Richard sent Julian a sideways glance. "I thought your interests were elsewhere."

"Kitty, you mean?" Julian asked, recovering his good humor with a grin. "I doubt much will come of that."

"And why not?" Richard asked, in an affronted tone.

"Oh, well, the same reason you gave up on her, I suppose— Don't look at me like that, it's common knowledge, after all. She's a nice enough girl, but there's no money, is there? And that father of hers—a bit of a bore, too, if the truth be told."

Richard squinted into the sky, over the horizon, and found everything more worthy of his gaze than Julian. "Take a care," he said gruffly. "She's tenderhearted." Without looking Julian's way, he asked quickly: "Has she said anything to you?"

"About you?" Julian shook his head. "Not a word, but she looks at you when she thinks nobody's paying heed. I expect she's giving Lizzie an earful. She's in a foul temper this morning, after catching the two of you last night."

"Nothing happened," Richard said, scowling.

"But not for lack of trying, eh?" Julian laughed again. "I wish you good luck, at any rate. You'll need it with Lizzie." He pulled up suddenly. "There it is. Barktown."

"I see it," Richard said shortly.

Julian raised himself in the saddle to get a better look at the small group of cabins huddled around a single bark long house in the distance. "That's all that's left of the great Mohawk nation.

"Those aren't just Kahnyen’keháka," said Richard, his eyes moving over the throngs of people. "Every Iroquois in this part of the state comes to Barktown for Midwinter. They've got no long houses of their own anymore. There couldn't be more than forty Mohawk here, most of the time."

"So why are these ones still here, then?"

"Because Sky—Wound—Round was the only one of the Kahnyen’keháka sachems who sent his boys to fight with the colonials. Which is a shame," Richard said grimly. "Because if he had stayed allied with Brant and the Tories, he would have had to move his people north, and there wouldn't be a Mohawk left in New—York."

There was a flicker of surprise on Julian's face.

"Moses Southern tells me you lived with the Mohawk for years."

"So I did. What of it?" Richard's face had grown suddenly still.

"Well, then, you must know a damn sight more about lacrosse than I do. Your advice would be helpful when I lay my wager. Hold on," he said, ignoring Richard's protest while he turned his horse. "I'm going to talk to the girls about this."

* * *

Elizabeth bounced up and down on her toes and stretched to get a better view over the heads of the crowds lining the playing field. Lacrosse, Julian had called this game. It was like nothing she had ever seen before.

Fourteen men dressed in nothing more than breech clouts barefooted, their hair dressed with feathers and their faces painted, pounded up and down over the frozen marsh, steam rising from their sweating bodies. They ran and collided and struggled and ran again, their sticks flailing wildly. Each of them had his entire attention focused on the net that held the ball. It might as well be July, Elizabeth thought, for all the attention they paid to the weather.

All around the playing field Indians stood in groups, their heads moving in tandem as they followed the game. They did not look to be enjoying it, exactly; Elizabeth thought they might watch a battle from a safe spot with the same intensity and focus. The only playfulness she could see came from the children, who dashed up and down the embankment following the game, brandishing smaller sticks of their own, shouting to each other, evading the grasping hands of mothers and aunts.

There were whites as well, standing well apart, talking among themselves and laughing. They seemed to be mostly hunters and woodsmen, much like the men of Paradise. One of them was staring at Julian, Elizabeth noted with some discomfort. He was a great barrel of a man, a trapper by his dress. She didn't wonder that they knew him here; it was obvious that he had spent an entire day earlier in the week. What trouble he had been brewing she could only guess at.

"My father would not approve," Kitty said for perhaps the fourth time. "I should not be here."

Julian took her elbow in one hand and Elizabeth's in the other. "I'll talk to your father, Kitty," he said, pulling them along, barely able to mask his excitement. "This way," he said. "Over here, you'll be able to see better."

Elizabeth followed her brother to a knoll, but kept her eyes fixed on the game. Now they were close enough to the field to smell the sweat as the players thundered past. With a little start she recognized Otter, his stick held across his body at an angle as he ran full—out for the goalpost. Wood clashed on wood as the others dodged and struck, trying to dislodge the ball from his net. He feinted left and then with a neat twist sent the ball flying toward the other side of the river, where another player leapt to scoop it out of the air with a flick of his stick.

"How do you know who plays together?" Katherine asked. The excitement of the game was having some effect on her, although she still scowled.

"You can't," Julian said. "They don't mark themselves as Wolf or Turtle. You'd have to ask one of the Indians." He was looking over the crowds as he spoke.

"Wait here," he said suddenly. "I'll be back in just a moment."