Effie gulped. “Hide? What makes you think that I hide something?”
“I sense it,” he said. “Common reasoning would tell me this, also. You must be concealing something. Either that or you have committed an offense so worthy of another’s wrath that they would enter your room and shoot at you.”
Ah, she thought as she drew in a deep breath to calm herself. He wasn’t inferring she was hiding something on her person at this very moment.
She said, “Well, I think that your reasoning is faulty.”
“Aa. I believe I understand you. What you are really saying is that you won’t tell me.”
“Exactly.”
“Haiya. It would be better if you did, I think.”
“Better for whom? You?”
“Perhaps. Better for you, as well, since if I know what it is you hide, I can more easily assist you.”
“Humph! So you say.”
“You do not trust me.” It wasn’t a question. “And this is wise of you. One should not blindly put one’s faith in those one does not know well. So do not tell me what it is you seek to mask. Simply know that I know you do.”
“Humph!” she repeated.
“But if you will not speak of that, perhaps you could at least tell me what it is you hope to discover by your journey.”
Effie smiled. She couldn’t help it. “I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract me so I might tell you what it is you really want to know. You certainly are a persistent man, Mr. Hawk, I’ll give you that. And you are assuming a great deal. What makes you think I seek something?”
Glimpsing him from over her shoulder, she saw that he lifted his shoulders as though it were obvious. He said, “Why else would you be traveling such a long distance into a territory that is dangerous to a white person?”
“Maybe you have not considered many other possibilities.” She sent him a coy glance, though its effect was lost on him because his back was to her. “Have you contemplated the fact that maybe I travel there to meet a lover? Which would make the hardship all the more worthwhile?”
“Saa,” he said. “It cannot be so.”
“Why could it not?”
“Because you do not have the look of a woman seeking a man.”
“Balderdash.”
“And you forget that the country you seek is Blackfeet territory. Therefore, it is doubtful you will find a white man there peacefully awaiting you. Besides, if that were true, you would not be taking others with you.”
Touché. She pouted. “I’m not saying that’s why I need to go there, I’m simply bringing up the point that it could be true.”
He nodded. “Aa, it could be, but it is not. Are you going to tell me what it is that makes you willing to risk so much?”
“No, I am not.”
“Soka’pii, it is as I thought.” Leaning forward, he grabbed hold of the cloak she requested. “Is this what you require?”
“Yes. Well, partially. My towel is in the inner pocket of my mantle. There,” she said, as his hand skimmed over the material of her pocket.
“Is this what you wish?” He grasped hold of the towel and pulled it away from her cloak.
“It is.” After snatching the towel away from him, she dried herself as best she could, then pulled it around her shoulders. Instantly warmth spread through her.
After a while, he said, “May I turn around now?”
“Yes, you may, but first, could you please hand me my comb, which is in the same pocket?”
He produced the object in short order, then turned toward her. “I would ask you a question.”
“Fine. Ask away,” she said, beginning to feel at ease with the man.
“What is this archaeology that you mention?”
He surprised her. “Archaeology?”
“Aa. Is that not one of the tasks that takes you into Blackfeet country? Turn around.”
“Turn around? Why?”
“I will comb your hair.”
“But—”
“Turn around.” He made a circling motion with his finger.
“I’m not asking you to comb my hair.”
“I know. Do you object to me doing it?”
In truth, the idea of this man touching her anywhere caused her stomach to tighten.
And yet, how many times in a person’s life was one offered such a luxury? Though she supposed she shouldn’t let him do it, the opportunity to let another person attend to the tangles in her hair—just this once—seemed too appealing to let slip by unheeded. “No, it’s not that I object to your combing my hair—not really. It’s only that I’m…astonished.”
“Do not be,” he replied, as she scooted around to place her back toward him. Before he launched himself into the task at hand, he said, “Your hair has many twists and waves, and it would be difficult for you to brush it on your own.”
“True. But I am used to doing it.”
“Then sit and enjoy. It is, after all, a man’s job.”
“A man’s job?”
“Aa, it is so with my people. Is it not true with yours?”
“No, not at all.”
“Humph! Your hair is also an unusual color, even amongst the white people, I think.”
“Yes. I have been told that.”
He ran the comb gently through a snarled lock. Pausing, he untangled the delicate curl, his fingers inadvertently skimming over the skin at her neck.
Tingles raced along her spine, and she knew she should stop this. It was intimate, too intimate.
But she didn’t cease it. In truth, it felt much too wonderful to put a stop to.
