The Spirit

She watched the lodge grow bigger as the car began the final climb up the road. “That’s not it. You’re afraid of losing the Bigfoot.”

Jason glanced at her and tightened his hands on the wheel. “I misjudged you. I thought you had a thing for Indians. I thought you’d be in favor of keeping him out of trouble.”

“It’s me I’m worried about now. If Drake finds out Moon is a felon, you’ve made me an accessory.”

“He won’t find out. Not from me, anyway.”

“And I don’t see why you need Moon any more anyway. You know where they live. It’s just a matter of time now.”

“It needs Moon,” Jason said stubbornly. “It needs the food he sends.”

“Oh bull,” she said bluntly. “It got along fine without him all its life. Besides, it’s still got the food in the mine.”

“It’s a psychological dependence, don’t you see?” Jason flared. “The food’s just part of it. Moon’s protecting it.”

“You figured all that out just by watching a dog run off with a sack?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose they’re gone, Raymond?” Her voice was gentler, sympathetic, not angry.

He dropped her off in the lot without answering that. After she left he just sat, hands on the wheel, staring fiercely at the lodge.

They’re still in the valley, he thought over and over. If they were gone, Moon would be, too. He could convince himself of that if he tried hard enough.

9

For several minutes Jack Helder watched John Moon stand at the edge of the woods, whistling into them as though there were something in there to hear him. He had spent the morning trying to think up tactful ways to fire the Indian. Moon’s war and medical record had shaken him up badly. He imagined the Indian turning on the guests as though they were Viet Cong.

Hesitantly Helder walked toward him. The Indian was covered with leaves and twigs. “Mr. Moon?” he said in a voice laced with steel.

The Indian looked slowly back at him. Helder’s courage shrank. “Yes, sir.”

“Unless my watch is fast, you should be at the archery range now.”

“They’re eating lunch, Mr. Helder. I told them I’d be ready in an hour.”

“I’m a little confused, Moon. Why aren’t you ready?”

“’Cause I can’t find my dog.”

Among Moon’s weird talents was an ability to make Helder feel like an oaf. As if Moon was sane and everybody else in the world was crazy. “Where did he go?”

Moon answered sweetly, “If I knew that, Mr. Helder, I’d know where to find him.”

“You don’t need your dog to shoot bows and arrows.”

“I need him. He didn’t come back last night.”

“Moon, I like dogs as much as anybody. But it’s not a question of when we’re ready for guests at Colby, it’s a question of when they’re ready for us. And they’re ready now. I want you back at the range. Your dog can find his own way home.”

Moon stirred a pebble with his shoe. “He ain’t really my dog, when you come down to it. I should have remembered that.” He was obviously talking to himself, not Helder.

Helder chose to ignore it. “And look at your clothes! They were brand-­new yesterday. What happened?”

“Nothing. I slept in the woods last night.”

Moon turned on his heel and walked toward the archery range. Helder decided he’d wait until he had help before firing Moon. Get a couple of brawny kitchen waiters, in case his temper went off.

Jack Helder mopped his head with a white handkerchief. He turned to see two Ranger trucks ascending the Oharaville road. Drake was in the lead one, next to another man. The second truck carried several sawhorses with blinker lights. They drove fast, leaving a thin trail of dust behind them.

Now what!

On the smooth ground before the mine entrance, the Rangers pounded in DANGER SINKHOLES signs and bounded the area with a wire fence. Drake sat in the truck, listening to the staticky blare of walkie-­talkie voices. Wallace, Jones, and Taylor, who had been filled in on the whole bizarre story, were in the mine, and they were nervous as cats.

They found the food. Jones expostulated over the walkie-­talkie, “Jesus, boss, he was right about that. There must be a ton of the stuff. And bones, too! It’s full of bones!”

Drake paused while eating his sandwich. Score one for Raymond Jason. A breath of wind creaked a board in Oharaville, and he looked back at it. “Okay. Look for prints. And be careful.”

They checked out the other junction and found that it branched off into ancillary shafts not noted on the charts. It was not a dead end after all. In one of the shafts Wallace found a second neat pile of bones next to a rockfall which blocked off the tunnel. It took them an hour to go carefully through the remaining tunnels. All were blocked.

At five o’clock they filed out, blinking at the sunlight, slimy up to their knees with mud. They had marked off the shafts on paper, which was crumpled by their nervous fingers. Jones wound up his rope and said, “A thousand feet is as far as you can go in there in any tunnel. The one with the leaves and stuff is the closest to an open one.” He popped a ring tab off a can of beer and took three heavy gulps.

“Any prints?” asked Drake.

They all shook their heads.