Tag Against Time (11 page)

“Is everything all right with you folks?” Mr. Pierce said, stopping next to Mrs. Colton. “Sorry I had to leave you all,
but I had another group of visitors that I needed to check on.”

“We are fine, William. Tag was just explaining how the painted pottery was not made here, but was bartered for.” Dr. Colton handed the sherd to his wife. “Fascinating isn't it, Mary? Such a distinctive design.”

“I wonder if each tribe or geographic area created and used its own paint colors and specific designs?” Mrs. Colton examined the sherd with her long fingers. “If they did, then you could determine where each piece of ceramic was made.”

Dr. Colton added with interest, “That information also gives clues to trade routes. William, did the different geographic groups have their own pottery designs?”

Mr. Pierce rubbed his chin and gazed at Tag. “That's a good question.”

“Ferrell, let's go look for some more sherds.” Tag said trying not to sound too eager to escape Mr. Pierce's penetrating stare.

“More pretty rocks,” Ferrell stated, half an hour later. He squatted in the middle of the path. He dropped the three small sherds in his chubby hand to pick up a large, black-on-red sherd near his feet.

“Sherds, Ferrell. They are sherds.” Tag knelt next to the child. This was the fourteenth time Ferrell had stopped to exchange the sherds he clutched. “You can't carry them all, so which one do you want to take?” Tag smiled watching the toddler playing with the sherds at his feet.
He's so cute. I wonder if all two-year-olds are like Ferrell?

The memory of another young boy, Small Cub, took over Tag's mind. Despite the language barrier between them, he remembered talking to Small Cub just like he did to Ferrell.
Small Cub was a chatterbox too. Though he tried, Tag couldn't picture Small Cub even being any other age than four. Where was Small Cub now? Goose bumps covered Tag's arms at the thought, and he pushed the obvious answer out of his mind.

Tag held his arms out for Ferrell. “Come on, big guy. We'd better go find your parents.”

Two men appeared on the trail above. Each hauled a huge picnic hamper. “The black and white pot alone is worth a dollar.” The taller man's huge nose looked like a hooked beak.

The second man, in a bright red shirt, with a bald head reminded Tag of a turkey vulture. “Not bad for just an hour's work. The little bowls I dug up are worth a nickel each.” The two stopped chatting when they saw Tag and Ferrell.

Tag stood up and stared at the men as they moved closer. Which one of his friends' belongings were stashed in the men's picnic baskets: Littlest Star's stew bowls or maybe one of Fawn's beautifully-shaped vases? Anger consumed Tag. He cleared his throat. “Nice day, isn't it?” He figured starting out friendly was safer.

“Right nice,” Turkey Vulture said. His eyes were small, sunken, black slits.

Tag stood in the middle of the path blocking the men. “I think it is best for me to warn you that it is against the law to steal anything from the ruins.” He tried to make his voice deep.

Beak Nose glared. “You don't say. Now move aside.”

“Those baskets look heavy.” Tag's knees began to shake. How far did he dare push, especially with Ferrell to worry about?

“What's in our baskets is none of your concern,” anger rimmed Turkey Vulture's voice. “Move aside.” With a hard shove he knocked Tag to one side and scrambled around Ferrell, still squatting in the path.

“Best keep your mouth shut, boy.” Beak Nose threatened as he jostled past Tag. With long strides he followed his companion around a bend in the path.

“Well, here they are,” Mr. Pierce's voice said, behind Tag. “Looks like the boys have had a right good time together.”

Ferrell rushed toward his mother and father. “Look, pretty rocks.”

Tag clenched his fist and tried to swallow his anger. Mr. Pierce must have seen Turkey Vulture and Beak Nose with their loot, but he hadn't stopped them.

It is useless. Totally useless
, Tag's mind screamed.
I can't do this alone, but who will help me?

Tag shifted the sleeping Ferrell to a more comfortable spot on his lap. The toddler had fallen asleep in Tag's arms the instant the Model T Ford started bouncing along the dirt road toward Flagstaff. As in a horse-drawn wagon, the ride was bone-jarring, but at least the leather seat was padded.

Tag was fascinated by the inside of the convertible coupe, as he watched Dr. Colton drive. The dash was plain, except for the battery switch. There was no generator. The switch was thrown
after
the motor was started. Tag had been granted the honor of starting up the Tin Lizzie by turning the crank that protruded from the front of the car. The four cylinder engine made a distinctive but indescribable roar that Tag knew he'd never forget. The three pedals on the floorboard didn't seem to function the same as those of the cars in the future, so Tag asked Dr. Colton about them.

“This one is the brake, this one is low gear,” Dr. Colton explained, “and the last one is for high gear. Takes a bit of
practice to operate the gear shifts while controlling the gas feed here on the steering wheel.” Dr. Colton shifted into high gear as the Lizzie picked up speed going down an incline. “Tag, would you to like to try driving her?”

“But I don't have a driver's license.”

“A what?” Mrs. Colton said, looking at Tag. She sat between Tag and her husband. “I didn't know that Arizona required any kind of license in order to drive an automobile.”

“Just for women, I believe, dear.” Dr. Colton winked at Tag. “I can't get over how interesting the pottery sherds are that Ferrell found.”

Mrs. Colton nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps we can find a book on ancient pottery and designs.”

Tag sat back listening and letting the rush of air cool him off.
One more adventure I can share with Dad: riding in a Tin Lizzie with Dr. Harold Colton and Mary-Russell Colton, discussing the ancient ones at Walnut Canyon! Why it is—or will be Dr. Colton who names the ancient ones Sinagua
.

