“Where are the rest of you, the old ones?” Jacob shouted after him.
Greyeye did not answer. He smiled as he walked away.
* * *
The day went by agonizingly slowly for Jacob. Flies fed on the blood of the wound Greyeye had inflicted. He was helpless to do anything but endure their constant feeding.
As he hung there, he watched the native village go about its habits and routines. Women scraped hides for tanning while men brought in game and fish for food. The children ran, playing games with sticks, and laughing. Mothers chastised them when they got too carried away or interfered with the hard work of the day. It was like every native village he'd seen since leaving France and beginning his long journey into the depths of the wilderness of the “New World.”
France, what he would give to b
