Tomahawk with feathers and beads

The pass has been shut since the first snow, so the post came up on a mule with a boy who wouldn't stop complaining about his feet. He left a parcel with your name on it in that terrible hand of yours, and inside was the hatchet. I nearly didn't open it. You never let it out of your belt when you were home, and I thought, well, he's finally sent back the one thing he couldn't carry.

I've been turning it over by the stove all evening. The bead cord has come loose at one knot, and I've retied it the way Grandmother showed us, though I doubt she'd have approved of my sailor's hitch. Two feathers still hang from the bottom, grey and brown, rain-darkened at the tips. The panels on the handle are wrapped tight, and the little triangles you cut into the wood the summer you were nine are still there, filled now with soot from Father's pipe.

Here is the part I keep reading. Under the blade someone has scratched a second set of marks, smaller and shakier than the rest. I think they are yours, from the winter you stayed at the trading post. You never told me you'd been practising letters. You never told me much of anything.

Send word when the pass opens. I'll bring the hatchet down myself, and we can see whether the marks still match. Keep the feathers dry.

Your sister, Ada