“I thought we were talking about whether you were headed back to the Ockmulgee lands.”
Fox Down puffed at his pipe and grunted. Inspecting the bowl, he knocked the dottle out, fished in his belt pouch, and tamped a pinch of shredded narrow-leaf tobacco into the bowl.
“Here.” Trader left his stick in the flames long enough to catch it afire, then handed it across. Fox Down took a couple of draws and puffed out a blue wreath before handing the stick back.
“Thanks, Trader.” He pulled at his pipe again and leaned his head back to blow a smoke ring toward the column of mosquitoes that had begun to form in the cool air. “Yes, I’ll be headed back. I’ve been upriver for two winters now. Most of my load consists of furs. Winter hides Traded down from above the Freshwater Seas. The packs are pressed, tied tightly. If I can get them home without them getting wet and molding, it’ll be worth a fortune.”
“How will you go? Downriver to the Mother Water?”
“And then down the Tenasee to the Yuchi towns. Depending, of course, on whether I might Trade a bale of furs for a warm woman and a bed until the cold passes. Then I’ve only got two portages and a float downstream to the Ockmulgee country.” He smiled as he saw it unfold in his souls’ eye.
After a pause, Fox Down asked, “You?”
Trader poked at the fire with one hand and puffed at his pipe with the other, exhaled, and said, “I don’t know. Maybe the Natchez Towns … maybe the Tunica. The Caddo nations would be ripe for northern goods. Especially some of the medicine plants.”
And that was just the problem. He was sitting on a lifetime’s wealth of copper—enough to ransom a chiefdom. So much wealth that people wouldn’t think twice about murdering him for it. That fool Snow Otter couldn’t have been blunter, offering food, his daughter, and every other excess in an effort to lull Trader off his guard. The shocked look Snow Otter’s wife had given the man had been a dead giveaway.
So just where am I going to take this copper? Who am I going to Trade it to, and for what?
“Split Sky,” Fox Down said softly, his knowing eyes on Trader.
“Split Sky?” The statement caught Trader by surprise.
“That’s your accent, isn’t it? How long since you’ve been back?”
Trader arched an eyebrow. How long had it been? “A lot of winters.”
“You still have family there? Or did you slip your shaft into the high minko’s daughter and have to leave in a hurry?”
Trader chuckled dryly. “Oh, I left in a hurry all right. Family? Yes.” He pointed with his pipe stem. “And I swear on my blood and bile, I never laid a finger on the high minko’s daughter. That was all a filthy lie meant to discredit me. Though I’ve heard she still searches for me, much to her husband’s and clan’s displeasure.”
“Gods help us. If you’re ever around my daughters, I’m sending them off to some old woman shaman in the forest.”
Trader stared speculatively at his pipe. “I’m hurt. Cut to the bone.”
“You’re a lying, deceiving, overinflated raccoon, Trader.” His grin faded. “Does it bother you, never being able to return?”
“What makes you think I can’t return? That’s not the only place I’ve driven women mad. Did I ever tell you about the time—”
“Something in your voice, Trader. But, if you ever need to get a message to anyone—say a brother, sister, your clan kin—I’d be happy to see to it. Sometimes it’s good to know that old friends and family are still healthy and think about you.”
“That’s a kind offer.” He stifled a yearning, ignoring the pain he’d borne for so many winters. “But actually, I can go back any time,” he lied.
Fox Down grunted neutrally and glanced at the town walls—as purple now as the night. “You sure you don’t want to just walk up there, see what’s available?”
“No. Not tonight. I think I’ll turn in, shove off with first dawn, and make time headed south. Who knows how long the weather will hold. If I hurry, I can be fishing on the gulf shores by winter solstice.”
Saying good night, he relieved himself at the river’s edge and retired to his canoe. He was used to sleeping on his packs, and rolled himself in a buffalo robe, all the while listening to the hum of mosquitoes. A grease-based paste concocted of crushed larkspur, gumweed, and spruce needles kept the little beasts at bay.
If only the human bloodsuckers could be discouraged as easily. He fingered the war club that he now slept with. Taking a deep breath, he considered his strategy. No one with a huge amount of wealth—oh, a thick sheet of copper, let’s say—would land his canoe at a major town like Red Wing. And if he did, no furtive Trader in possession of such a prize would just hang around the canoe landing, smoking, chatting with fellow Traders, and acting nonchalant.