"I believe you were very worried," Elizabeth said to her cousin when they had the earth under their feet again.

"Thy husband told me of a dream having to do with a river," he replied. And then: "Why dost thou look surprised?"

"I am not surprised that Nathaniel should have a dream," Elizabeth said. "Only that you should take his dream as literally as he does."

Samuel Hench's open, honest face went suddenly very still and grim. "Cousin," he said. "If thou wilt survive in the wilderness, thou must take heavenly direction in whatever form it comes to thee."

"But there is the river, behind us, and we are all whole and ready to move on," Elizabeth pointed out, only somewhat discomfited at being taken to task.

Behind her, Many-Doves said: "There is always another river."

The younger woman was looking at Samuel Hench with an expression which had lost much of its wariness and reserve. In return he inclined his head.

Elizabeth climbed up onto the wagon, and once seated, held out her hand to her cousin. "I will remember that, or I will try to. Thank you very kindly for your company, Cousin Samuel. I wish you good luck in your business endeavors in Johnstown. She paused, and smiled.

His grip was firm and dry. "I will come to visit thee in Paradise, as promised." The calm gaze held hers without wavering. For one moment she had a strong sense of her mother, and she released his hand only reluctantly.

Many-Doves spoke to the horses and they began to move away. Samuel Hench sat straight—backed and watched them go, the broad rim of his Quaker hat casting a shadow across his face so that she could not read his expression.

* * *

The weather threatened disaster: a strong rain would turn the roads to mud and add an extra day onto their journey. The wind sent the beech trees into a flutter of green and silver leaves. Overhead a hawk rose and fell on fitful breezes.

"If we push hard we can be there late tomorrow," Many-Doves said after a long silence. "If you feel up to it."

They had been eating from the provisions packed by Mrs. Vanderhyden, and there was a scattering of crumbs on her shoulder. Elizabeth brushed them away for her.

"Now you sound like Nathaniel," she chided softly. "Will not even you trust me to rest when I need it?"

Many-Doves smiled. "You are not known for your kindness to yourself."

"And neither is Nathaniel. And neither are you, for that matter. You do not faint away at what needs to be done simply because you carry a child."

Many-Doves looked thoughtful for a moment. I was not raised to faint."

Elizabeth bristled. "I have never fainted in my life," she said tightly. "I will not start now."

"I would be surprised if you did," Doves conceded.

"Then why must you coddle me so?"

As if Many-Doves were explaining the most obvious thing in the world to a small child, she said, "Because you carry Nathaniel's son, and Hawkeye's grandson, and Chingachgook's great—grandson."

She might have laughed at the absurdity of it, if it were not for the earnest concern so clear in the dark eyes that met her own. Elizabeth said, "Why is everyone so sure that this child is a boy? I would be just as glad of a daughter."

"Of course," said Many-Doves . "So would I. But I carry a son as well."

"More dreams?" asked Elizabeth, torn between amazement and frustration.

"Of course."

"Well, I surrender," Elizabeth said, throwing up her hands. "I will continue to wonder, but please go ahead and think what you like."

On the road that would take them through the Big Vly and on to the Sacandaga they passed isolated homesteads, sometimes in twos or threes. Twice they were stopped and asked for news, which Elizabeth provided to the best of her ability. Many-Doves always sat silent during these exchanges, in spite of curious looks that came her way.

In the dooryard of a small farm on the edge of a marsh, a woman was hoeing a garden patch, her shoulders bowed under a straggling mass of gray—blond hair. From inside the cabin came the weak cry of a very young child, another leaned against the open door, dressed in a ragged shirt almost as grubby as the small face, too wan and thin to bear the weight of a smile. Even the corn in the field slumped its way around the house.

"You and I are very fortunate."

Many-Doves nodded. There was nothing to add to this simple truth.

In a rush, Elizabeth said: "Since Samuel left us I've been waiting for you to tell me what happened at home. I wonder why you're being so quiet about it. My imagination is quite running away with me."

Many-Doves grimaced. "I did not see all of it, and can only piece it together for you."

"Any information would be better than none at all."

"You might not think so, when I'm done." She paused to collect her thoughts. "I guess the simplest way to tell it is that Hawkeye and Chingachgook were fishing by torchlight on the lake the night you left for Albany. Hector and Blue got wind of a buck, chased him into the lake—and that's how it came to pass.

"Why were Hector and Blue left free to roam?"

"They weren't. Somebody cut them free."

"Somebody? Just tell me, tell me the worst and get it over with."

Many-Doves shrugged with one shoulder, as if to dislodge something sitting there with claws dug in. "Hannah caught sight of Liam Kirby disappearing into the woods. The dogs already had the scent by that time and there was no calling them back."