The Dark Place

what it was.

The old man shoved the woman forward and she made motions as if she were nursing a baby. Then she fell on her face on the ground and just lay there crying. Herb indicated with gestures that they could keep their pitiful loot and offered them the squirrels as well, but they were afraid to come and take them. They were afraid to leave, too, and just cowered there, so Herb had to send them on their way by shouting and waving his arms to frighten them off.

'Did they say anything that you remember?” Gideon asked.

'Oh, yes, there was a bit of jabbering when I waved at them. The woman kept crying and shouting, 'cara!'—like the Italian word—and all three of them were yelling, 'sin- yah!' or some such.'

Gideon took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted it down. “That's quite a story, Mr. Pringle.'

'Oh, there's more,” Pringle said.

They had finally run off, the little boy scrabbling sideways like a crab. Herb never saw them again, but when he went up to the cabin one weekend in the fall of that year, he saw that someone had been in it again. He was a little put out, feeling that he had dealt fairly with the Indians.

When he went in he saw that nothing had been taken. Instead, two Indian baskets had been left on the floor in front of the fireplace.

A large yellow tear ran crookedly down Pringle's face. “Another problem with getting old,” he said. “You cry awfully easily.” He sipped his tea and smiled wanly. “I haven't thought about those Indians in a very long time. It is a nice story, isn't it?'

Nice, yes, but was it any more than a story? Pringle was very old, and he was talking about a time sixty-nine years ago. “I don't imagine you still have the baskets?” he said.

'Oh, yes, surely.” Pringle was peaceably offended. “They were gifts. I wouldn't give anything like that away. They're the ones on the top shelf of the case to the left.'

Gideon went into the living room and looked at the baskets. They were similar to the ones from the graveyard. He made a quick sketch of the decorations: black rectangles arranged like steps and running from top to bottom in diagonal rows.

He came back frowning. “I've seen baskets like those before, Mr. Pringle. From what I understand, the local Indians don't make them.'

'No, that's right. I had another fellow come out to look at them, oh, seven or eight years ago—fellow named Blackpath—'

'Dennis Blackpath? An anthropology student doing research?'

'Yes, I believe he was. He said they were California baskets. I forget the name of the tribe. He said they must have been traded for.'

Traded for? With whom? How could a tiny, isolated, starving band of Indians trade with people who lived hundreds of miles away, beyond several formidable mountain ranges? Still, it wasn't impossible. He made a mental note to look in American Doctoral Dissertations the next time he was at the Cal library to see if Blackpath had ever written that dissertation. Maybe he wasn't the crackpot Julie said he'd been.

Standing, Gideon finished his tea. “Mr. Pringle, I'd like to thank you for your hospitality. You have a fine collection.'

'Oh, I've enjoyed talking with you,” Pringle said, and looked as if he had. A tinge of pink was visible through the gray of his cheeks. “Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup of tea? I'm afraid I don't have anything sweet to go with it right now, but I'm sure I could locate some toast and a little jam.” He said this with an air of courteous bewilderment, as if there were usually piles of sweets, and if Gideon had arrived an hour earlier or later the table would have been overflowing with cookies and pastries.

'No, thanks,” Gideon said, “I really have to go. Let me pour yours, though.'

'Why, thank you. Thank you very much.” He reached for the tin, then stopped, his hand in the air. “That last tea bag was rather strong, don't you think? I'll just see,” he said lightly, “if we can't get another cup out of it.'

Gideon's eyes were irritated. The Formalin, no doubt; he should have gone to an office somewhere to type, instead of using the old portable in the workroom. He rubbed his eyes gently, stretched, pulled the sheet from the typewriter, and set the completed report on the table in front of him.

To: Julian Minor, Special Agent, FBI

From: Gideon P. Oliver

Subject: Examination of skeletal remains found in Pyrites Creek, Olympic National Park, conducted September 14, 1982

Summary

The skeletal remains presented to me appear to be those of a Caucasoid female of 18 years. Living stature was 5’ 51/2” to 5’ 91/2', with a most likely height of 5’ 71/2'. Weight was 120 to 130 lbs. Time of death was approximately two weeks ago. Cause of death is unknown. A detailed analysis follows.

Preliminary Treatment

Preliminary examination in your presence revealed an unclothed partial human body with considerable decomposed soft tissue present. The bones were cleaned of soft tissue, and segments of skin and muscle from both buttocks and the right lateral and posterior thigh were preserved in a 10% Formalin solution.

Bones Present

The partial skeleton consists of the pelvic girdle, including both pelves, the sacrum, and the fifth lumbar vertebra. The coccyx is not present. In addition, the proximal three inches of the right femur, extending to the distal