The name Weasel has plagued my thoughts and disturbed my sleep for as long as I can remember. Other children say he’s part man, part animal—wild and bloodthirsty. But I know he’s real: a man, an Indian fighter sent by the government to push out the Native Americans—“to remove them.” Weasel, though, has his own twisted ideas about what removal means.
With the Shawnees gone, Weasel has turned his attention to the settlers. Like the weasel he’s named after, he hunts at night and sleeps during the day, killing not out of hunger, but for pure sport. I know what I have to do. Weasel is out there, and he could come for us. Maybe Pa can wait for the law to take care of men like him, but I can’t.