“Haven’t you any idea what became of him?”
“Maybe him go dead in water; maybe get tired powder dock; maybe Wynaults catch him.”
“Twasla, what do you mean—the Wynaults?”
“Injun from Vancouver way. Him no scalp. Him take all head. Him head hunter.”
In her interest Clem almost forgot to eat. “But you don’t mean to tell me that they were real head hunters?”
“Huh!” grunted Twasla, pushing back the calico sleeve of her dress and exposing a ragged scar across her arm at the elbow. “Me know.”
“Did you—did they—did—” Clem’s words stumbled over her tongue. “How did you get that scar, Twasla?”
Twasla’s only answer was to roll up the other sleeve to reveal a companion scar on the other arm.
“But tell me, Twasla.”
“Me no tell. He know.” The Indian woman pointed a fat finger toward the bay.
“W
