It seemed to Nat that Red Cap’s village was filled with the sights and sounds of more activity than the other camps to which Black Fox had guided him. It certainly was larger, he thought. Men, women, and children alike halted their activities to take a good look at the white man coming into their midst, led by one of their own who dressed more like a white man than anything else.

The chief’s dwelling was easy enough to find near the center of the camp. As they arrived, however, they were told they could not speak with the chief right away. Nat noticed why immediately: there was a group of several white men who seemed to be waiting for the chief’s current meeting to be completed. Several of them eyed Nat and his guide with suspicion.

Nat and Black Fox seated themselves well away from that group of men, but still close enough to the entrance of the chief’s wigwam that Nat could just make out the voices inside. One of the voices resonated with a stately depth—although the cadence did not impress him as belonging to one whose first language was English—while the other almost had a familiar quality to it.

After several minutes had passed, Nat noticed the other group of white men starting to get up and untie their horses. Just then the door flap was flung aside and two men emerged. The first to emerge could only have been the chief who had caused his guide so much hesitation. Red Cap, Nat thought, did not strike an imposing figure: he seemed atypically short and plump for a Shawnee and bore no obvious battle scars.

Any thought that Red Cap might be easy to deal with was quickly banished from Nat’s mind as the second man stepped from behind the chief. He knew at that moment why the other voice seemed familiar: it belonged to Benjamin Doane. The traitor squinted slightly as he stepped into the full light of the sun and chanced to look in Nat’s direction. Nat wondered for an instant whether an expression of recognition had passed over the villain’s face, but Doane had looked away and Nat had looked down almost at the same time. Perhaps the beard he had acquired over the course of his journey had provided a measure of disguise. Nat watched carefully from over Black Fox’s shoulder as Doane and the other white men mounted their horses and rode away, seeming to be in no particular hurry.

After Doane’s party disappeared from view, Black Fox approached one of the young men who stood as guards outside the chief’s door and exchanged a few words. The man wore a doubtful expression, but stepped inside the wigwam, only to emerge a minute later with the chief.

As he approached Nat and Black Fox, Nat could see that Red Cap was rather unlike almost all of the other Indian leaders he had seen. Perhaps this was the “One Who Causes Mothers to Weep,” but Nat was unimpressed. Wide swaths of gray had begun to streak the chief’s head. Nat could also see that his unremarkable physique was not simply due to his arrival at middle age; he seemed to bear none of the usual remnants of a body that had been more vigorous in youth.

Dispensing with any of the usual formalities, the chief approached Nat and addressed him in his native tongue, before continuing in fairly good English.

“In your language, my name is ‘One Who Causes Mothers to Weep.’ The white traders call me Red Cap. What is your business?”

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“I am also a trader,” Nat began. Red Cap looked mildly intrigued. “My name is Nathaniel Aldridge. I trade information. So I have come to see what information you might have.”

“You may ask, Nathaniel Aldridge.”

The chief held out his hands, palms turned to the sky, a gesture that Nat took as an invitation to continue.

“My guide and I have been passing through this country, speaking with many other chiefs like you.” Red Cap scoffed at that remark, but did not interrupt. “Many of them have purchased new muskets recently and they all seem to say that they came from you.”

The chief’s expression changed from one of mild annoyance to one of skepticism. “What business is that of yours?”

“If you will let me look at one of the muskets you are selling, I can explain.”

Red Cap no longer looked skeptical, but positively angry. He glanced at Black Fox, who said nothing. Almost as quickly as it had come, the angry look passed. “You ask too much, Nathaniel Aldridge. If I do what you ask, will you leave? I do not want trouble for my people”

Nat felt uneasy at the chief’s demeanor. The previous villages they had visited had been understandably cautious at his presence and his questions. This felt quite different. Nevertheless, a few minutes later he found himself, accompanied by Red Cap and several young men from the village, in a long structure that seemed to be used for storage. Animal hides hung from the ceiling and various tools were stored on shelves made from branches. At the far end of the storehouse, however, sat something that seemed out of place: a collection of wooden crates.

One of the young men opened one of the crates to reveal a store of muskets.

“Look,” said Red Cap. “Look as long as you want.”

Nat hesitantly lifted one of the muskets out of the crate and examined it closely. Where there ought to have been the stamp of the manufacturer there were, instead, the marks of a metal file. Whether the arms thief had discovered that someone was on his trail or had merely gotten shrewd on his own, Nat might never know, but it didn’t matter. This was probably as close to proof of the fate of the stolen Kentucky muskets as he was going to be able to find. The only question that remained in his mind was what to do with this information and what it would mean thereafter.

“You see that we have nothing to hide,” Red Cap said, as he and the young men ushered Nat back outside.

As they returned to where Nat and Black Fox had hitched their horses near the chief’s dwelling, Nat hazarded a question. “You haven’t heard about muskets being stolen from the American soldiers, have you Chief?”

Red Cap stopped in his tracks and the veil dropped from his calm expression. Momentarily losing his English, he spoke in rushed and emphatic tones, although he never raised the volume of his voice.

Black Fox translated: “He says that One Who Makes Mothers Weep is no thief. They bought the muskets from the white traders at a fair price and have been selling those that they do not need to other villages for hunting. This has been a good business for them and he will continue it because it has been good for his people.”

“Tell him that I meant no insult and—”

“If you meant no insult, Nathaniel Aldridge,” the chief responded, having recovered his composure and, thereby, his ability to converse in English, “then you would not have said that in the first place. To show you that I am a man who can forgive such insults, I will allow the two of you to remain in our village for the night.”

Nat glanced over at Black Fox who nodded, confirming Nat’s inclination that it would compound the insult to refuse the offer of hospitality. As they began to unpack for the stay, however, he could not escape the thought that although he had followed the muskets as far as he could into the Northwest, that his task was still far from finished.