“And who will prove he has not spoken the truth?”
“He said Johnny Thompson was a prisoner in the ‘Gray Streak.’”
“And so he may be.”
Joyce lost her power of speech. If all that the Voice had said were true, this was indeed a strange world.
“Time will tell.” She settled on this conviction. “But if it is all true! If it is!
“But how could he know all this? Surely he cannot be in many places at the same time?”
“Moccasin Telegraph.”
“What is Moccasin Telegraph?” Her tone was eager, commanding.
“That is a question no one can answer; at least no white man. A question no red man is willing to answer. We only know that they know. Time and again in this great white wilderness catastrophes have befallen men. A trapper has been killed by an enraged bull moose. A hunter has been shot by his own gun. A plane has crashed. Each time, within an hour or two, some Indian hundreds of miles away has described the tragedy in detail. How do we explain it? How could we? We do not try. We say Moccasin Telegraph, and leave it at that.”
“It—why, that is uncanny!”