The Spirit

Simon Helder’s third and final heart attack occurred as he sat in the Denver office of his land-­development firm eating an egg-­salad sandwich in defiance of his doctor’s orders. At the time of his death, his son Jack was skiing in Vail, Colorado. As per his father’s instructions, Jack had packed a black suit in case Daddy croaked while the boy was out of town and had to fly to the funeral. “Daddy said he had no intention of lying around a house full of machinery to keep him going,” said Jack to one of a number of women who passed through his bed that winter. “He said he’s had it and I better take a long vacation because his probate is going to be expensive. Daddy always was a practical man.”

After Daddy’s death armies of lawyers clashed with the tax authorities over a piece of land—an entire valley, actually—the old man had bought in a secluded area of Washington State. The valley was called Colby, after the mountain that dominated it.

Jack Helder flew out to look at the place. He promptly fell in love with its isolation, its purity, its delicious shape. The whole area was too high in elevation for a planned community unless it was planned for Eskimos. Maybe his father had dreamed of retiring to a hunting lodge there. Maybe he liked to tell his friends he owned a gold mine, for the north face of the mountain was littered with the crumbled remains of a ghost town called Ohara­ville and a played-­out mine. Whatever his reasons, the government would chew Jack to pieces over taxes unless something was done to prove that the valley was a business venture. Jack loved the valley so much that he would have gone to bed with it if possible. Failing that, he decided to ravish it with his supreme expression of love for the land: a ski lodge.

They cleared trees on Colby’s east face. They built a giant central lodge with them and surrounded it with bungalows. Jack Helder put in plumbing, a modern kitchen and dining room, landscaped two ski trails out of the mountain, mounted artificial snow machines on the slopes, laid the foundation for a swimming pool, and ran out of money. Running out of money was a new and novel experience for Jack Helder.

He moved from Denver to the lodge. He opened months earlier than planned. His office had a smashing view of the area. His desk was polished, fitted pine trunks. He had booked forty percent of capacity for the next five months, and reservations were still coming in. Life was good. He enjoyed roughing it, so long as he had electricity.

Outside his office door came the jarring sounds of a waiter’s angry voice. He looked up from his bills. His office door banged open, and in stepped the most bizarre human apparition he had ever seen. An Indian, accompanied by a dog which left tracks on the carpet, shook off restraining hands and loomed over Helder’s desk with eyes so dark and deep that the lodge owner felt he could dive into them and swim downward forever without hitting bottom.

He slid his chair a respectful distance back from the desk. The Indian meant business, and he had all kinds of advantages, particularly surprise.

“Hello. May I help you?”

A waiter answered, “He sneaked in the service entrance, Jack.”

Helder waved the waiters back. They hovered at the doorway.

“I want a job,” said the Indian, in a surprisingly high and soft voice. “That’s all. This is your place, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” said Helder, pleased, favoring the Indian with a glazed smile. “How did you guess?”

“I saw your office. I came in the back, and they jumped me.” The Indian looked at the waiters.

Helder’s eyes traveled from the Indian’s clothes, which were so tattered they barely made it as drapery strips, to the knobby knuckles clutching a homemade bow, to the face, which was largely cheekbone. He took in his matted hair and odorous presence. “What kind of a job did you have in mind?”

“I don’t give a shit. Clean the crappers. Sweep the floors.”

“I see. And what kind of salary?”

“I don’t want no money. I just want a job.”

Now that was intriguing! “I don’t get it. What do you want a job for if not money?”

“I’m going to be camping around here. I just thought I’d ask.” Abruptly, the Indian walked to Helder’s picture window. He stood so close to it that his breath fogged the glass. Helder saw his eyes, button-­bright and black, spot the valley features still visible: the line of forest, the silver thread of the river, and the dark meadow. His eyes flicked like an animal’s. For an instant Helder had the odd feeling the Indian was not quite human.

Helder shrugged at the waiters. Common sense notwithstanding, Helder was a gregarious man, and intrigued by the stranger. He was an honest-­to-­God schoolboy’s Indian. He was all the distilled fantasies about Natural Man, the Wild West, and the Noble Savage in one. Thinking of Apache movies, Helder found himself blurting, “Can you ride a horse?”

“Sure.”