what Indians wear their hair that way — like the curved ridge on a dragoon’s helmet?”

“The Eries.”

I stared at him without comprehension, for I knew an Erie scalp when I saw one.

“Not the warriors,” he added quietly.

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” I demanded. But we were already within sight of the others, and I heeded the cautioning touch of his hand on my arm, and was silent.

When we came up to them I said:

“There are no riffles to indicate a ford” — which was true enough — “and on the sand were only moccasin tracks a week old.”