She refused to take his hand. She still remembered John Hawkes’s description of the man. An Indian Uncle Tom. Of course, this traitor to his people would be working for the government to help track her down.
His arm dropped. He planted his hands on his hips, fingers brushing the top of his holstered pistol. “So what’re we going to do with you, young lady? You’ve got yourself into a mountain of trouble. All the law on this side of the Rockies is out looking for you. That explosion back there—”
She had heard enough. “It wasn’t my fault!” she blurted out, loud and angry, needing to lash out against someone. “I don’t know what happened!”
“That may be so, but someone died during that blast. A dear friend of mine. And people are looking for someone to blame.”
She stared at him. She read the well of sadness in the deep wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He was telling the truth.
With his words, the anger inside her blew out like a doused candle. Her worst fears were now real. She covered her face, remembering the blast, the blinding flash. She slumped down the trunk of the tree and crouched into a ball. She had murdered someone.
The well of tears that had been building inside her chest since the explosion broke through the tight terror. Silent sobs rocked through her.
“No one was supposed to get hurt,” she choked out, but her words sounded meaningless even to her.
A shadow fell over her. The old man knelt down, put an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into his side. She didn’t have the strength to fight it.
“I can only imagine what you intended with that backpack full of explosives,” he said softly. “But you were right before. That explosion wasn’t your fault.”
She resisted the comfort of his words. Before her father died, he taught her right from wrong, instilled in her the importance of responsibility. It had just been the two of them most of her life. He took two jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. She spent more nights babysitting neighbors’ kids than in their own apartment. They took care of each other as well as they could.
So she could not fool herself. Whether it was by accident or not, her actions had ended up killing someone today.
“I don’t know what happened back there,” Kanosh continued, his voice warm and full of reassurance, “but it wasn’t your explosives that blew up the mountainside. I think it was that totem skull. Or something inside that skull.”
A part of her heard his words and latched onto them like someone drowning. Still, lost in guilt and grief, she feared fully accepting what he was saying.
Perhaps sensing her resistance, he spoke quietly. “I read the reports before coming here, about the rumors concerning the cave, ancient stories shared by a handful of tribal elders. According to those stories, the burial cave was cursed, and any trespass would end in ruin for all.” He let out a soft and sad snort. “Maybe someone should have listened. As much as I’ve studied our people’s past, I’ve learned how often such stories have a hard kernel of truth inside of them.”
The strength of his arms and the assurance of his words helped calm her. Tears continued to flow, but she found the strength to lift her head, needing to see his face as much as hear his words.
“So . . . so the explosion wasn’t the C4 I had in my pack?”
“No. It was something much worse. It’s why I came looking for you. To protect you.”
She pulled straighter, out of his arms. He must have read her questioning look.
“That explosion helped set off the powder keg already brewing on the top of the mountain. When I slipped away, the activists gathered on the mountaintop were already beginning to skirmish with the National Guard. Everyone is accusing the other side of all manner of crimes and atrocities. But they’re all certain about one thing.”
She swallowed, guessing what that was. “They think I’m to blame.”
“And they’re all looking for you. And as much tension and confusion as is out there, I fear they may shoot first and ask questions later.”
She shivered, suddenly cold. “What am I going to do?”
“First, you’re going to tell me what happened. Everything. Every detail. The truth is often one’s best shield.”
She didn’t know where to begin, wasn’t sure she even knew the whole truth. But the old man’s hand found hers and squeezed reassurance. She took strength from the iron in those strong fingers, so much like her father’s callused hands.
Still, her words came reluctantly at first, but before long, her story came out in a rush, both as a confession and as an act of contrition. But deep down, she also knew she needed to unload her burden onto someone else’s shoulders and share it.