nails all over it, making here a star and there a sunburst, around the brass plate engraven with her name: “Lois de Contrecoeur.”

Then the wagon drove away, and the Sagamore and I broke bread together, seated in the willow shade, the heat in our bush-hut being insupportable.

“No more scalps, Mayaro?” I taunted him, having already inspected the unpleasant trophies behind the hut. “How is this, then? Are the Cats all skinned?”

He smiled serenely. “They have crept westward to lick their scars, Loskiel. A child may safely play in the forest now from the upper castle and Torloch to the Minnisink.”

“Has Amochol gone?”

“To make strong magic for his dead Cats, little brother. The Siwanois hatchets are still sticking in the heads of Hiokatoo’s