She turned. "I'll be careful. No danger, San. Watch out for Turber."
She followed the Indians into the dark shadows of the forest.
"But, Goddess of the Sun, I have buried the hatchet with the pale-face intruders here." The old sachem was troubled. He sat by his camp fire with his braves about him. The East River flowed near by. The wigwams of his village stood along it—dark-coned shapes in the gloom. The curious women and children hovered in the background.
Lea stood straight and commanding with her back against a tree. The firelight painted her. She held her arms upraised.
"I am at peace here," the old Indian repeated. "The pale-face chief with the one live leg sat here at my fire and smoked the pipe of peace with me. And you would command me to break my oath—"
"No," she said. "There is one little fort, this side of the city. You know it."
"I know it," he said.
"And it is in your woods."
He nodded gravely. "Yes. They press always farther, these pale-face intruders. But I want no fighting. The white men are very good at killing—and I have heard this day that more of the pale-face ships are coming. One of my braves was in the city today. He came back drunk with firewater, but he had the tale."