An unnamed fear swirled around Tag. His heart lurched.
What if the Coltons don't move to Flagstaff?
Tag hugged Ferrell's cuddly body closer trying to ignore the possibility. “I really appreciate you giving me a ride into town, Dr. and Mrs. Colton.”

“It is our pleasure. Your knowledge of the ancient Indians is fascinating. You are a remarkable young man.” Mrs. Colton's violet perfume smelled wonderful. She reached out and caressed Ferrell's pudgy cheek. “Besides, Ferrell doesn't take to just anyone. Thank you for helping with him. I'm surprised Mr. Pierce could spare you with so many people at the canyon today.”

“Oh, he won't even notice I'm gone,” Tag replied. He
hadn't told Mr. Pierce he was going into Flagstaff with the Coltons. Tag's stomach flipped with a hungry flop and then knotted with the reality of the situation. Was he doing the right thing? What would Sean say and do when he just showed up on his doorstep?
I hope he still believes in not asking personal questions, like: Where did you go thirty years ago? Why haven't you aged a day since then?
Tag's mind whirled in a cycle of confusion and apprehension. But deep within, he felt he was doing the right thing in seeking Sean's help.

I'll help you anyway I can
 . . ., Sean's words spoken thirty years ago broke the circle of anxiety in Tag's mind. Yes, he was doing the right thing, the only thing he could do. The problem of destruction and pilfering at the canyon was more than just one twelve-year-old ghost boy could handle.

Tag settled back in the seat and listened to Dr. and Mrs. Colton's animated discussion of ceramic designs. Keen interest sparkled in their eyes.
They're really getting into pottery!
Tag hugged Ferrell. The sleeping child shifted and snuggled tighter against Tag.
I am definitely going to talk to Dad and Mom about a little brother when I get back
.

A wave of homesickness filled Tag's body and soul. It was a mixture of a profound longing for his mother's own loving arms and yearning for the wide-eyed, inquisitive, four-year-old, Small Cub. Tag leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes against burning tears.

“Thanks again for the ride.” Tag jumped out of the Ford and swung his backpack onto his shoulder.

Mrs. Colton settled Ferrell in her lap. “You are more than welcome, Tag. Are you sure you can get back to the canyon?”

“Positive.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd think that Sean O'Farrell and
you were conspiring to get us to move to Flagstaff,” Dr. Colton said.

Mrs. Colton winked at Tag as the automobile began to roll. She called over the engine's roar, “A plot that works, I hope.”

“So do I!” Tag waved, “so do I.”

What will happen to the course of history if the Coltons don't move to Flagstaff?
The thought again hit Tag in a wave of fear. A cold shiver crept up his back. Maybe he should go after the Coltons and do some more persuading.

“Don't worry. My pa will talk them into moving here.” The young voice sounded confident to the point of being cocky.

Tag whipped around.

Sean's once-small house was now a large two-story structure with an ornate wrought iron fence surrounding it. A boy, about ten years old, with brilliant copper-colored hair and deep-blue eyes, grinned at Tag through the fence.

“Are you here to see my pa?” Reddish freckles dotted every inch of the boy's round face. The orange-gold hair was even curlier than Tag's brown hair. The boy's deep-blue, gregarious eyes were undoubtedly inherited from Sean.

“Is your dad here?”

The boy shimmied over the high fence in a fast, fluid movement and dropped beside Tag. He wore knickers, calf-length pants, and a faded cotton, striped shirt that buttoned down the front. The middle button was missing. His bare feet were a mass of freckles. “Nope. Pa's at his office.” The boy inspected Tag. Curiosity danced in his eyes. “He didn't say he was expecting anyone.”

“Michael T. O'Farrell is the woodbox filled yet?” A small
round woman in an ankle-length blue dress and a long white apron called from the front porch. White hair curled around her wrinkled but pleasant face.

“No Ma,” Michael called over his shoulder. “What's your name?” he asked under his breath, still looking at his mother.

“Tag.”

Michael's face whipped around, his blue eyes wide, his mouth open.

“Michael T. O'Farrell, whom are you talking to there?”

Hearing his mother's call, Michael shook himself back to reality. When he spoke, his voice sounded shaky. “Err . . . Ugh . . . just this gentleman. He needs to talk to Pa.”

“Then bring him in to use the telephone to talk to Mr. O'Farrell.”

“No, Ma. He has face-to-face business with Pa. I am going to take him right down to the office before Pa leaves for his trip.” Michael sprang down the dirt road with catlike grace. “Come on, or Ma will put you to work splitting wood, too,” he said over his shoulder.

“Michael T. O'Farrell, you come right back here after. I don't want you traipsing all over town.” Tag heard Mrs. O'Farrell's Irish accent call as he ran after Michael, sprinting down the dirt road.

“Tag—that's a funny name,” Michael said, slowing his pace.

Tag saw Michael scrutinizing him out of the corner of his eye. “It's just a nickname.” He picked up his speed.

“You're not from around here are you?” The much-shorter Michael trotted to keep pace with Tag.

“No.” The tone of Tag's voice got his message across. Michael fell silent.

After a few minutes Michael ventured, “Bet your ma doesn't make you fill the woodbox.”

“Well no, actually she doesn't.”

“I keep telling Pa that ten is too old to be filling the woodbox and weeding the garden. None of my five older brothers chopped wood when they were ten. They were all helping Pa at the office and all. Pa let all of them go on surveying trips when they were eight, but he won't even let me go with him on his trip today! Ma says two weeks is too long for her to have
me
gone.” He shook his head. His curly hair gleamed copper in the bright sun. “It's not fair. It's just plain unfair.”