Duncan dug into the dark water, doing his best to match the strokes of the figure in front of him. He had not at first recognized the woman when she had appeared by the canoe Sagatchie readied. The Oneida maid wore no more calico, only a sleeveless green waistcoat over a long dun-colored shirt and doeskin leggings with strips of fur for garters. Her protective amulet hung between her long black braids. This was not the gentile courtesan of Johnson’s household. She was Kassawaya, the untamed Oneida, and she had been transformed by the news of the deaths of her father and brother. On her forehead she had painted two wavy blue lines, the sign of the river, under an arrow, the sign of a warrior. On her back had been a quiver of arrows, in her hand a well-crafted bow. Sagatchie had stared in confusion when he first saw her. Duncan had been unable to read the flood of emotion that had risen on the Mohawk’s face, but he could not mistake the angry tone of his words as he approached the woman, stepping between her and the canoe.
