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.
“This is Martha Lucas. She runs the gift shop. She’s the nearest thing we have to an authority on Indian . . . culture.” Most Indians did not give a damn about such things. But this fellow was not typical of anybody. “Martha, this is . . . Good question. What’s your name, anyway?”
The Indian’s face flickered. He hesitated. “Moon. John Moon.”
“Martha, Mr. Moon is going to be with us for at least a month, running an archery course.”
Martha stood to one side, her eyes on Moon’s leather bag. “Marvelous. Where are you from, Mr. Moon?”
“Stevensville, Montana.”
Helder filled out the form. “I’ll need some identification, Mr. Moon.”
Moon dug out a wallet and hard leather case with a brass clasp and handed them to Helder. “All my stuff’s in there.”
Helder opened the billfold and found a Social Security card in the name of John Moon. There were no other papers and just a few crumpled dollar bills. “Don’t you have a driver’s license or anything?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s this?” Helder picked up the leather case and opened the clasp. The interior was lined with wrinkled velvet, on which was folded a red-white-and-blue ribbon with a medal showing a gleaming eagle.
While Helder stared at it, the silence could have crushed a ball bearing. Astonishment carved some character lines deep in his smooth face. “Is this for real, Moon?”
“Yeah.”
“Martha, look at this. You’ll never see another one again.”
She had heard of the Congressional Medal of Honor and seen pictures of it draped around the necks of men ranging from lean Viking warriors to tubby middle-aged pensioners. Knowing nothing else but her first impressions about Moon, she thought it appropriate. Appropriate—that was the word.
“And he carries it around like a wooden nickel.” Helder handed the case back to Moon, who dropped it into his medicine bundle.
“Vietnam, Mr. Moon?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, Mr. Moon. No contract, just a handshake, right? Let’s give it a whack for a month and see how it works out. Feel like a bite to eat?”
Mention of food drove everything out of the Indian’s mind. His face lit up. “Yeah, I sure would.”
“George will throw a sandwich together in the kitchen for you. Tell Jane at the reception desk you’re in the fourth bungalow. She’ll probably shift you around according to business.”
Moon gathered his bow and arrows together. He and the dog left Helder’s office like twin shadows.
Martha sat on Helder’s sofa and tucked her legs under her dress. They spoke in low voices, as if Moon were listening at the door.
“I’d like to find out about that medal,” Helder mused. “There’s a record in the Defense Department somewhere.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“You’ve got me. He said he was camping. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was running from something. I guess we’ll know when he starts stealing us blind.”
“You’re taking a big chance.”
“So what? He’s the best archer I ever saw. You’ve got to take chances in life.”
“If he’s from Stevensville, he’s probably a Flathead,” Martha said, her eyes on the door.
“What’s a flathead? I never heard of a flathead.”
“They’re really Salish, or that’s what they called themselves. They were confused with a coastal tribe that flattened babies’ heads with boards.”
Helder envisioned white settlers being scalped and burned at the stake. Martha smiled.
“Interesting tribe. They never killed a white man. In fact, they protected them from Joseph and the Nez Perces, who were headed for Canada. They continued helping whites right up to when their land was taken from them.”
“Why?”
“The Flatheads were philosophers of a sort. They invited Catholic missionaries from St. Louis to teach them the faith, which is kind of a twist. Missionaries usually invite themselves. They did it out of curiosity. At the same time, they were so skilled in war that neither Joseph nor the Blackfeet liked to tangle with them. They were very religious,” she mused, looking back at the door. “Did you notice that handbag he wore?”
“The thing on his belt?”
“That’s right. Either I’m crazy or that’s a real medicine bundle. A sort of a fetish bag. The Indians believed in a personal spirit who brought them luck and everything. The spirit usually left a talisman like a rabbit foot that you’d carry in a bag like that.”
Helder brought his pen point down on the desk. “It smelled.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Like garbage. I was going to ask him to take it off. You can’t get close to him.” Helder doodled circles on the paper. He wanted things to be nice and uncomplicated for Colby’s first winter. Martha was a sweet girl but a bit too intense for his tastes. “So he’s a religious fanatic. Lots of people are. Jesus was.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I was just thinking out loud,” she said, getting up.
“Come on out and see the ski show. You can hear my melodious voice hitting every mountain in the hemisphere.”
“I saw the first one. By the way, what did you think of Lester’s Bigfoot?”
“Lester’s what?”
“It was on the radio. Lester says he saw a Bigfoot on his way home tonight. Right down there past the bridge.”
“Tonight!” Helder screeched. The boss was always the last to know. Lester was a nose-picking dishwasher whom Helder had always thought pretty advanced for a cretin.
“Lester even claimed the thing threw rocks at him.”
Helder was disinclined to believe that Lester could tell a Bigfoot from an empty sock. Bigfoot added another angle to the glittering array in his imagination. The wilderness equivalent of a haunted house. He wrote out notes for a Bigfoot hunt. Only the strong of heart need apply. He finished with a notation about discreetly stocking condoms in case girls on the Bigfoot hunt became so frightened that a strong, manly, protective arm was not diversion enough. Helder giggled at his wicked thoughts, and wondered if somewhere in that land development in the sky Daddy was not chortling with him.
“Kimberly? It’s Jason!”
“Mr. Jason! I’ve been on pins and needles ever since talking to you. What’s been happening? Where are you?”
“I’m in a hospital in the State of Washington.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. You’re not going to believe this. He threw a rattler at me.”
Jason had been taken to the Ranger station two nights ago and then transferred to this ward, where a multitude of antibiotics was added to the antivenin. Bruises covered his body, more from the snake venom than the fight in the river. He was so full of needle holes that he leaked. A tight bandage constricted his arm where the snakebite was. He had successfully evaded the questions about where he was that night and what he was doing.
“I’d rather you didn’t tell anybody about it.” Jason could see his company’s stock dropping into the basement. CANADA BIGFOOT HUNTER IN HOSPITAL AGAIN.
“That makes sense,” Kimberly said.
“Listen, I found out some stuff on the Flatheads.”
“Oh? Shoot.”
“They had a very rich culture, all of it oral. And over half their stories are about giants. Giants! How about that? Giant tree men, giants living in the Flathead lake, giant everything. The story is Coyote killed them all off and turned them into black boulders. I guess he missed one, what?”