The Man from Forever by Vella Munn Page B

if he really was in a hurry. Strange, he didn’t say anything about it to me.”
    â€œHe doesn’t want to talk to me.”
    â€œWell, I—maybe he doesn’t.”
    â€œI know he doesn’t. It’s all right. I feel the same way about him. Actually, I was just trying to bug him.”
    Tory smiled. She had expected something ancient and profound to come out of the Indian’s mouth. “I think you succeeded.”
    â€œGood. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œDon’t let it bother you, miss. We can’t all get along with everyone else. Besides, the less he involves himself in what we’re trying to do, the better. I don’t trust him.”
    â€œDon’t trust him. Why not?” she asked although it was none of her business.
    â€œWhite man speak with forked tongue.” Black smiled briefly. “You’re staying here, are you?”
    She was going to have to revamp her impression of old Indian men. Whatever he was, he was no stoic. She explained, briefly, about having rented the cabin, but said nothing about her ties to General Canby. When Black reached for the ignition key, she placed what she hoped was a casual hand on the open window. “You were talking about someone Fenton referred to as a spirit warrior. What was that all about?”
    A moment ago Black had impressed her as a man of today, a man comfortably carrying on his share of a casual conversation with a stranger. Now, although it might only be a trick of the morning light, she swore there was new life in his eyes. His mouth worked, but he didn’t say anything, telegraphing to her that he hadn’t expected the question and didn’t know how to respond.
    â€œIt just sounds interesting, that’s all.” She hated sounding as if she were stumbling through her words, but couldn’t think of any way to change that. “I was at Captain Jack’s Stronghold the other day. There—” Careful. “It’s an impressive place with a strong sense of history.”
    â€œHmm.”
    â€œLook, I’m an anthropologist. It’s in my nature to be interested in these things.”
    â€œAnthropologist. What are you doing here?”
    This man kept her off-balance with his changing moods. She now swore he didn’t think any more of her than he did of Fenton. “A vacation. I’ve really had my nose to the grindstone lately.”
    â€œYou’re not here to do research?”
    The question sounded innocent enough; it was the tone behind his words that warned her that no matter what she said, he wouldn’t take it at face value. “I promise. No research. Just call it a busman’s holiday. I’m so glad I took the time to—”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI just told you. I’m on a vacation.”
    â€œNo.” All hints of sociability had been stripped from his voice. His eyes, although still nearly hidden beneath dry, loose flesh, made her feel like a bug under a microscope. “What is your job?”
    She could have lied. Probably should have come up with anything except the truth. Except she wanted this old Modoc to know that she wasn’t afraid of him. When she mentioned the Alsea project, she swore she could feel his distrust, his hate even envelop her.
    â€œYou’re one of them. One of those trying to steal what doesn’t belong to you.”
    â€œThat’s not it at all. We’re all highly trained researchers. We know what we’re doing. Do you think we want the site to be ruined? That’s why we’re determined to do it right, so there are no—”
    â€œIt isn’t yours. The village belongs to those whose ancestors understood the land.”
    Halfway through a rejoinder, she forced herself to stop. Not sure what she could say to salvage the conversation, she took a moment to survey her surroundings. People were beginning to stir