They had no reason to doubt us, to dream that we would turn upon
them, but from habit they watched us, with tomahawk and knife
resting lightly in their belts.
As for us, we walked slowly, smiled freely, and spoke frankly. The
sunshine streaming down in the spaces where the trees fell away
was not brighter than our mood. Had we not smoked the peace
pipe? Were we not on our way home? Diccon, walking behind me,
fell into a low-voiced conversation with the savage who strode
beside him. It related to the barter for a dozen otterskins of a gun
which he had at Jamestown. The savage was to bring the skins to
Paspahegh at his earliest convenience, and Diccon would meet
him there and give him the gun, provided the pelts were to his
liking. As they talked, each, in his mind's eye, saw the other dead
before him. The one meant to possess a gun, indeed, but he
thought to take it himself from the munition house at Jamestown;
the other knew that the otter which died not until this Indian's
arrow quivered in its side would live until doomsday. Yet they
discussed the matter gravely, hedging themselves about with
provisos, and, the bargain clinched, walked on side by side in the
silence of a perfect and all-comprehending amity.
The sun rode higher and higher, gilding the misty green of the
budding trees, quickening the red maple bloom into fierce scarlet,
throwing lances of light down through the pine branches to splinter
against the dark earth far below.
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