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“Ongyatasse, dripping as he was, pushed us aside and went over to White Quiver, who was stooping over, fastening his snowshoes. It seemed to give him a great deal of trouble, but at last he raised his head.

“‘This day I take my life at your hands,’ said Ongyatasse.

“‘Does Young-Man-Who-Never-Turns-Back take so much from a Crop-Head?’ said the Lenni-Lenape in good Tallegewi, which shows how much they knew of us already and how they began to hate us.

“But when he was touched, Ongyatasse had no equal for highness.

“‘Along with my life I would take friendship too, if it were offered,’ he said, and smiled, shivering as he was, in a way we knew so well who had never resisted it. We could see the smile working on White Quiver like a spell. Ongyatasse put an arm over the Lenape’s shoulders.

“‘Where the life is, the heart is also,’ he said, ‘and if the feet of Ongyatasse do not turn back from the trail they have taken, neither does his heart.’ From his neck he slipped off his amulet of white deer’s horn which brought him his luck in hunting, and threw it around the other’s neck.

“‘Ongyatasse, you have given away your luck!’ cried Tiakens, whose head was a little light with the blow the ice-cake had given him.

“‘Both the luck and the life of Young-Man-Who-Never-Turns-Back are safe in the hands of a Lenni-Lenape,’ said White Quiver, as high as one of his own fir trees, but he loosed a little smile at the corner of his mouth as he turned to Tiakens, chattering like a squirrel. ‘Unless you find a fire soon, Young-Man-Who-Never-Turns-Back will have need of another friend,’ he said; and picking up his shoeing-pole, he was off in the wood again like a weasel darting to cover. We heard the swish of the boughs, heavy with new snow, and then silence.

“But if we had not been able to forget him after the first meeting, you can guess how often we talked of him in the little time that was left us. It was not long. Tiakens nearly died of the chill he got, and the elders were stirred up at last to break up our band before it led to more serious folly. Ongyatasse was hurried off with a hunting-party to Maumee, and I was sent to my mother’s brother at Flint Ridge to learn stone-working.

“Not that I objected,” said the Tallega. “I have the arrow-maker’s hand.” He showed the children his thumb set close to the wrist, the long fingers and the deep-cupped palm with the callus running down the middle. “All my family were clever craftsmen,” said the Tallega. “You could tell my uncle’s points anywhere you found them by the fine, even flaking, and my mother was the best feather-worker in Three Towns,”–he ran his hands under the folds of his mantle and held it out for the children to admire the pattern. “Uncle gave me this banner stone as the wage of my summer’s work with him, and I thought myself overpaid at the time.”

“But what did you do?” asked both children at once.

“Everything, from knocking out the crude flakes with a stone hammer to shaping points with a fire-hardened tip of deer’s horn. The ridge was miles long and free to any one who chose to work it, but most people preferred to buy the finished points and blades. There was a good trade, too, in turtle-backs.” The Tallega poked about in the loose earth at the top of the mound and brought up a round, flattish flint about the size of a man’s hand, that showed disk-shaped flakings arranged like the marking of a turtle-shell. “They were kept workable by being buried in the earth, and made into knives or razors or whatever was needed,” he explained.

“That summer we had a tremendous trade in broad arrow-points, such as are used for war or big game. We sold to all the towns along the north from Maumee to the headwaters of the Susquehanna, and we sold to the Lenni-Lenape. They would appear suddenly on the trails with bundles of furs or copper, of which they had a great quantity, and when they were satisfied with what was offered for it, they would melt into the woods again like quail. My uncle used to ask me a great many questions about them which I remembered afterward. But at the time–you see there was a girl, the daughter of my uncle’s partner. She was all dusky red like the tall lilies at Big Meadow, and when she ran in the village races with her long hair streaming, they called her Flying Star.