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.”
“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?”