“That you aren’t Indian.”
“Racial impurity,” Comfrey corrected him. “That we are not pure-bred. But we do have a group identity, and we do claim to be Indian, and have claimed it for years.”
“So?”
“So if we get disqualified on the grounds of racial impurity, that will make all the other Indian tribes mighty damn nervous.”
“Why?” asked Milo, fascinated.
“Because who is pure nowadays? The Navajos are mixed with Hispanics, like most of the rest of the bunch out west-”
“And the Cherokees started marrying white settlers in 1809,” murmured Jake.
“I didn’t think Adair sounded very Indian,” Milo admitted.
“Yep. If they started kicking out impure Indians, they’d have to start worrying about who’d be next. Maybe someday uranium would be discovered on the old reservation, and bingo! Uncle Sam would decide that your tribe wasn’t pure enough to deserve the land. Yep, they wouldn’t like to see that precedent set. Not over one little old valley in the Smokies. We’ve made enough noise about being Indian to where we’d embarrass every tribe in the country if they kicked us out now.”
“That’s very clever,” said Dummyweed.
“Just politics,” said Comfrey modestly.
“Why was Alex killed?” asked Milo quietly. He was sure it was tied in to all this.
“I don’t know,” said Comfrey. “Unless the strip miners did it, figuring he’d prove we were the real thing.”
“You didn’t kill him, hoping we would finish the project and come up with the wrong answer?” Milo winced, thinking how close he had come to doing just that.
“Shoot, I didn’t care. I just wanted the big man’s name on the report, no matter what he had to say on the subject.”
“And nobody else knew you weren’t Indian?”
“Nary a one.”
“Suppose somebody figured it out, though?” said Milo slowly. “If somebody knew the truth, and didn’t realize the politics involved, they might think it was a secret that had to be protected.”
“Who would know?” asked Jake.
“Somebody old, maybe, who would remember the truth from childhood.”
Comfrey shook his head. “Nope. My mama is the oldest one, and she’s always sworn we come from the Unaka tribe.”
Jake looked stricken. “Unaka! No wonder Elizabeth looked funny! I was telling her today that it’s the Cherokee word for white man.”
“And if she heard it from Amelanchier, she’d wonder what was going on. And she might have gone up to ask her! Does your mother know about this political scheme of yours?”
“No,” stammered Comfrey. “She’s just an old lady now, and I didn’t want to worry her-”
“I think she already knows,” said Milo grimly. “Let’s go!”
As they hurried out of the church, Dummyweed pulled at Comfrey’s sleeve. “Mr. Stecoah, since you guys aren’t Indians anyway, do you think I could join the tribe?” He thought it would be very good for the tourist trade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MILO HAD RUN a hundred yards up the path before he realized that he was staking all his troops on one hunch. Suppose that Elizabeth had not gone to Amelanchier’s cabin? He could not afford to be wrong. He also realized that sending four men to confront a woman in her eighties was an embarrassing form of overkill. He motioned for the others to stop.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Jake, over the sound of Dummyweed’s gasping.
“I think we should split up, in case she went somewhere else. Why don’t you and Coltsfoot check the site?”
“Why should she go there?”
“I don’t know. To look for more evidence around the graves, maybe. Anyway, we ought to check it out.”
“What about you?” asked Jake, cutting his eyes toward Comfrey.
“I’ll risk it,” said Milo, catching his meaning. “If you don’t find her, come up to the cabin.”
As they drew nearer to the mountain clearing, Comfrey caught up with Milo and signaled for him to walk quietly. They went the next hundred yards in silence, easing from one point of cover to the next. Milo noticed that Comfrey had not brought his rifle.
“Why are we hiding?” he whispered. “Do you think she’d shoot us?”
Comfrey shrugged. “She’s an old woman. If she’s protecting our people, ain’t none of us safe up here.”
Milo was shocked. “But you’re her son!” he protested.“Couldn’t you pretend you’re up here on a friendly visit?”
“I don’t know how well she sees at this distance these days, and I ain’t about to bet my life that she’d recognize me. Especially if she’s already het up over something. I’ll do this my way, if it’s all the same to you.”
When they reached the sourwood tree at the edge of the clearing, Comfrey stopped, studying the cabin. “You wait here and watch me. If I get to the porch okay, I’ll give you a signal and you get up there as quick as you can.”
Milo tried again. “She’s a little old lady,” he said, feeling foolish. “Aren’t we overdoing this?”
Comfrey looked at him with a troubled expression that means that a mountain person is about to say straight out something difficult for him to express. He decided against it, though, grinned and answered: “Boy, you remind me of the fellow who mistook a coral snake for a scarlet king and died a wiser man. Now stay here and keep your head down!”
As he watched Comfrey creep through the fescue grass, Milo tried to view the whole thing as a scene from a war movie. He knew that if he let his mind dwell on Elizabeth, or on the possibility that they were too late, his reactions would be thrown off, which might undo any chance they had to save her. As if in slow motion, Comfrey passed the woodpile and the dogwood tree, until at last he reached the porch, mounting it not by the front steps, but by a practiced roll around one of the support posts. Milo, who expected to see him ease toward the window, was surprised to see him crawl toward the wooden door instead.
This guy really is a pro, he thought, when he realized how much safer it was to listen than to look. A moment later Comfrey gave him an okay sign of circled thumb and forefinger, motioning him forward.
“She’s alive,” thought Milo, darting from cover.
His next conscious moment was hitting the porch at a running jump while Comfrey kicked open the door to the cabin.
Milo saw the cramped room, its hand-hewn furniture wedged between cardboard boxes of letters from tourists and piles of packaged herbs. At a plank table in the middle of it all sat Elizabeth, sipping tea from an earthenware mug. When she saw Milo panting in the doorway, she raised her eyebrows, inquiring sweetly: “Return of the ogre?”
“Are you all right?” Milo blurted out before he realized that she obviously was.
“Certainly,” Elizabeth informed him. “Amelanchier and I were just talking about… herbs.”
Milo looked at the old woman, whose initial look of surprise had subsided into wariness. “How do, Comfrey,” she said crisply.
“We got to talk, Mom,” he muttered.
“I reckon you should have thought of that some time back,” his mother remarked. “Bit late in the day for it now.”
Elizabeth set down her mug, sloshing a bit of tea on the table. “By the way, Milo, you were right about the measurements. I did them wrong.”
Milo glanced uneasily at Amelanchier. He didn’t see a weapon, but anything could be concealed in the clutter of the room. “We’ll talk about that later. You have to leave now.”
“What’s your hurry?” asked Amelanchier genially. “Stay to tea?”
“What?” asked Elizabeth. She kept shaking her head as if she were drowsy. “Why do I have to leave now, Bill?”
Comfrey glanced at her, then back at his mother. “I believe I’ll have a sip of that tea,” he remarked.
“I’ll fix you a cup, son.”