Road poured out into a place of meadows and a few White man's buildings. Lots of wagons. Horses posted and tied, grazing on the meadow grass. Sound of metal hammers ringing, chopping of axes in the wood, screech of saws going back and forth, all kinds of White-man forest-killing sounds. A White man's town.

But not a White man's town. Lolla-Wossiky stopped at the edge of the open land. Why is this White man's town different, what's missing that I expect to see?

The stockade. There was no stockade.

Where did the White men go to hide? Where did they lock up drunken Reds and White man thieves? Where did they hide their guns?

“Lift! Lift! Lift!” White man's voice ringing out loud as a bell in the thick air of a summer afternoon.

Up a grassy hill, maybe half a mile off, a strange wooden thing was rising up. Lolla-Wossiky couldn't see the men raising it cause the angle was wrong; they were all hid up behind the brow of the hill. But he could see a new-wood frame go up, poles at the high end to raise it into place.

“Side wall now! Lift! Lift! Lift!”

Now another frame rose up, slowly, slowly, sideways to the first. When both frames were standing straight, they met just so along one edge. For the first time Lolla-Wossiky saw men. White boys scrambled up the frames and raised their hammers and brought them down like tommy-hawks to beat the wood into submission. After they pounded for a while, they stood up, three of them, standing on the very top of the wall frames, their hammers raised up high like spears just pulled from the body of the wild buffalo. The poles that had pushed the walls in place were pulled away. The walls stood, holding each other in place. Lolla-Wossiky heard a cheer.

Then suddenly the White men all appeared on the brow of the hill. Did they see me? Will they come to make me go away or lock me up? No, they were just going down the hill to where their horses and their wagons stood. Lolla-Wossiky melted into the woods.

He drank four swallows from the keg, then climbed into a tree and settled the keg into a place where three thick branches split apart. Nice and tight, nice and safe. Leaves nice and thick; nobody see it from the ground, not even Red man.

Lolla-Wossiky took the long way round, but pretty soon there he was on the hill where the new walls stood. Lolla-Wossiky looked a long time, but he couldn't understand what this building was going to be. It was the new way of building, those frame walls, like White Murderer Harrison's new mansion, but it was very big. Bigger than anything Lolla-Wossiky ever saw White men build, taller than the stockade.

First the strange bridges, tight as houses. Now this strange building, tall as trees. Lolla-Wossiky walked out from the shelter of the forest onto the open meadow, rocking back and forth because the ground never stayed level when he had likker in him. When he reached the building, he stepped up onto the wooden floor. White man's floor, White man's walls, but it didn't feel like any White man building Lolla-Wossiky ever saw. Big open space inside. Walls very high. First time ever he saw White man build something that wasn't closed in and dark. In this place a Red man still maybe glad to be here.

“Who's that? Who are you?”

Lolla-Wossiky turned around so fast he almost fell. A tall White man stood at the edge of the building. The floor was up so high it met this man at the waist. He wasn't in buckskin like a hunter, or in uniform like a soldier. He was dressed like a farmer maybe, only he was clean. In fact Lolia-Wossiky never saw such a man in Carthage City.

“Who are you?” demanded the man again.

“Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“It's getting on dusk, but it sure ain't night yet. I'd have to be blind not to know you're Red. But I know the Reds close by and you ain't from around here.”

Lolly-Wossiky laughed. What White man ever knew one Red from another so well he could say who was from close by and who was from far away?

“You got a name, Red man?”

“Lolla-Wossiky.”

“You're likkered, ain't you. I can smell it, and you don't walk too good.”

“Very likkered. Whisky-Red.”

“Who gave you that likker! You tell Me! Where'd you get that likker?”

Lona-wossiky was confused. White man never asked him where he got his likker before. White man always knew. “From White Murderer Harrison,” he said.

“Harrison's two hundred miles southeast of here. What did you call him?”

“Governor Bill Harrison.”

“You called him White Murderer Harrison.”

“This Red very drunk.”

“I can see that. But you sure didn't get drunk at Fort Carthage and then walk all this way without sobering up. Now where'd you get that likker?”

“You going to lock me up?”

“Lock you– now where would I lock you up, tell me that? You really are from Fort Carthage, aren't you. Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Lolla-Wossiky, we got no place to lock up drunk Reds around here, cause around here Reds don't get drunk. And if they do, we find the White man who gave him likker and that White man gets a flogging. So you tell me right now where you got that likker.”

“My whisky,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“Maybe you better come with me.”

“Lock me up.”

“I told you, we don't– listen, you hungry?”

“Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“You got a place to eat?”

“Eat wherever I am.”

“Well, tonight you come on down and eat at my house.”

Lolla-Wossiky didn't know what to say. Was this a White man joke? White man jokes were very hard to understand.

“Aren't you hungry?”

“Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky again.

“Well, come on, then!”

Another White man came up the hill. “Annor-of-God!” he called. “Your good wife wondered where you were.”

“Just a minute, Reverend Thrower. I think maybe we got us company for supper.”

"Who is that? Why, Armor-of-God, I daresay that's a Red.

“He says his name's Lolla-Wossiky. He's a Shaw-Nee. He's also drunk as a skunk.”

Lolla-Wossiky was very surprised. This White man knew he was a Shaw-Nee without asking. From his hair, plucked out except the tall strip down the middle? Other Reds did this. The fringe on his loincloth? White man never saw these things.

“A Shaw-Nee,” said the new-come White man. “Aren't they a particularly savage tribe?”

“Well, now, I don't know, Reverend Thrower,” said Armor-of-God. “What they are is a particularly sober tribe. By which I mean they don't get so likkered as some of these others. Some folks think that the only safe Red is a whisky-Red, so they see all these sober Shaw-Nee and they think that makes them dangerous.”

“This one seems not to have that problem.”

“I know. I tried to find out who gave him his whisky, and he won't tell me.”

Reverend Thrower addressed Lolla-Wossiky. “Don't you know that whisky is the devil's tool and the downfall of the Red man?”

“I don't think he talks English enough to know what you're talking about, Reverend.”

“Likker very bad for Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

“Well, maybe he does understand,” said Armor-of-God, chuckling. “Lolla-Wossiky, if you know how bad likker is, how come you stink of cheap whisky like an Irish barroom?”

“Likker very bad for Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky, “but Red man thirsty all the time.”

“There's a simple scientific explanation for that,” said Reverend Thrower. “Europeans have had alcoholic beverages for so long that they've built up a tolerance. Europeans who desperately hunger for alcohol tend to die younger, have fewer children, provide less wen for those children they do have. The result is that most Europeans have a resistance to alcohol built into them. But you Reds have never built up that tolerance.”

“Very damn right,” said Lolla-Wossiky. “True-talking White man, how come White Murderer Harrison not kill you yet?”

“Well, now, will you listen to that,” said Armor-of-God. “That's the second time he called Harrison a murderer.”