black tones. The tattoo that stretched over his cheekbones to meet on the bridge of his nose seemed to shine in the same shades of blue, standing out in relief against his skin, deep bronze and scattered with the evidence of a hard—won battle with the pox. Looking at him now, Elizabeth realized that his tattoos were not an abstract design of fanned lines, as she had thought, but identical to the tracks he had pointed out that a black bear had left on smooth tree bark.

"Does tattooing hurt?"

"Hen'en." Yes, of course.

Then why do you do it?"

Bears touched his cheekbone with one finger. "The pain is important."

Elizabeth had the idea that she was slowly coming to see the way Bears thought. She wasn't surprised, now, to hear him accept the pain as a natural and necessary thing, instead of denying it. She decided to keep this to think about on the trail, when she would have long hours to consider it carefully. Something to keep her mind off Nathaniel.

"Do you think much about Many-Doves ?"

He inclined his head at her. "As much as you think of Nathaniel."

"Why do you call him Nathaniel, and not by his Kahnyen’keháka name?"

"I call him what he is. Right now he is Nathaniel."

Elizabeth thought about that in silence for a while.

"Why do the Kahnyen’keháka call Nathaniel Okwaho—rowakeka?"

"Wolf—Running—Fast," translated Bears.

"Hen'en, ohnahò:ten' karihòni'?" Yes, but for what reason?

He blinked solemnly, which, she had slowly come to understand, was an indication that he would reply to her question with a question. "What do you know of the wolf?" he asked.

Elizabeth knew very little of wolves, she realized, and she admitted this openly.

"Wolf is a hunter," said Bears. "But most of all, Wolf never hunts alone. The pack is the most important thing, and he hunts for the pack and with it."

"But Falling—Day told me he had another name."

"Deseroken. She gave him this name, Between—Two—Lives, when he came to live in her long house that winter when he took her daughter to wife. But before that he was Wolf—Running—Fast. He would tell you this," Bears concluded. "If you asked him."

"But he's not here, and you are."

He nodded, satisfied with this logic.

"You make me work very hard for the answers to my questions," Elizabeth pointed out.

"You ask many questions," Bears said. "Quid pro quo."

She could not suppress a laugh, to hear Runs-from-Bears switch from Kahnyen’keháka to Latin. He pursed his mouth at her. "You are surprised."

"Hen'en." She wiped her brow with her kerchief. "I forget sometimes that you have had European schooling as well. You do not let it show, normally." Suddenly encouraged by the turn in the conversation, Elizabeth found herself asking a question which had long bothered her.

"Why," She sought the right wording, and then moved forward cautiously. "Why is your head not shaved?"

She had surprised him, something that did not often happen.

"We are not at war," he said. Then, seeing that she didn't understand, he raised his hands to his own head, and grasped his hair at the crown, a handful, twisting it up and away. Although he more and more often spoke Kahnyen’keháka to her, he said this in English.

"A warrior who takes my life honorably in battle takes my scalp back to his people, as proof of his skill and bravery. I would do the same to him. I have done the same, but not often. I was very young in the last wars. Now there is no fighting here. If I were to go north to Stone—Splitter or west"—he gestured with his chin—"to join Little—Turtle, then I would shave my head again and dare my enemies to take my scalp lock

He was watching her, his eyes hooded. “You are thinking we are savages, and in need of civilization."

"No," said Elizabeth. "I am hoping that you never have to shave your head again."

"Hmm," said Bears, and she saw that she had surprised him again. "Toka'nonwa." Maybe. He rose. "We have about six hours to walk, Looks—Hard, and we'd best get going."

* * *

Her legs were still quite stiff, but Bears kept a steady pace that did not tax her overmuch. And Elizabeth enjoyed the walking. Her pack contained primarily her own things and some of the dwindling provisions; for the first part of the day, at least, it did not seem heavy to her. It helped to have the freedom to move. She wore the shirt—like overdress and leggings that Many-Doves had lent her, nonsensically it seemed, with her own shift underneath them. Her hair was plaited now and tied with a strip of rawhide, and the end swung with the rhythm of her walking at the small of her back. Tucked into a wide belt was a knife in a beaded sheath which Bears had taught her how to sharpen on the first day. Thus far she had used it only for cleaning game, but it was good to have it anyway. In a little purse she carried a sharpening stone, a tinderbox, and a small store of buckshot sewn into elongated linen capsules.