Tag Against Time (10 page)

A buckboard, driven by a large man, appeared between the tall pines on the dirt road. Two women sat beside him. A variety of people filled the back of the wagon.

“Quite a group,” Mr. Pierce said, standing up. “Automobiles will never replace the good old wagon for groups that big.”

“I'll take my plate inside to Mrs. Pierce, and see if there is anything she needs done.” Tag had no desire to meet the newcomers. He tapped on the screen door and went in.

A small, horsehair settee, an oak rocking chair, and a desk stacked with papers occupied the front of the room. Red and black Navajo rugs covered much of the pine-plank floor. A long shelf displaying the ancient ones' pottery and baskets ran along the front wall. Tag's stomach knotted up. He tore his eyes away from the shelf that flaunted his ancient friends' personal belongings.

An oak table with an oilcloth covering and two pressed-back oak chairs stood near the rear of the room by a large iron cookstove and a dry sink. He could see a narrow, quilt-covered bed in the room off to the left.

“Thank you. It is the best meal that I've had in years.” Tag set the plate on the dry sink. “Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Pierce?”

“Know how to weed?” Mrs. Pierce answered without looking up from the pot she was stirring.

Tag went out the back door and toward the garden, keeping his head down. He knelt between the tall stalks of corn, keeping his back toward the corral where the people piled out of the wagon.

“Right nice day for a picnic,” Mr. Pierce's voice said. “I just got back from taking another group down, so I'm a bit tired.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Pierce, we know the way,” answered a husky voice. “We'll do just fine on our own.”

Tag peeked through the stalks. There were at least eight people carrying huge picnic baskets on their arms.

“I'm sure you will. I'll walk down in a bit and just remind everyone they are not allowed to dig in the ruins for artifacts. What's lying around in sight is one thing, but digging for mementos is another.”

Tag bit his tongue as he watched Mr. Pierce lead the group toward the trailhead. He yanked out a weed and threw it over his shoulder.
Eight picnic baskets! I bet Mr. Pierce won't even search the baskets when those vultures come back
. Tag pitched another weed over his head.

“I was right,” Tag whispered hours later. He stood behind the screen door of the cabin watching the picnickers hoisting their heavy baskets into the wagon. “He's not even going to
ask
if they took anything.” Desperation replaced his anger. What could he do?

“You must be hungry,” Mrs. Pierce came through the door, “after all the weeding and wood-cutting you did this afternoon. Dinner will be ready soon. Go on out and sit with Mr. Pierce till it's ready.”

How can I explain it all to him?
Tag thought, watching Mr. Pierce whittling a toothpick from a twig. How does someone tell an old man, who fought in the Civil War, to get tough and do the job that he was hired to do?

“Mrs. Pierce said you did a good job on the garden and filled the woodbox too.” Mr. Pierce snapped his pocket knife shut. “She's cooking chicken and dumplings tonight.” He inspected the toothpick and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “We'll get a bedroll made up here on the porch before it gets dark. Glad you're spending the night.”

“I appreciate you inviting me.” Tag said, looking out into the forest.
It's useless. Even if I knew how to say it, Mr. Pierce wouldn't change. He's just too kindhearted
. His anger died. The weariness that depression brings flooded over him.

I'm fighting a no-win battle against time and man
.

Tag pushed his plate away. “Mrs. Pierce, that was the best breakfast I have had in at least thirty years. Thank you.”

“Thirty years, you don't say.” Mrs. Pierce chuckled, dismissing Tag's truthfulness as a joke. “I'd have guessed at least fifty years by the looks of those ribs sticking through your skinny chest.”

Mr. Pierce stood up from the table. “You stay with us a while and Mrs. Pierce will fatten you up good. She's the best cook in the North, South, and Southwest.” He winked at his wife as she cleared the table. “Well, Tag, do you think you could help with special folks visiting the canyon today?” He strolled toward the front door.

“Sure!” Tag rushed to hold the door open. “You just tell me where you want me to take them.”

Mr. Pierce peered over his round wire-rimmed glasses. “It sounds like you're trying to steal my job from me.”

“Oh, no sir. I just want to . . .” Tag's face felt hot.

Mr. Pierce eased himself down on the porch step. He winked at Tag. “I'm just funning with you. Although, it might be best for you to come along with me a few times to learn the ins-and-outs of the rangering before you start out on your own.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say. I don't know as much as you do about the canyon, but I want to learn.”

Mr. Pierce dug into his back pants pocket and pulled out his bandanna. “Word came yesterday that the Coltons would be back today.”

“The Coltons?” Tag tried to keep his excitement out of his voice.

“Dr. Harold and Mary-Russell Colton from Pennsylvania. Do you know them? No? I didn't think that you did.” Mr. Pierce took off his glasses. “Dr. Colton is a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Studies animals, I believe. His wife is a well-known artist.” Mr. Pierce spit on his glasses and wiped them in careful strokes with his bandanna. “They came to the canyon four years ago on their honeymoon. They've been back every summer since. Seems they enjoy our little display of ancient life here. Might as well move here, I say. But then they are northerners, and northerners are not the brightest at times.” Mr. Pierce plopped his glasses back on his thin nose. “But don't tell Mrs. Pierce I said that.”

