When the breeze whistles through green leaves at a certain pitch or the crumbling smell of damp earth permeates the air, I remember the day I helped murder an innocent girl. Days like that, my part in fulfilling a gypsy’s curse and perpetuating a legend of blood and violence sits on me like a heavy sweat. The hell of it is, I don’t even count hers as the first death on my score sheet, but I’d roll naked through a bed of razor-fisted Dungeness to make sure it’s the last.
Folks around here call me Chief, but the name on my birth certificate is George Henry, the origins of which can be traced back to the days when The Hudson Bay Company held sway in the Pacific Northwest. Many natives of the time took English names such as the Duke of York, but my ancestor chose to honor one of the great
