Tag Against Time (13 page)

“Patrick is right, Michael T.,” said the other man sitting at the desk. He was the mirror image of Patrick. Both men, dressed in dark pants and white shirts, had loosened their ties. Their faces left no doubt of their devotion for their
younger brother. “If you go home looking like that Ma will whomp on you good.”

“I'll just sweet-talk her,” Michael bragged, hoisting himself on to the desktop next to his brother. “Jonathan, you know Ma won't do nothing to me. Where is Pa?”

“He's gone. We just got here a minute ago ourselves. Train was late,” Jonathan said, picking up a paper from the desk. “I was just reading Pa's letter when you came barreling in.”

“Pa can't be gone! We need him.”

“Relax, Michael T., and listen,” said Jonathan. He began to read: “My plans have changed. I have to track someone down, and it may take a while. Meet me at the Babbitt Ranch tomorrow at ten. On your way, stop by the house for Michael T. He's going with us.”

“I'm going with you. I can't believe it!” Michael cried, bounding off the desk. “I'm going for two whole weeks! No wood to chop, cows to milk, no barn to clean, no weeds to pull for two weeks!”

Tag slipped out the door without being seen. His heart felt like lead as he leaned against the closed door. Sean wouldn't be home for fourteen days. How and where could he stay for that long? Horace and his son could come looking for Michael and him any minute.

Tag checked both directions before leaving the doorway. He needed to hurry if he was going to walk back to the canyon before dark. Just the thought of the five-mile hike made Tag tired.

The door to the Chinese laundry flew open, startling Tag. Chen waved at him. “You leave?”

Tag nodded and walked on.

“Michael is not going with you?” Chen fell in pace with Tag. He had changed his tunnel-soiled pajama-like pants and long tunic top into clean ones. His scrubbed face and hands made Tag feel even grittier and dirtier. “How far you go?”

“Oh, just a couple of hundred years,” Tag shrugged his shoulders and added, “I'm just walking out to Walnut Canyon.”

Chen tugged on Tag's arm pulling him back toward the laundry's door. “Come. Come with me, please.”

“Thanks, Chen, but I have to go. I'm in a hurry.”

“I help you just like you help me. Mr. Sitgrave pick up clean laundry. Then he go to his ranch. Walnut Canyon not far from his ranch. Mr. Sitgrave very nice, has big wagon. I ask him to give you ride.” Chen held the laundry door open.

Tag lay against the fifty-pound bags of flour and beans in the back of the buckboard. He was grateful for the ride, but even more thankful that Mr. Sitgrave suggested that he sit in the back. The thought of polite conversation overwhelmed him. His eyes closed as the wagon rocked him to sleep.

“Remember my son, the paho only has power when the moon illuminates the passageway of time,” Great Owl's words roared like thunder through his uneasy slumber. He jerked straight up, panting in fear. Great Owl's warning vibrated in his drowsy mind as the wagon's endless jarring shook his body. If he waited for Sean's return, he'd have to wait an additional two weeks to go on into time. What could happen in that much time?

The wagon lurched to a stop, throwing Tag against the flour bags.

“Thanks,” Tag called, watching the wagon roll away. Tag stretched out his stiff legs. It wouldn't take long to walk the
half mile to the canyon. The sun hung low in the sky, and the air was cooling fast. The pine trees cast long shadows.

As Tag walked, he sorted through his thoughts and fears about staying. Could he risk staying four weeks or more? Would Horace come to the canyon looking for him? Could he keep his anger and mouth in control, or would he blow it all?

Please Great Taawa, help me know what to do
, Tag prayed,
or get Great Owl to give me some help, at least
.

The roar of an automobile cut through the silence of the evening. A red sedan appeared through the trees, bumping along the rough road on its wooden wheels and narrow tires.

“I told you there wouldn't be any trouble. Old man Pierce never really checks,” a man's voice boasted over the engine's noise. As the automobile passed, the two men in the front seat tipped their hats. The women in the back held huge picnic hampers.

Tag's cheeks burned. “It's useless—totally useless! No one can stop them all.” He kicked a rock in his path. His toe throbbed as the rock sailed away.

Tag didn't stop at the rubble of Singing Woman's house. He forced his mind not to think about the fresh garbage and the obvious damage done that day.

