The three of them were walking along the south shore of the Salmon River, not far from Dog Leg Falls. The country there was perfect for their purpose: it was clear of woods and reasonably deserted. Sandy was carrying several boxes of shells and four or five sheets of white plastic material, painted over with a red bull’s-eye. Mike had a small bale of packed straw he had found in Mr. Henderson’s stable, and Mr. Cook was lugging two gun cases.
“Let’s go over it once more,” Sandy insisted. “We know this much. Joe wants to leave here in a hurry and Mormon Crossing means something to him.”
“You think it means something to him,” Mr. Cook corrected.
“We agreed that he began to act funny as soon as I started talking about it. And besides, he seemed to be pretty sure about what happened to that party of Mormons.”
“But, Sandy,” Mike protested, “they were massacred more than a hundred years ago. How could that make any difference to Joe now?”
“That’s my whole point,” Sandy explained. “How did he know it was a massacre? They might have died of starvation or any number of things. Why was he so sure?”
The three of them walked on, lost in thought. It was Mike who finally broke the silence. “This may be crazy,” he began, “but Joe could have some inside information.”
“How do you mean?” his father asked.
“He’s a Blackfoot,” Mike explained earnestly. “This used to be Blackfoot country. Maybe the story about the Mormon massacre was handed down within the tribe—you know, from father to son—until it reached Joe.” He shifted the bale of straw to his other arm and began to talk more quickly. “I know that Indians are part of our life now, but the tribe still means something to them.”
“You’re right.” Mr. Cook nodded. “They have a strong sense of tribal identification. It’s quite possible that each tribe passes its own legends along from generation to generation. Indians don’t keep any records, so naturally it wouldn’t be in the library. Joe might have heard about the massacre from his father or some of the elders of the tribe.”