The Spirit

Jason looked up and down the gorge through which the Silver River tumbled. It seemed likely that the river would be the place for a cave system, but he could see none from where he stood. The river seemed to circle around the mountain at the north.

He arrived at the lodge as a van was unloading a bristle of skis, poles, handbags, and suitcases. The reception desk directed him to Martha Lucas’s shop.

The shop was built into a gallery. It had a glassed front displaying postcards. Inside were souvenirs, mostly Indian beadwork, hammered belt buckles inset with turquoise stones, Navajo rugs, and carved-­leather gear.

The shop was packed with people, most of whom seemed to be purchasing archery wrist and arm guards. The girl at the counter must be Martha Lucas. All he had seen in the glow of the dash lights had been a wide face.

“Mr. Jason!” She waved behind the glass.

Jason walked in and showed her his bandaged arm. “I guess I’ll live, thanks to you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, embarrassed.

“It’s true. Good deeds are hard to come by.” As she rang up a wrist guard, Jason looked curiously around the shop. The plaster was new. In fact, the whole place had a brittle, unsettled air about it. “How did you get stranded up here?”

“Jack Helder wanted somebody to run his shop. He figured I’d be good because I know about Indians. The guests are interested in them. Are you staying with us?”

“No. I’m on my way home. How do you know about Indians?”

She was unable to answer until she had disposed of four customers. During the interval, Jason saw little wooden Bigfoots with schmoo smiles and the name Melvin engraved on the base under a glass counter. The Melvin heads were pierced for key chains. “I’m an anthropologist,” she said, slamming shut the cash drawer. “Half an anthropologist, anyway. I’ve been working on a thesis for the last year, on and off.”

“Don’t suppose you know anything about a tribe in Montana called the Flatheads, do you?”

She gave him a look. Immediately Jason’s aches and pains retreated.

7

The Indian’s new clothes were stiff and uncomfortable, rubbing his body in unfamiliar places. Helder had looked in on him eating breakfast in the kitchen that morning and sorrowfully shaken his head. “Moon, I hope you take this in the right way. You need a bath. Also, your clothes simply won’t do. Get yourself some jeans, a nice shirt, some Indian gear, whatever, from the shop and charge it to me. Martha can fix you up. Okay? Okay.”

Last night the Indian had wolfed down two cheeseburgers, potato salad, a quart of milk, and a handful of cookies. As he walked to his bungalow, the whole mess came up again and splashed over the ground. Sleep in the soft bed had erased him completely until columns of sunlight poured through the window and someone rapped on the door, crying, “Moon, Mr. Helder sent me. It’s eleven thirty, and you’re supposed to be ready at noon.”

The Indian had realized that he was not a free agent any more. This Helder owned him body and soul. But it was only temporary, only until the spirit spoke to him. On the whole, food and shelter was not a bad deal. He was honing his skills under the eyes of people, who—particularly the women—seemed fascinated with him.

“Get it up higher, ma’am.” The girl was struggling with the bow, trying to aim at a cottonwood trunk. She released the arrow, threading it through the grass. “That’s okay. You see this here?” The Indian touched a peep sight on the fiberglass shaft. The sight was adjust­able by a screw and worm gear. Balancing poles protruded from the bow shaft. “The higher this is, the lower your arrow goes. The lower it is, the higher your arrow goes. Do it again.”

What they really enjoyed was seeing him shoot. The Indian slid the sight up and put an arrow in the base of the trunk. He lowered the sight and put the next one in halfway up.

Some of the women stood a little closer than necessary to him. They were exceptionally friendly and attractive. Abstinence from sex over the past months had built up an oppressive physical pressure in him that hampered his concentration. Whenever the distraction became too great, the dog emitted a startled bark. The beast could read his mind.

“Mr. Moon, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.”

Helder had been watching the demonstration for several minutes. He led him away from the crowd and spoke with his arm around the Indian’s shoulder. “Moon, I can’t help but notice you’re using one of our fiberglass bows.”

“Sorry. I’ll put it back.”