A wave of homesickness crashed over Tag as he sat down in front of Great Owl's home. He leaned against the rough wall and closed his eyes. Weariness ate deep into his bones. He just wanted to climb into his own soft bed and hear his mom's loving voice telling him good night. He needed his dad to walk into his bedroom and sit down on the bed next to
him. Tag ached to tell Dad all he had experienced with the ancient ones and now with the Coltons. If only he could.

“It is totally useless. I can't change a thing!” Hot tears burned his face. “I'll never get back to my own time.”

Go, my son, go on into time
, Great Owl's voice sang in the trees' evening song.

Goose bumps covered Tag's arms and legs. Great Owl was right. It was time to move on. He had done all he could for now. If he hurried, he wouldn't have to scale up to the cave in the dark. Tag got to his feet. He touched Great Owl's sturdy rock wall and wondered if he would ever see it in one piece again. If only just this one home could be spared.

Someone on the path behind sent Tag's heart hammering. He whirled around.

“Trumount Abraham Grotewald!” The thick brogue was unmistakable, but Sean was barely recognizable. His red hair was now white, as it poked out from beneath his black bowler. He sported a white mustache along with many distinguishing wrinkles. “When I spoke to the Coltons this afternoon, I knew it had to be you. I looked all over Flagstaff for you. When I couldn't find you there, I knew there was only one other place you could be.”

Tag panicked. Sean would stop him from leaving. He sprinted up the path.

“Stop, son. I won't hurt you. You know that!”

Tag turned and waited. Sean hugged him close. “It's good to see you, son. I knew you would come back someday.” Sean stepped back and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “I know it's impossible, but you haven't changed a bit.”

“Yes, but the canyon has,” Tag's voice was tight. “I thought you, of all people, would do something to help protect it.”

“I have, along with a good many others. We're doing what we can, but it takes time while . . .”

“While more and more vultures come to the canyon to load up baskets of artifacts and cart them off, but only after they dynamite the ruins open so they can see better!” Tag stalked off.

“I care about this canyon as much as you do, young man. The only difference is I've stayed around to help do something.”

Tag whipped around. “What is the use? No one listens to me!”

“But they did, son, they did!” Sean swept up to Tag, “Major Powell and James Stevenson listened. ‘Laws' you said, ‘pass laws.' The Antiquities Law was passed in 1906.” Sean held his broad hand up. “I know, the looting is still going on, but it's not as bad as before. You even convinced Michael Riordan. He's writing articles about Walnut Canyon and its preservation for magazines and journals all over the country.” Sean put his hands on his hips. “Why there is even a Catholic priest in Flagstaff, Father Cyprian Vabre, who preaches from the pulpit that this is a holy place that shouldn't be defiled. Through the people Father Cyprian knows in Washington, including President Theodore Roosevelt himself, along with a lot of work from the rest of us, the canyon was made into a national monument.”

“1915, of course,” yelped Tag, grabbing Sean's arms. He danced around. “How could I be so stupid? Walnut Canyon became a national monument on November 30, 1915! But there wasn't anyone to really enforce the laws and take care of the parks and monuments except the Forest Service. And then in 1916—this year, the National Park Service was—or will be created within the Interior Department!”

Tag swirled Sean around. “With the Park Service things will change and get better
here
and in Mesa Verde, Bandelier, Chaco Canyon, Yellow . . .”

“What?” Sean pulled Tag to a stop. He studied Tag's face in the fading light. “I learned long ago not to question things that have no easy answers; the needless deaths, the glorious births. But boy, I have to ask. Who are you?”

“I'm just a kid who wants to be an archaeologist when he grows up—an archaeologist with something to study. I wish I could explain everything, but like you say, there are no easy answers and the answers are beyond comprehension even for me.” Tag touched Sean's shoulder. “I don't know if we'll ever meet again, but I will always remember you, and appreciate what you and all the others are doing right now for the future. Thanks.” Tag turned to leave, then stopped. “Sean, it's really important that the Coltons move to Flagstaff. It's more important than you can imagine. Can you work on them some more?”

Sean smiled and nodded. “From what the Coltons told me this afternoon, you've already convinced them to move here. They asked me to watch for some property for them.”

“Yes! The Museum of Northern Arizona is on its way.” As his cry echoed around the canyon walls Tag exclaimed, “Thanks again, Sean. Tell Michael T. good-bye for me. I've got to go now.”

“Go where, son?”

Tag started up the trail. “Not where. When?”