“It was in my pack.”
“You have not worn it before. Why do you wear it now?”
“It is looser in time of need.”
“Very well. Stand still.” I whipped out my knife and, bunching the faintly tinkling thrums in my fingers, severed the tin points and tossed them into the darkness.
“I can understand,” said I, “a horse-riding Indian of the plains galloping into battle all over cow-bells, but never before have I heard of any forest Indian wearing such a fringe in time of war.”
The rebuke seemed to stun the Wyandotte. He kept his face averted while I spoke, then at my brief word stepped forward into his place between myself and the Mohican.