Page 35 of Red Hawk's Woman

“Hmm…” he said.

“Now most of the items we investigate must be dug up and found again, since hundreds or even thousands of years have changed the landscape of the land. So when an archaeologist talks about a dig or an excavation, what he truly means is that he is going to quarry in a particular area. By use of shovels, trowels and brushes, we delve into the earth and into the past, looking for objects. From those objects we find, we seek to know more about the man of the long ago.”

“Soka’pii,” he said. “And this is what you wish to do in the country that the white man calls the Gates of the Mountains?”

“Yes.”

“And which mountain is it that you seek to find?”

“I wish I knew the name of it, but even my father never learned its exact identity—only its location. It is a mountainous area north of the town of Helena and above the Gates of the Rocky Mountains. It was an area once used by the Indians as a buffalo jump.”

“A piskan?”

“If that word means a place where the buffalo jump off a cliff to their doom, yes.”

“Aa.”

“Do you know of it? For if not, I do have a map of the place, and I can show you where it is.”

“Aa, a map would be good.” Simple words, yet something had suddenly changed about him. His voice had lowered or altered in some fashion, or had he merely hesitated ever so slightly? Whatever it was, she sensed that something was wrong, and she couldn’t understand exactly why. However, he was continuing to speak. “I think if you show me a map, I might know of the place, since I am familiar with that part of the country.”

“Oh, I wish I’d brought it with me. But I didn’t. We must meet again sometime today. I will show you the exact spot.”

“Is the place where you are going close to where we first met?”

“Yes, it is.”

Again, he hesitated, but the silence was hardly comfortable, and she longed to bring it to an end. Finally, he said, “Then I have no need of a map.”

“Nevertheless, I can show you the exact spot,” she argued. “Don’t you think I should?”

“Perhaps. You mention that, as an archaeologist, you dig up things from the past?”

“That’s right.”

“Is there a specific tribe you seek to find?”

“Yes. It is a mythological tribe, I’m afraid, one of legend. It is my hope to discover if the legend be true.”

“Perhaps I know of it.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I do not believe that its origin is steeped in Blackfoot myths.”

“You may be correct,” he agreed. “However, I am aware of many legends—not only those of my people, but of other Indian tribes, as well.”

She glanced at him from over her shoulder. “Very well. I will tell you, but only if you promise that if I mention the name of the tribe, and perhaps a bit of the legend surrounding it, you will repeat this to no one.”

“You have my word.”

She studied his solemn expression warily. Could she trust him? Instinct said she could. However, the events of the past few days—including the intruder in the night—caused her to hesitate. At the moment, she trusted no one, not even her fellow companions.

Very well. She would be cautious.

Turning around so that her back was once again presented to him, she began, “In truth, it might be best that I tell you the particulars of the legend, since you will be involved in the expedition by association. I suspect it will be better that you know.”

“Soka’pii, I agree.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Have you ever heard of the legend of the Lost Clan?”