Slowly, he ran his fingers from the top of her head to the very tips of her hair, the delicate graze awakening every nerve ending in her neck and back. A feeling of serenity settled over her. “You do that well,” she said.
“Aa. I used to comb my grandfather’s hair—every day. And I have often done the same for my adopted grandmother.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you were adopted. Who are your adopted people?”
“The Pikunis.”
She spun back toward him, and he dropped his hands to his lap. “Oh? Then you have been adopted by the Blackfoot and are not a blood member of the tribe?”
“Saa, I am not adopted by the Blackfoot.”
“But…” She frowned. “Didn’t you say that the Pikunis are part of the Blackfoot Confederation? And if that is so…”
He sighed. “’Tis a complicated story.”
“Oh.” She swung around so that once again her back was presented to him. She only hoped he would continue his ministrations.
He did. “Do you wish to hear the story?”
“I believe I would. Otherwise, I must admit I am confused.”
“Soka’pii.”
“What does that word mean?”
“Soka’pii? Good. It means good.”
She glanced over her shoulder as he said the word, and she saw that he made a quick hand motion, out, away from his chest, as though he spoke with his hands as well as his tongue. “Thank you,” she said. “Now about that story.”
He returned the comb to the tangles in her hair, running it slowly through her locks. In due time, he began, “Once, when I was very young—”
“Before or after we met?” She turned slightly toward him.
“After, and I would be greatly honored if you would let me tell the story, perhaps without interruption…”
“All right,” she agreed, then shot a flirtatious little smile at him from over her shoulder.
He caught his breath then dropped the comb. He stared at her for a long moment. As though it took great will, he looked away from her. Clumsily, he picked up the comb, but she could tell that his composure was shaken, for his Adam’s apple bounced as though he couldn’t control it.
Still grinning, Effie spun back around, satisfied for the time being that he appeared to be as affected by her as she was by him.
He cleared his throat and began again. “It is true that I am of the Blackfoot Confederation, but not the Pikunis. My own tribe is the Blood, or as we say it, the Kainan. The Kainan is also a part of the Blackfoot Confederation. My mother and father were visiting friends when I was a baby. I am told I was only weeks old. They were killed.”
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Is that why you speak of only your grandfather and grandmother?”
“Aa, it is partially so. Also, when I was still fairly young, I was lost from those who had raised me—”
“You mean the Blood Indians?”
“No, the Blackfoot.”
“But I thought—”
“My mother and father were visiting the Blackfoot, and the man I call Grandfather is of that tribe. But later I was lost even from them and was eventually found by the Southern Pikunis. Because my father and mother were already gone, the Pikunis adopted me into their tribe.”
“I see, I think. So you were raised within the Blackfoot Confederation…different tribes within it, but basically by the Blackfoot. And by blood you are also of the Blackfoot Confederation?”
“Soka’pii, that is correct.” He paused as he drew the comb through her hair. Then, quite abruptly, he stopped. “Now it is your turn.”
“My turn?”
“I have a question for you.”
“I will not tell you what I seek in the mountains, if I am even looking for anything. So do not ask me.”
“Aa, I have come to understand this. But that is not what I am hoping to learn—at least not at this moment.”
“Oh?”
“What I would like to ask is: What is archaeology?”
“Archaeology? Well, let me think of the best way to explain it.” Crossing her legs in front of her, Effie leaned forward, placing her arms on her thighs. It was hard to think when his hands were all over the back of her head.
Perhaps she made too much of a simple thing, however, for his graze was hardly sensual. His fingertips were rarely touching her delicate skin now, as though he were carefully avoiding doing so.
Sighing, she hugged her knees.
A thought came out of nowhere. Was this what it would be like to be married? To this man?
A flush stole slowly over her face.
Her thoughts seemed to betray her. More as an attempt to distance herself from the waywardness of her musings, she began to talk. “Well, I suppose you could say that an archaeologist studies man, or rather things that man has made. As such, we don’t really probe into man’s social orders or groups or religions. But rather we look at and examine the things that man has created with his own hands, and mostly those things he made in the past. Once we find these objects, we study them, because from them we can discover many things about how that man lived.”
“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 is 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?”
His fingers stilled in their work, the comb dangling limply in his right hand. Though no emotion stole over his countenance, it seemed to take him a moment before he could speak. “The Lost Clan? Aa, I believe that I have heard of this clan…and this legend…in my youth. Indeed, I believe I know a little of it…”