"Did he score?"

"Yes, the Turtle clan have made their sixth goal," said Hannah, with a small frown. "Now the Wolf and the Turtle are both within one point of a victory."

A woman broke out of the crowd with a terrible scowl on her face and stepped out onto the ice, waving her fists in the direction of the players and upbraiding them loudly.

"My cousin," Falling—Day explained to Elizabeth. "She is clan mother here. Her son plays for the Wolf, and she don't think much of his performance today."

"She asks Tall—As—Trees why he wears eagle feathers when he runs like a three—legged rabbit," translated Hannah cheerfully. "Maybe she will take a switch to him like she did last year."

Falling—Day cast a glance at her granddaughter, and Hannah bit her lip. She ducked her head, but her grin remained.

"It is a great honor to play for the clan in the Midwinter games," Falling—Day explained more to Hannah than to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth watched as the ball made a great arc over the heads of the players to be scooped out of the air once again.

"The Wolf have the ball," observed Many-Doves . "Maybe there will be a quick end to this."

"Let's hope so," muttered Katherine. She grasped Elizabeth's arm. "There's Richard," she said.

Elizabeth followed Katherine's line of vision until she caught sight of Richard. He was walking along the playing field on its other side, his head bent low in concentration as he listened to the young Indian who kept him company. The more animated the man became, the more slowly Richard shook his head.

"Do you know that man talking to Richard Todd?" Elizabeth asked Falling—Day.

The older woman inhaled, nodding. "Half—Crow. Of the Caghnawaga Turtle clan, in Canada." In a low singsong voice, Falling—Day began to recite Half—Crow's family history and genealogy. Listening to Hannah recently, Elizabeth had come to realize that to ask any Kahnyen’keháka about another Kahnyen’keháka was to ask for a detailed history of his clan; she would have found this interesting, under other circumstances, but right now she was hardly able to concentrate. One of the players had caught her attention.

He was running down the marsh full—out toward the goal, his hair flying behind him, the muscles flowing on his back. His long, powerful torso twisted gracefully as he swung the stick in an arc to snatch the ball from the air, revealing a barely healed wound which showed raw red on his right shoulder. She drew in a breath as he followed the swing through and turned full circle, revealing his face. It was painted in red and black, in a slashing geometric pattern that accented the strong nose and high brow.

"Nathaniel," Elizabeth breathed.

Falling—Day broke off her narrative. At that moment, Nathaniel let the ball fly and it hit the boulder that served as a goal with a small thud. The spectators rose up with one voice, all restraint suddenly abandoned.

"You'd never know that he's white," Elizabeth said softly.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell," Falling—Day agreed. "That's why we call him Deseroken. "Between—Two—Lives."

* * *

With great satisfaction, Julian collected his winnings from a blank—faced and quite pungent trapper known only as Dutch Ton. He pocketed the coins and bills with a small smile, and then turned his gaze over the crowds.

The players were being led away by the elders to a ceremonial washing at a hole chopped in the ice; later there would be prayers and long rites where the men would dance. The social dancing, when the women would get a chance, wouldn't start until the evening. Julian knew that there wasn't time to wait. His sister would want to be on her way, and he was bound to accompany her. Already Galileo was pacing a worn path around the team, eager to get on the road. Julian thought of sending the women ahead with Richard in attendance. Richard was too bloody pigheaded to be good company anyway. He hadn't wanted to watch the game, didn't want to be anywhere near the Indian village. Although he had taken one look at the game in progress and told Julian to lay his coin on the Wolf clan, and he had been right.

Julian walked along, looking for his sister and contemplating the great satisfaction of a wager well placed. With a sigh, he acknowledged the necessity of moving on; Elizabeth was suspicious already, and it wouldn't be politic to have the judge find out about the wagering, regardless of the outcome. As put out as Richard was with him, Julian knew he couldn't necessarily count on his silence, either. The sad truth was, no one had any faith in his ability to keep things within bounds.

About fifty yards from the long house Julian stopped on a rise, so that the whole scene was spread out in front of him. He watched as a crowd gathered around the old sachem who was distributing the spoils to the winners. The players were returning, dripping ice water and sweat, dragging a whole troop of children along behind them, hollering and dodging in and out, fighting over the honor of carrying the men's lacrosse sticks. The old man who had run most of the prayer business was chanting, shaking a rattle over his head.

There was Elizabeth, observing with that crease between her eyes that meant she would remember every detail. How his sister could manufacture enthusiasm for the most bizarre events was ever a mystery to him. He supposed she would stay for the ritual storytelling and dream telling and never have to suppress a yawn, in spite of the fact that she wouldn't understand a word.

Julian called across the playing field and Elizabeth turned toward the sound of his voice, and along with her, Many-Doves .