Tag nodded, trying to keep from doing an Irish jig right there. He knew the Coltons, not personally, of course. They died before he was born, but he knew of them. Dr. Harold Sellers Colton and Mary-Russell Colton established the Museum of Northern Arizona and dedicated it to the preservation and study of ancient and contemporary Indian cultures. It was one of the few places that both he and his dad
loved. His dad didn't care for sports, movies, TV, or even video arcades, all the things Tag loved. Archaeology seemed to consume his dad twenty-four hours a day. Homesickness welled up in Tag's heart, remembering the hours spent with him at the museum. Because of his dad's job with the Park Service, together they were allowed to explore a huge, private storage room with ceiling-high shelves. Each gray metal shelf held hundreds of artifacts—from pottery to stone tools and shell jewelry. Dad took hours explaining different items on the high shelves; how they were made and used, and where they came from. Tag especially enjoyed all the interesting or strange tidbits of information Dad added. It was during these hours that Tag had truly felt close to his father. He had gained most of his archaeology knowledge at his dad's elbow while exploring the Museum of Northern Arizona.

Now, Tag's eyes stung with little bullets of tears.
Please Taawa. Let me go there again with Dad
, Tag prayed as a dusty black automobile bounced up the road to the cabin.

“Mr. Pierce said that you are from Pennsylvania. Aren't the winters awfully cold there?” Tag asked as he and Dr. Colton stood outside Great Owl's home. Mrs. Colton and their two-year-old son, Ferrell, were exploring some of the other ruins.

“Yes, and they seem to get colder each year.” Dr. Colton had a long face with a beard and mustache. Dressed in work clothes, he reminded Tag of his dad's archaeologist friends in the future. Dr. Colton's intense eyes missed nothing as he crawled in and out of the ruins. “I've never been here in the
winter, but it must be beautiful with the snow on the San Francisco Peaks.”

“The Peaks are gorgeous and have great skiing, too.”

Dr. Colton peered at Tag. “Skiing?”

Realizing his time-error, Tag rushed on. “And then there is the Grand Canyon, it's just a few hours away. You haven't lived until you have seen the Grand Canyon in the winter. It is perfect for Mrs. Colton to paint, and there are all kinds of wild animals for you to study. I'm sure that the University in Flagstaff needs a good zoology professor.”

“University? Do you mean the Normal School?” Dr. Colton rubbed his beard. “It's only a few years old. I'm not sure if the school even has a zoology department.”

“You are the perfect person to start it. Of course, you'll need a
museum
to display all the fossils and dinosaurs you'll find. You know that northern Arizona doesn't have a museum at all, which is a real shame considering all the Indian ruins and artifacts around. And . . .”

Dr. Colton held his hands up, “Wait a minute, young man. Do your parents have land to sell, or has Flagstaff hired you to promote their town?”

“No, it's nothing like that.” Tag shifted uncomfortably and ran his fingers through his hair, getting them tangled in his tight curls. “I—I just love Flagstaff so much that I think everyone should move here, especially someone like you.”

“You sound just like Sean O'Farrell.” Dr. Colton started down the path away from Great Owl's house.

Tag's heart stopped. “You knew—know Sean?” He ran after Dr. Colton. Could Sean still be alive?

“We had dinner with him at his house last night, along with his wife, Kathryn, and their youngest son, Michael T. If
I remember correctly, Sean was the one that advised us to come to Walnut Canyon first.”

“Papa!” Colton's own son, Ferrell, called. His dark hair twisted and curled with sweat, despite the short, blue, dress-like outfit he wore. His small, black boots came to above his ankles and laced up the front. He scurried up the narrow path on chubby bare legs with Mrs. Colton close behind. “Papa, look.” He held his tiny hand up to his father.

Dr. Colton knelt and put his arm around Ferrell. “Let's see what great treasure you've found.”

Ferrell opened his fist and held out a piece of broken pottery about the size of a half-dollar.

“Well, well.” Dr. Colton turned the sherd over in his hand. “This is a treasure. The black design on the white pottery is striking. I didn't realize that these Indians painted their pottery.”

Tag couldn't resist. “They didn't.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Colton said, joining the group. She was a petite woman with pleasant blue eyes. Her long, split skirt made climbing into the ruins easier. “Mr. Pierce said many of the pottery sherds around have designs on them.”

“He's right. The ancient ones who lived here didn't paint their own pottery, though. They traded for it.” Tag saw Mr. Pierce working his way up the path. “I'm sure Mr. Pierce can tell you more about it.”

“More, more rocks,” Ferrell bounced up and down clutching his father's pant legs.

Dr. Colton picked him up and squeezed him. “Maybe Tag can help you find more sherds.”