He might show his strength, strut, dance a jig, or even tease the Indian children, but he never brag ’bout that what make him even more proud, that what connect him to his true man-self, what the natives respect him most for, his prowess and feats as a hunter. What other slave you know carry a gun and a hatchet and a knife sharp enough to split a man’s ribs and still his heart, but be too self mastered to even think on it? Useful tools, knives and guns, but ain’t no magic in them. The magic was in York. He had the power. How else you figure a man, twice as big as some, larger than most, step in among the dead leaves and wild things and simply disappear? How else you think he walk right up on wild game have it sniff the air, tweak its ears and still not see him less than a touch away? Standing as still as an oak. Breathing like the forest. How you reckon he never bring home anything tough and hard to chew, muscles still in shock from fear or struggle? He took his game with so much speed and skill the animals thought they was still alive.
