“We both know the value of that box. Do you have Trade of equal value?”
Trader carefully set the box to one side, standing and walking down to his canoe. He fished around in one of his packs, finding the thing he sought. Returning to the fire, he dropped the heavy object into Buffalo Mankiller’s hand. The man frowned, holding the shining stone up to the light. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Silver,” Trader told him. “From the far north. I got it from an Ojibwa Trader. It cost me two bundles of yaupon tea. They don’t get much black drink up there.”
“And we get even less silver here,” Buffalo Mankiller said softly. He tightened his fingers around the small stone. “It is a Trade. But I have to tell you, we have waited for years to get fair value.”
“I follow the old ways,” Trader told him. “I’m just as happy as the next man to get a good deal, but when it comes to Power, I give value for value.”
Buffalo Mankiller clutched his silver close to his breast. “It is a mark of the times that such a thing as silver is so rare. Each year, fewer and fewer canoes pass from distant lands. These days people look in, rather than out. Stories of warfare are heard more than those of peace.”
“Have you seen an increase in raiding parties?” Trader glanced at Old White. The man appeared speechless, disbelieving eyes still fixed on the medicine box.
“More this last season than usual.” Buffalo Mankiller stared into the fire. “We will stay in these lands as long as it is profitable, but we do not have the numbers of the Yuchi, or the Charokee. The Iroquois, too, have begun to make incursions. Last year we saw the first Shawnee raiding party. They stopped here in peace, Traded, and went back east to raid, but it is a sign of the things to come.”
“What … What of the Miami and Illinois?” Old White physically tore his gaze from the box and forced himself to rejoin the conversation. He had withdrawn his quavering hand, knotting it into a fist in his lap.
“We have bloodied them often enough that they prefer to kill each other for the time being.”
“And if things continue to grow more dangerous?” Trader asked.
“That will depend on the Trade.” Buffalo Mankiller removed his own pipe from a pocket. He took a moment to load it, lighting it from the fire and puffing. “Should the Trade dwindle to almost nothing, and the dangers grow, we will return to the west and rejoin the rest of our people.” He smiled wistfully and fingered the silver nugget, holding it up to the light. “It seems that the world is slowly turning to madness.”
“We live in the fading shadow of Cahokia.” Old White spoke as if his souls were elsewhere, his gaze returned to the wooden box with an odd intensity. “In times past, the lords of Cahokia would have sent envoys to people like the Michigamea asking them to cease and desist. Once, that was all it would take. Even the threat of their warriors was enough to make any chief—no matter how great he deluded himself into believing he was—find an excuse to make peace rather than disrupt the Trade.”
“Those days are long gone,” Buffalo Mankiller muttered.
Old White shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He glanced at Two Petals, at the box, and then at Trader as if fitting some puzzle together. Finally he blinked, rummaging in his belt pouch for his pipe. “Smoke? It’s northern narrow leaf.”
Buffalo Mankiller smiled, unhooked a bag from his own belt, and tossed it over. “Try mine. One of the things we pride ourselves on—besides war and Trade—is our tobacco. It’s a mixture of broad leaf with a hint of sweet sumac from my own garden.”
“Tell me, good chief,” Trader asked, trying to decipher Old White’s stunned expression. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be tainted by our Power?”
As Old White loaded his pipe with trembling hands, Buffalo Mankiller chuckled. “I am responsible for the Trade at Lower Town. Because of that, I am a constant preoccupation for the Hopahe. He ensures that I take a great many precautions. Because of the unique nature of your visit, I have taken responsibility to see that you pass safely … both for yourselves and my people. While I am with you, my son will handle any other business that should come our way.”
“He must be a fine—” Old White stopped short as Two Petals began to Sing in a soft voice.
Trader cocked his head; the Song was a lullaby he’d first heard as a boy. “Where did you learn that?”
Two Petals seemed not to hear.
Trader reached over with his foot, prodding her. She blinked, and appeared to have trouble focusing on him.