Chapter Nine
“He knows he is about to cross over,” Sagatchie whispered, his voice full of admiration. “I have known many Lenape,” he declared, more loudly. “Your tribe may be broken, but its warriors are not.”
The song faded away. Words came in faltering gasps. “There was a time … when the Lenape … were the masters of the forest. All along the great rivers tribes trembled at our name.”
“With a thousand such as you my friend, you would be masters again,” Sagatchie replied.
“How are you called?” came the weak voice.
“Sagatchie of the Wolf clan of the Mohawk.”
“I am Osotku of the Beaver clan, though few of my clan yet survive.”
“Where is your hearth, Osotku?”
“In Pennsylvania along the Forks of the Delaware …” The phrases came piecemeal, punctuated by groans of pain. “Near Nazareth. M
