The Spirit

“Don’t know why I asked that. We don’t have stables yet.” He felt the full weight of the waiters’ astonished attention on him. “That’s about all I can think of. We’re underfinanced right now, and pretty well full up. You can fill out a résumé, though. Sorry.”

The Indian shrugged and walked to the door, where the waiters parted for him.

“Just a second! The bow and arrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you any good with it?”

A gently mischievous smile illuminated the sharp face. The Indian’s eyes rested on the long-­stemmed wineglass from which Helder had just drunk his post-­dinner port. The lodge owner wondered if he was not making the biggest mistake of his life. “I was just asking. Oh no . . .”

The Indian held the glass out to him. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, I realize that, but I wasn’t serious. I mean this kind of William Tell stuff . . .” Helder flapped his hands in embarrassment.

“Come on,” the Indian coaxed. The smile grew wider.

“Oh hell.” Helder took the glass because the waiters were watching. He should learn to keep his mouth shut.

The main lounge, onto which Helder’s office opened, was approximately forty feet across. On the opposite wall was a fireplace of black Cascade lava. The floor was scattered with throw rugs, chairs, coffee tables, and sofas. The east wall was glass, opening onto the sun deck, where most of the guests were standing around, drinks in hand, brightly colored sweaters festooning their bodies. The west wall housed the reception desk, stuffed, antlered animal heads, and Charles Russell prints. Tucked into the corner was the Grizzly Bar, guarded by an enormous stuffed bear with his paws clutching an esthetically gnarled branch.

The last mile. Helder slouched across the floor to the fireplace, his evident dejection attracting the attention of the guests, who began filing in from the sun deck. When he reached the fireplace, he turned and faced the Indian, who remained at the office door, fitting an arrow to his bow.

Helder felt the fire heating his backside. Those were awfully crooked arrows. They were really twigs with some kind of dipshit pigeon feathers to stabilize them.

“Get it up higher,” the Indian commanded.

Holding the glass upright by the base, Helder raised it so high that his coat buttons popped. If the arrow went through his eye, he’d fall backward, still conscious, and burn to death in the fire. If he were lucky, it might just drill a kneecap. He would be crippled but alive. Being shot in the stomach would be enormously annoying, and he would probably have to have liquid food the rest of his life.

The waiters formed a human cage around the Indian in case he tried to break away after the murder. All the guests were indoors, watching the unfolding drama. They should not drink at this altitude, Helder thought; there was at least ten cardiacs among them.

With three small movements, the Indian raised the bow, drew back the arrow, and let go.

Jesus! Aim!

One girl’s scream underscored the collective gasp from the crowd. Helder heard the arrow thunk deep into the pine over his head. Severed from its slender stem, the goblet bounced onto his head and crashed into gleaming splinters on the floor. The musical impact was drowned out by the convulsive pandemonium of applause, shouts, and whistles from the guests. When Helder finally looked up at the glass base and stem, the arrow was still vibrating in the wood.

“Ladies and—” Helder squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen! If I may—please—have—your attention!” The last word was a scream, which dulled the roar and angered the Indian’s dog. “Colby Lodge is pleased to announce its amateur, intermediate, and advanced archery courses, which will be held beginning tomorrow in the fields by the snowmobile shed . . .” The guests ignored him. Their voices rose back to high levels, drowning out his praise for the archery equipment in the souvenir shop.

In the office, he shut the door, silencing the noise of the guests to a muffled roar. He dropped his smile. He was an employer now. He sat at his desk and pulled out an employee form. “A hundred dollars a week. That’s not much, but the lodging is free and so is the food long as you don’t eat us alive. Besides, you didn’t want any money in the first place. Okay with you?”

The Indian considered, then nodded impassively.

“Set it up any way you want. You’ll work from noon to five in the afternoon. Mondays are off. Still okay?”

The Indian nodded again. Impatiently.

“Now that dog. He stays outside. You can feed him leftovers, but I don’t want him running loose in here. Ah!”

The door opened and shut, letting in a fragment of laughter from the lounge as well as a slight girl with dusty blond hair drawn back with a ribbon, a loose sweater, a granny dress, and clear gray eyes.