BEFORE DARK QUALLA APPEARED with her Choctaw pony, saying nothing, but smiling that sideways smirk of his. He presented her with her pistol, knife, and mirror, and a saddlepack filled with dried corn bread and gahawisita, parched corn ground into a meal which when mixed with water made an instant gruel. She slept little that night and was up before daylight, saddling the pony and preparing to depart. She had just fastened Opothle’s cradle to her back when a horseman rode slowly out of the gray light.
“Siyu,” the Long Warrior greeted her. “Hello.”
“You did not sleep well?” she said with a bite of sarcasm in her voice.
“I brought you fresh anuh,” he said. “Strawberries.” He dismounted and offered her a wild strawberry from a basket. She opened her mouth and he put the berry between her teeth. It was light enough now so that she could see his smile and the dried marks of her fingernails on his coppery cheek.
He helped her into the saddle. “I will go with you to the main trail,” he said, “so that you do not become lost again.”
“Astu.” She used the Cherokee word. “Very good.”
He led the way out of the town. When they topped the first ridge west, she turned to take a last look at the Sleeping Woman, silhouetted against the brightening dawn sky. She felt as though she were losing something forever.
It was early afternoon when they reached the Flint Path turning southward toward Creek country. He pulled his horse to one side and motioned down the broad trail. As she passed him, he bowed to her and she returned the gesture, urging the pony to a faster pace and never looking back.
During the afternoon, whenever she halted, she sometimes thought she heard hoofbeats, but when she looked back she saw no sign of a horseman. Late in the day she came to a small grassy glade beside a clear-running stream, and stopped for the night. She unsaddled and tied up the pony and was feeding Opothle when she heard the hoofbeats again. This time she saw the horseman. The Long Warrior was approaching slowly.
“Siyu,” he greeted her. “It will be cold tonight under the stars. I meant to give you this bearskin.” He dismounted, unfastening a bundle. “A farewell present.”
He spread an enormous black bearskin across the grass. “You will need a fire.” He gathered dry sticks and started a fire with flint and steel. He added wood slowly, building up a bed of coals until twilight darkened the glade. She came and lay on the bearskin, looking into the fire.
“Time for me to go back,” he said, and removed his moccasins, passing them back and forth over the low flames.
“You believe that will keep snakes from biting you?” she asked.
“It has always done so for me.” When he stood up, she pulled half the bearskin over her. “Egasinu,” he said. “Go to sleep, Amayi. The fire will keep you warm.”
“There is a fire in my loins,” she said.
He kneeled beside her and rolled the bearskin back. She was naked. “Agiya, my beloved,” he whispered.
“Asgaya, asgaya.” She used the Cherokee. “Man, man.” Then she raised herself, looking him hard in the face. “I will not be your property, but a friend and companion.”
“Astu,” he said, and took the Danish coin in his fingers. “Asehi, surely—”
She reached behind her neck, unfastened the silver chain and took the gorget off so that there was nothing between them. Then she rubbed her cheek against the dried scratches on his face and rolled with him into the bearskin.