couple of months. You know that. My friends won't discuss anything with me; those people who used to be my friends, that is,' he added sourly. He reached for the phone.
Sam's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, stopping him. 'No!' the preacher said.
'Sam? Have you gone crazy? Excuse me, but I want to find out what's going on around here.'
'It's too late,' Sam's voice held a warning.
Wade gave up attempting to free his wrist from Sam's viselike grip. The man was strong as a bear. He nodded, and Sam released him. Rubbing his wrist, Wade asked, 'Too late for what?'
'Do you trust me, Wade?'
'Sure. You know that without asking. Of course, I do. Dumb question.'
'Then listen to me for a few minutes—answer a few questions, then make up your mind whether to call.'
'All right,' Wade leaned back in his chair, a half-smile on his lips. 'Sounds awfully sinister, preacher, but I'll listen.'
'First give me a cigarette.'
'I didn't know you smoked!'
'I don't, very often. Come on, Wade, give me a cigarette.'
He tossed a pack of Pall Mall's on the desk. 'Next thing I know my minister's going to tell me he drinks, too.'
'I had a shot of booze with Chester last evening.'
Wade rolled his eyes and grimaced. 'Please spare me any more of your vices, Sam.'
'Just leave the pack where I can get at it, will you? Ready for this? Okay. Tell me everything you know about Dr. Black Wilder and his crew.'
'That's easy. I don't know anything about them! Sam, I'm much more interested in this so-called notice that is supposed to have run in—'
'Just bear with me a few minutes, Wade,' Sam cut in. 'Okay? What do you know about the Tyson Lake area?'
'I might be able to help you there. It's been fenced off for years—as long as I can remember. It's full of caves, holes, lava pits.'
'You've seen these caves and holes and pits? Firsthand?'
'Well—no, Sam. But someone obviously has, or the place wouldn't be fenced off for public safety.'
'Karl Sorenson owns the land?'
'That's right. Been Sorenson land for—oh, over a hundred and fifty years. Maybe longer.'
'And the Sorenson's came from—where?'
Wade shrugged. 'Scandinavia, I guess.'
'Uh-huh. Got a dictionary, Wade?'
'You're asking a newspaper man that?' he grinned. 'Sure.' He flipped open a large dictionary on his desk, cleverly hidden under a pile of out-of-town newspapers. 'What's the word, Sam?'
'Black.'
'Black? Just Black?' He received a stare for a reply. 'Okay.' He thumbed through the pages. 'Got it.'
'Check the Icelandic spelling.'
'Blakkr.'
'Now look up wild.'
A curious stare, then Wade thumbed through the W's. 'All right, got it.'
'Icelandic spelling?'
'Villr.'
'Put them together in English.'
The editor was thoughtful for a moment. 'Black Wild. Black Wilder; that what you're getting at? So what?'
Sam told him of the book he'd read. Of Jane Ann's suspicions. Of his own.
'Duhon,' Wade muttered. 'Yeah, I recall reading about him. He isn't exactly one of the heroes of early Americana, but he did trap this area two centuries ago. Let me think back to my history classes at the university. All right. Duhon, along with a Father—' he stumbled over the word, 'Dubois, helped set up the First Catholic Church in what is now Nebraska. Dubois! Father Dubois is our parish priest now.' He forced a smile.
'Interesting, isn't it?' Sam returned the forced smile.
'Have you spoken with Father Dubois?'
'Not lately. And not about this, but I plan to—today.'
Wade nodded absently. He rose to his feet, walking to a wall lined with books. He selected a slim volume of Fork County history. 'Yes, things are coming back to me. Sam, do you know what is purported to have happened to Duhon and the original Father Dubois?'
