The Devil Colony(128)

“It is.”

Hank could not shake his despair, made worse by his memories of Maggie and all of the others who had died.

All this death.

He grew suddenly resentful of his companion’s youth, of his unflagging optimism and his steadfast belief in his own immortality. He glanced up at Jordan—but what he found in the young man’s face told a different story. The black eyes, the bruised features, the fear expressed in every muscle—it was not a lack of maturity that engendered such hope in the young man. It was simply who Jordan was.

Hank took a deep shuddering breath, casting back the shrouds of the dead. He was still alive. So was this resolute young man. A tail thumped under the table.

You, too, Kawtch.

Hank returned Jordan’s support, momentarily sharing that warm squeeze, before his focus returned to the situation at hand. He still hadn’t changed his opinion concerning the final resting place of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. Painter’s colleague out east had read that golden map correctly.

At least, Hank believed so.

“What did you find?” Jordan asked.

“I’ve been reading through reams of Native American lore concerning Yellowstone, attempting to discern possible correlations among the various myths and legends that would support the existence of a lost city hidden in that valley. It’s been frustrating. Native Americans have been living in this region for over ten thousand years. The Cheyenne, Kiowa, Shoshone, Blackfeet, and more recently, the Crows. But so little is spoken among all these tribes about this unique valley. It’s a resounding and loud silence, suspiciously so.”

“Maybe they didn’t know about it.”

“No, they had names for it. The Crows called it land of burning ground or sometimes the land of vapors. The Blackfeet described it as many smokes. The Flatheads used the phrase smoke from the ground. Can’t be more accurate than that, can you? Those early tribes definitely knew about this place.”

“Then maybe they didn’t talk about it because they were scared.”

“That was the view that was held for the longest time. That Indians believed the hissing and roaring of the geysers were the voices of evil spirits. It’s still bandied about in some circles, but it’s pure hogwash. The newest anthropological studies have revealed that not to be the case. The early Indians had no fear of this steaming land. Instead, that false story got told and retold, mostly by early white settlers, perhaps to make their savage neighbors appear foolish and dull of mind . . . or maybe to help justify the taking of their lands. If the pioneers could claim that Indians were too scared to enter Yellowstone, then the entire territory was up for grabs.”

“Then what is the true story?”

Hank pointed to the screen. “The evidence confounded the scholars of the time. This is what historian Hiram Chittenden wrote about it back in 1895. ‘It is a singular fact that in Yellowstone National Park, no knowledge of the country seems to have been derived from the Indians . . . Their deep silence concerning it is therefore no less remarkable than mysterious.’ ”

“Doesn’t sound like they were scared,” Jordan said. “More like they were hiding something.”

Hank touched his nose—dead on, my boy—then pointed to the screen. “Look at this. I found this passage in a recent study; it’s an excerpt from an old journal of one of the earliest settlers, John Hamilcar Hollister. I could find nothing like this anywhere else, but it speaks volumes on that deep Indian silence.”

Jordan leaned closer.

Hank read the words quietly again alongside him.

There are but few Indian legends which refer to this purposely unknown land. Of these I have found but one, and that is this—that no white man should ever be told of this inferno, lest he should enter that region and form a league with the devils, and by their aid come forth and destroy all Indians.





Jordan sat back, stunned. “So they were hiding something.”

“Something our ancestors didn’t want to have fall into the wrong hands, fearing it would be used against them.”

“That lost city must be there.”

But where?

Hank checked his watch, fighting against a return of the paralyzing despair that had gripped him moments before. He would follow Jordan’s example. He would not give up hope. He caught the young man staring out the window toward the lights of Flagstaff in the distance. But Hank knew his mind was much farther away, with a worry that had nothing to do with volcanoes and lost cities.

This time it was Hank who reached over and gave Jordan’s hand a squeeze of reassurance. “We’ll get her back.”


1:38 A.M.