“Nothing really, I suppose. It’s just that Crows and Blackfeet never got along too well together. Our ancestors fought over the same hunting ground for years. We were always at war.”
Mr. Cook scratched another match along the arm of his chair. “But that’s all finished now, isn’t it? There’s no bad feeling any more.”
Joe took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and huddled over a light. “You better not pay any attention to me. I just happen to know some Crows I’m not too fond of.”
“But that’s personal,” objected Mr. Cook. “Nothing to do with the whole nation.”
Joe hooked one leg over the other and frowned at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s personal, all right. And mutual.” A look of hard anger clouded over his face, then disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. “Well,” he said after a pause, his good humor apparently restored, “so you’re going down Lost River to meet Hank Dawson?”
Mr. Cook’s face lit up. “Do you know Hank?”
The Indian shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Where’s he meeting you?”
“At Mormon Crossing.”
“Dad,” Mike interrupted, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that place. I thought the Mormons settled Utah—around Salt Lake City.”
“They did,” his father answered. “But some of them didn’t like it.”