Green told Nighthawk to take as much time off as he needed. A few days after Nighthawk had left for Canada, he called the SOS of- fice. He sounded desperate. "I need your help," he implored.
"Of course," Green replied, thinking his young friend had run out of money. "How much do you need?"
"I don't need any money. I'm worried about my familyV9 Nighthawk explained that he had gone to the town nearest to the village and learned that the seaplane hadn't come in for two weeks. The townspeople assumed that the plane had mechanical problems and that someone would eventually come out of the woods by land looking for replacement parts.
He borrowed a truck from a relative who lived in town and fol- lowed the crude road that led to the village. He found the road fenced off and guarded by hard-looking men who said that the property was now private. When he said he wanted to get to his village, they waved him off with their weapons and warned him not to come back.
"I don't understand," Green had said on the phone. "Didn't your family live on reservation land ?"
"There were only a handful of our people left. A big paper con- glomerate owned the land. We were squatters, technically, but the company tolerated us. They even used the tribe in ads to show what nice people they were. They sold the land, and the new owners have been working on a big project on the other side of the lake." 'It's their land; they can do what they want to." 'I know, but that doesn't explain what happened to my people."
'Good point. Have you gone to the authorities?"
"It was the first thing I did. I talked to the provincial police. They said they were contacted by a city lawyer who told them that the vil- lagers had been evicted."
"But where did they go?"
"The police asked the same question. The lawyer said they moved on. Probably squatting on someone else's property, he said. You have to understand, my people are considered eccentric anachronisms. The police here say there is nothing they can do. I need help."
As they talked, Green checked his calendar. "I'll have the company plane run me up there tomorrow morning," he said. SOS leased an executive jet that was on standby.
Are you sure.
"Why not? With Marcus tied up in Denmark, I'm nominally in command, and to be honest, having to deal with all the egos and turf wars in this office is driving me bonkers. Tell me where you are."
True to his word, Green had flown into Quebec the following day. He caught a connector flight on a small plane that took him to the town Nighthawk had called from. Ben was waiting at the tiny air- port, the truck packed with camping supplies and ready to go. They drove several hours along back roads and camped overnight.
Looking at the map by the light of the camp lantern, Green saw that the forest covered a huge area, pockmarked with large bodies of fresh water. Ben's family lived off the land, fished and hunted for a living and brought in hard cash revenue from the sport fishermen and hunters.
Green had suggested hiring a floatplane to take them in, but Nighthawk said that the heavily armed guards he encountered had made it clear that trespassers would be shot. The access road they guarded wasn't the only way to get to the village, Nighthawk said. The next morning, they'd driven a few more hours, never encoun- tering another vehicle, until they'd come to the track that led into the deep woods.
After leaving the truck, they walked now for about an hour, mov- ing like shadows in the silence of the tall trees, until Nighthawk stopped and raised his hand. He froze in place, eyes half-closed, mov- ing his head slightly back and forth like a radar antenna focusing on an incoming target. He seemed to have forsaken the ordinary senses of sight and hearing and was using some inner direction-finder.
As Green watched, fascinated, he thought, You can take the In- dian out of the forest, but you can't take the forest out of the Indian. At last, Nighthawk relaxed, reached into his pack and unscrewed a canteen. He handed it to Green.
"I hate to be a pest," Green said, taking a swig of warm water, "but
how much farther do we have to walk?" Nighthawk pointed toward the line of trees. "About a hundred yards that way is a hunter's trail that will take us to the lake."
"How do you know?" Ben tapped his nose. "No big deal. I've been following the water smell. Try it."
After a sniff or two, Green found to his surprise that he could pick up the faint scent of rotting vegetation and fish mixed with the fragrance of pine. Nighthawk took some water and tucked the can- teen back into his pack. Lowering his voice, he said, "We'll have to be very careful from here on in. I'll communicate with hand signals."
Green gave him the okay sign, and they set off again. Almost im- mediately, the scenery began to change. The trees grew shorter and slimmer as the soil under their feet became sandier. The under- growth thickened, and they had to push their way through thorns that ripped at their clothes.
Shafts of light streamed in from breaks in the trees overhead.
Then, quite suddenly, they could see the sparkle of water. At a sig- nal from Nighthawk, they got down on their hands and knees and made their way to the edge of the lake.
After a moment, Nighthawk stood and walked to the water's edge, with Green following. An elderly Cessna floatplane was tied up at a rickety dock. Nighthawk inspected the plane, finding nothing out of
place. He removed the cowling and gasped when he saw the engine. "Josh, look at this!"
Green peered at the engine. "Looks like someone took an ax to it." The hoses and connections hung loose where they had been cut.
The engine was scarred in a dozen places where it had been hit with something hard.
"This is why no one could fly out of here," Nighthawk said. He pointed to a foot-worn trail that led away from the floatplane dock. "That path leads to the village."
Within minutes, they were making their way to the edge of a clearing. Nighthawk held out his hand for them to stop. Then he squatted on his haunches and peered with sharp eyes through the bushes. "There's no one here," he said finally.
"Are you sure?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Nighthawk said. He walked unafraid into the open, with Green hesitantly taking up the rear.
The village consisted of a dozen or so sturdy-looking log houses, most with porches. They were built on both sides of a swath of packed-down dirt in a rough approximation of a small town's Main Street, complete with one structure that had a general-store sign on it. Green expected someone to burst out the front door at any mo- ment, but the store and every other house in the village were as still as tombs.
"This is my house, where my parents and my sister lived," Nighthawk said, stopping in front of one of the larger structures.
He went up on the porch and went inside. After a few minutes, he came out, shaking his head. "No one. Everything is in place. Like they just stepped out for a minute."
"I poked my head in a couple of the other places," Green said.
"Same thing. How many people lived here?"
"Forty or so."
"Where could they have gone?"
Nighthawk walked to the edge of the lake a few yards away. He
stood, listening to the quiet lap of the waves. After a moment, he pointed to the opposite shore and said, "Maybe over there?" Green squinted across the lake. "How can you be sure?" "My mother wrote that there was funny stuff going on across the lake. We've got to check it out."
"What kind of funny stuff?" "She said big helicopters were coming in and unloading material
night and day. When the village men went over to investigate, they were run off by guards. Then one day, some guys with guns came over to the village and looked around. They didn't hurt anyone, but my mother figured they'd be back."