The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

“Perhaps I should clarify,” the young man said. “I’m a de facto member of the council of elders. I represent my grandfather, who is blind, mostly deaf, but remains sharp as an ax. I warm his seat at council meetings, take notes, discuss matters with him, and cast his vote.”

Painter sighed. That was all well and good, but this young Ute was not the elder that he’d been hoping to question, someone steeped in ancient stories and lost tribal knowledge.

“From your expression,” Jordan said, his grin growing wider and warmer, “I can tell you’re disappointed, but there was no way my grandfather could make this long trip.” He rubbed the seat of his pants with one hand. “As rough as those roads were, he’d be heading to his next hip replacement by now. And considering that last mile, I might need my first.”

“Then let’s stretch our legs,” Alvin said, proving the wisdom of his own years. He waved them toward the pueblo’s porch, but he hooked an arm around his wife and nodded to a neighboring cabin. “Iris and I’ll see about rustling up a real breakfast at our place while you settle matters.”

Painter recognized that the two were making themselves scarce so that his group could talk in private, but considering how matters had changed, this wasn’t necessary; still, he wouldn’t turn down breakfast. He led Jordan up to the shaded porch. Kowalski was already there, kicked back on a chair, boots up on the rail. He rolled his eyes at Painter, plainly as unimpressed with the so-called elder as Painter was.

Kanosh joined them on the porch with Kai. His stocky cattle dog came, too, sniffing at the newcomer’s pant leg.

Jordan made his introductions again—though a bit of that shyness returned as he shook Kai’s hand. She also stammered, her voice going soft, and retreated to the opposite side of the porch, feigning a lack of interest, but the corner of her eye often found Jordan through a fall of her hair.

Painter cleared his throat and leaned back on the rail, facing the others. “I assume you know why I asked you to come all the way out here,” he said to Jordan.

“I do. My grandfather was good friends with Jimmy Reed. What occurred—the shooting at the cavern—was a tragedy. I knew his grandson, Charlie, very well. I was sent to offer whatever help I can in this matter and to answer any questions.”

It was a politician’s answer. From the kid’s clipped and restrained response, Painter suspected Jordan had spent at least a year in some law school. The young Ute was here to help, but he wasn’t going to open his tribe to any further involvement, potentially damaging involvement, in the tragic events that had occurred in the mountains.

Painter nodded. “I appreciate you coming, but what we truly needed was someone—like Jimmy Reed—who adhered to the old ways, who had intimate and detailed knowledge of the cave’s history.”

Jordan looked unperturbed. “That was clear. Word reached my grandfather, who pulled me aside privately and sent me here without anyone else knowing. As far as the Ute tribe is aware, we refused your request.”

Painter shifted, fixing the youth with a sharper gaze. Maybe this wasn’t such a waste after all.

Jordan didn’t shrink from Painter’s attention. “Only two elders even knew that cave existed—preserved on a scrap of tribal map that marked the cave’s location on Ute lands. It was my grandfather who told Jimmy Reed about the cave. And last night, my grandfather told me.”

A flicker of fear showed in the young man’s eyes. He glanced away to the sunbaked cliffs, as if trying to shake it off. “Crazy stories . . .” he mumbled.

“About the mummified bodies,” Painter coaxed, “about what was hidden there?”

A slow nod. “According to my grandfather, the bodies preserved in that cave were a clan of great shamans, a mysterious race of pale-skinned people who came to this land, bearing great gifts and powers. They were called the people of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.”

Kanosh translated. “People of the Morning Star.” He turned to Painter. “Which rises each morning in the east.”

Jordan nodded. “Those old stories say the strangers did come from east of the Rockies.”

Painter shared a look with Kanosh. The professor was clearly thinking these people came from much farther east than this.

His lost tribe of Israelites . . . the Mormon’s Nephites.

“Once settled in these territories,” Jordan continued, “the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev taught our people much, gathering shamans from tribes throughout the West. Word of their teachings spread far and wide, drawing more and more people to them, becoming one great clan themselves.”

The Lamanites, Painter thought.

“The Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev were greatly revered, but also feared for the power they possessed. As centuries passed, they kept mostly to themselves. Our own shamans began to fight with each other, seeking more knowledge, beginning to defy the warnings spoken by the strangers. Until one day, a Pueblo tribe to the south stole a powerful treasure from the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. But the thieves did not know the power of what they had stolen and brought great doom upon themselves, destroying most of their own clan. In anger, the other tribes set upon the surviving members of the Pueblo clan and slaughtered every man, woman, and child, until they were no more.”

“Genocide,” Kanosh whispered.

Jordan bowed his head in acknowledgment. “This horrified the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. They knew their body of knowledge was too powerful, too tempting to the tribes who were still warring. So they gathered their members throughout the West, hid their treasures in sacred places. Many were murdered as they sought to flee, leaving other clusters of survivors with little choice but to take their own lives to preserve their secrets.”

Painter studied Kanosh out of the corner of his eyes. Was this the war described in the Book of Mormon between the Nephites and Lamanites?

“Only a handful of our more trusted elders were given knowledge of these burial caches, where it was said a great accounting of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev was written in gold.”

Kanosh took a deep breath, turning away, his eyes glassy, maybe from tears. Here was further confirmation of all he believed, about his people, about their place in history and in God’s plan.

Still, Painter—long estranged from his own heritage—remained a skeptic. “Is there any proof of this story?”

Jordan took a moment to respond, studying his toes before looking up. “I don’t know, but my grandfather says that if you want to know more about the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev, you should go to the place where their end began.”