It was not much of a lake. More like a crater, a hole in the earth. Round as a red moon, it was small, its backwall curved like a piece of broken cup, the water blood red, nothing growing within twenty yards of its arid rim, the starkness relieved only by the hissing jet of falling water. Was this Gold Lake? A bubble rose to the surface and there was that awful smell again. It made him think of giving birth to eggs. Rotten eggs. It was a creepy place. Something might jump out of the lake at any second. His hair raised again and his skin crawled and his vision wavered towards a jimjam fit. A chill ran up his back, and his arms goose-pimpled. Don’t let me pass out right now. Please.
No shimmering halos of purple light; no mental holiday into the ancient past. The jimjam didn’t happen. But it was close. His vision wavering, he gripped his head willing himself not to have a fit. He looked around. Where was the big deer? No way out, the white deer had to be in this canyon. But it wasn’t here and that wasn’t possible. He whispered, “Got to be…so strange…not to be.”
The deer wasn’t here. Somehow–the deer was somewhere else. The head of the canyon formed a tall red crown fifty feet above the lake. That probably explained the red color of the water. He scanned the rim but didn’t see the white deer. (Deer or manitoo?) He studied the lake.
At the edge there was a shiny black finger pointing at the water, and when he walked over to it, he saw it was a primitive, beautiful stone knife made by redmen.
Go on, pick it up. You know you want it.
He picked it up. He flashed the knife in the air feeling a strange savage power in his blood. He dashed around the lake swinging the knife, yelling, “Bad old Indian, you gonna mess with me now?”
Then the bad old Indian appeared out of nowhere.