The Dark Place

'About the killings.” His head down, Blackpath spoke to the stick, as surly in English as in Yahi.

'That seems like a good place to begin,” Gideon said mildly, but his hackles were rising. If anyone had reason to be aggrieved, it was certainly he, with two attempts on his life and a painful dent in his head, and not this pampered student-cum-wild Indian. Something in his tone must have given away his feelings, because Blackpath suddenly looked up at him and snapped the stick in two.

Julie cut in. “You said that Startled...What was his name? I don't want to keep calling him that.'

'Their names are private,” Blackpath said curtly. “Startled Mouse is good enough.” For the likes of you.

Julie did not respond in kind. “You said he had a legitimate grievance,” she said quietly.

Blackpath tossed the pieces of the stick into the fire. “You saw his foot?'

'Yes,” Julie said.

'It was shot away, a long time ago—'

'In 1913, when he was a little boy,” Gideon said slowly, remembering. “And his mother was killed when they rifled a cabin on Canoe Creek. They stole two hard-boiled eggs.'

'You talked to Pringle,” Blackpath said.

'That's an awful thing,” Julie said, “but—'

'But what?” He was answering Julie, but his stare challenged Gideon. “It's no excuse for killing people seventy years later?'

Gideon looked at him without speaking. Something sagged inside Blackpath. His gaze dropped to the fire. “Ah, hell,” he said, “it's funny speaking English after all this time.” He paused. “You're right, you're right. It's not an excuse.” He seemed to be searching for the precise words he wanted, then gave up with a small shrug. The dawn had come; Gideon could see him more clearly and was struck anew by the strange beauty of the mask-like face.

'I really loved the old man. Really loved him.” The words could hardly be heard. “He was the first one of them to accept me. He called me Grandson. I called him Grandfather.” He cleared his throat. “But, God, how he hated the saltu. I think he's always been a little crazy.” He was, Gideon thought, genuinely close to tears.

'I think he killed some people when he was young,” Blackpath went on, “but when I found them he wasn't any kind of menace. Then they built that damn road right through here—'

'The Matheny trail,” Julie said.

'Is that what it's called?” he asked without interest. “Well, he went wild. Killed the first hiker he saw.'

'But he's so frail,” Julie said, “so small—'

'This was six years ago, remember. He was stronger. Besides, he used an atlatl. A spear thrower.” Blackpath was picking up moist earth, crumbling it in his palm, and letting it run from his cupped hand. “I talked with him again and again, tried to explain the killing couldn't do any good. I thought I had him convinced. And then he clubbed someone else.'

'Hartman,” Gideon said.

'Whoever. I found the poor guy on the trail with his head bashed in. A mess...” H e stopped. Gideon knew he was thinking of Startled Mouse, who lay where he had fallen, covered with Gideon's poncho, on the far side of the boulder. Blackpath closed his eyes. “I took him back to the village. Back to here. Keen Eagle—that's a good name for him—remembered how to trephine, and I thought for a while the guy might live. But he died.'

Blackpath stared into the fire. “I thought that was the end of it. But then a few weeks ago, after all those years, he must have stumbled on this girl near the summer village. You know about that?'

Gideon nodded.

'That was a bad thing. And now he tried to kill you. Twice.” He sighed. “I guess it's best this way.'

'What about the others?” Gideon asked. “They weren't involved? They didn't know?'

Blackpath shrugged again. “They knew and they didn't know. Like you didn't know about the Japanese internment camps. Like the Germans didn't know about Dachau. Look, they buried the two guys, didn't they? But no, they weren't involved in the killings, if that's what you mean. They're good people; harmless.'

'What about you?” Julie asked suddenly. “You've been here seven years. Did you find what you came to find?'

'Sure,” Blackpath said hotly. “Does it seem so impossible? What did I give up that was so wonderful? That world out there is garbage! It's bad enough for a white man, let alone an Indian.” His voice softened. “They helped me to become Indian, honest-to-God Indian. And I helped them.'

'You helped them?” Gideon said.

Blackpath stared at the fire, seeming to muse aloud. “When I came, they lived like dogs, on filth, scrounging around camp dumps for food and old clothes. They'd forgotten how to fish, how to make fishhooks, how to cover their huts. They hadn't made a tool in decades. The old woman hadn't woven a basket since she was a little girl. They were fighting the eagles for rotten salmon. They'd forgotten how to preserve meat, how to make their clothes.'

'And you,” said Gideon, looking at him with increasing respect, “taught them the old ways.'

Blackpath bristled. “Yeah, I taught them the old ways. What's wrong with that?'

'Look,” Gideon said, “will you get it straight that I'm on your side? We came here to help.'

'All right,” Blackpath said. “I'm sorry. I know you did. Okay, I taught them the old ways. As much as I knew. Do you know, when I found them they all slept in one big hut? The woman in with all the men?” He seemed