"Maybe. Maybe not. But—he once wore his hair in a ridge."
"What!"
"I looked down on him while he ate fish at the St. Regis fire. He has not shaved his head since two weeks. There is a thin line dividing his head, where the hairs at their roots are bent backward. Much oil and brushing make hairs grow that way."
"But—what Indians wear their hair that way—like the curved ridge on a dragoon's helmet?"
"The Eries."
I stared at him without comprehension, for I knew an Erie scalp when I saw one.
"Not the warriors," he added quietly.
"What in heaven's name do you mean?" I demanded. But we were already within sight of the others, and I heeded the cautioning touch of his hand on my arm, and was silent.
When we came up to them I said:
"There are no riffles to indicate a ford"—which was true enough—"and on the sand were only moccasin tracks a week old."