I was in ‘New England’, far from my home in the South, driven up here by wanderlust and trading opportunities. My companions were seven Cherokee I...dians, one of them my brother.He was a brother by choice. My father was a famous trader who wasn’t home much, and my mother died from a fever I was eight years old. Old enough, in his opinion, to join him. I spent the next six years wandering the Trader’s Path up and down the backbone of the East Coast. Our wandering stopped when my father met. The girl picked up her glass and I could see her hand tremble. “Got the shakes?” I asked. She nodded. “Me, too.” I sipped my Scotch.“I was lucky,” she said, “that someone with a gun came along.”“Do you mean this?” I reached into my pocket and placed on the table a small antique chrome-plated monkey wrench. Then I picked it up, holding the jaws in my palm and the handle extending outward. “In dim light it does look a bit like a Saturday-night special. That fact dawned on me when I brandished it. More

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