Tag Against Time (17 page)

Remember the G. I. Bill when the war is over. I know you will make a great archaeologist!

Good Luck
,

T.A.G
.

Tag's icy fingers fumbled on the pack's buckles. It had taken everything he had to scale up the cliff in the moonlit night. Now, his body shook with cold exhaustion, both physical and mental.

Holding the paho over the shrine, he whispered, “Great Taawa, please guide my steps. Please, I just want to go home.”

The scarlet sky, streaked with pink and gray clouds, draped the canyon in long, purple shadows. The warm, but cooling, air spoke of late August or early September. Tag stood on the ledge outside the cave and took a deep breath. Everything about the canyon looked, smelled, and felt like the nineteen-nineties. His head exploded with pain, and his heart raced. “I'm home!” His words fell short. Thick, deadly silence simmered around him.

His hungry stomach did a somersault. Things were too quiet, too peaceful.
The calm before the storm
. Tag pushed the sudden thought aside.

“No. Think positive. I am home.” He knelt and undid the buckles on his pack. “I've got to get ready for Mom and Dad.”

He pulled the things from the pack. He laid Sean's cotton shirt beside the paho. Next came his stone knife, yucca sandals, and last, the flashlight. “I wonder if the batteries in
this still work after seven hundred years. What a TV commercial that would make.”

Tag studied the scant pile. His sandals, knife, and the paho were the only things he had to show for the centuries of time-travel. “I'll give the sandals to Dad, but keep the knife.” Tag stuck the knife into the waistband of his blue jeans. He wished he had something for his mom.
The paho?

A chill shook his body despite the summer temperature. Now that he was back to his own time, would the paho retain its powers?
Can I still use it to walk back into time or even go in the future?
An electrical shock surged through Tag, leaving him shaking. He tried to ignore the gut-wrenching feeling that he would use the paho again, later.

The sound of a jet boomed across the sky.

Tag wrapped the paho in its buckskin. He placed it in the bottom of the pack along with the flashlight and sandals. Sean's shirt went on top. Tag slung the pack on his back and started to climb down the cliff.
I'll think about what to do with the paho later, but for now—pizza, tonight!

The Island Trail lay deserted. “Pass closing time, which means dinner time,” Tag said, sprinting along the black-topped trail. The ruins looked just like they had when he left in 1993.

He stopped at Littlest Star's metate.
Everything looks just like it did when Littlest Star stood here grinding corn. They'll never know what an accurate job they did restoring things, until I tell them!

Tag headed for Great Owl's house. He'd stop for just a minute. He laughed.
For old times' sake!

“Hey man, do you really think this is a good place to dig?” The voice came from below the Island Trail.

“Keep it down, Slash. Someone will hear you,” answered a second voice.

Adrenaline shot through Tag.

“Sure, like who? Why do you think that I spent so much freakin' time finding out when all the Park Service pigs would be gone?”

“What if someone decided not to go to the party?”

Tag slid behind two trees growing on the side of the trail. He tried to see down over the trail, but couldn't discern who was talking. They had to be directly below, under the next strata of rocky ledge.

Slash answered, “Man, no one is going to miss that retirement bash. The guy was Chief Ranger here for a thousand years. Everyone and their dogs will be in town for it. Hey, Robert, I found something!”

Memories clicked in Tag's head. Flute Maiden had taken Walker and him into an isolated storage room to find a loincloth for him. The room had been full of huge, brown-ware jars and enormous storage baskets.

It was below the village. Those skunks are digging in Flute Maiden's storeroom!
Tag worked his way down through the trees and boulders.

“Groovy man! Looks like this pot is huge,” exclaimed Slash.

“Be careful. Go slow. If it's all in one piece, it will be worth a year's salary at the college.”

Tag saw two men. He slipped behind a boulder just to the left of them.

“Hang it in your ear man, I am being careful,” answered Slash. Even kneeling down, digging with a small shovel, he looked tall. He wore a faded black T-shirt with BEATLES:
MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR, 1968, printed across the front. His brown hair looked like a cross between a bushy ponytail and a squirrel's tail. Dark sideburns melted into a scruffy, Bible-type beard. A long, wide knife scabbard hung from his leather belt, which was holding up ragged bell-bottom jeans.

Tag stiffened behind the boulder. How old was the Beatles shirt, a year or two? It didn't matter. Disappointment seeped through him—he was still a long way from his own time. He peeked around the boulder.

The other man, Robert, kneeling beside Slash, was huge. His small eyes were mere slits in his hairless, melon-shaped face. His short, black hair looked like a businessman's. A bulge of white fat rolled out from under his expensive, blue polo shirt. “I knew it! This had to be a storage room, and there has to be a lot more stuff buried here, too.”

“Far out! With the full moon,” Slash said, throwing a shovelful of dirt to his side, “we can dig all night and haul everything out before the Tree Pigs open up in the morning.”

Robert sat back on his massive rump and wiped his sweaty face. “It'll be days before anyone comes down here, since it's off the Island Trail.”

“Groovy. We can come again tomorrow since the moon will still be out enough to see by.”

“Maybe, but it's risky,” Robert said, digging again. “They patrol the monument pretty heavy every night.”

“They're just Tree Pigs. They can't do anything!”

That's what you think, you dumb hippie
, Tag fought to keep from screaming. He needed to get help.

Tag slipped through the trees and started climbing the steep incline. Rocks shot out from his shoes and rolled down. He froze.

“Hey man, what was that?”

Tag struggled up as fast as he could through the thick trees. His backpack got caught on a tree. He tugged, but the pack wouldn't budge. Tag tried to slip out of it, but it got tangled up even more. Someone was coming up the ledge below him.

Tag pulled with all his weight. A branch broke with an explosive pop. He fell flat on his face. Tag got to his knees and scooted up on all fours. The edge of the paved trail was just a foot above him. He scrambled over the ledge.

Someone grabbed his right foot.

Tag ate dirt.

“What you doing here, kid?” Slash dragged Tag down the hill toward him.

Tag flipped onto his back and kicked with his free leg. “Let me go you dirty pothunter.”

Slash seized Tag's left foot and yanked. He grabbed Tag by the shoulders and lifted him up off the ground. “Shut up, you little creep.”

Spit sprayed Tag's face. The smell of patchouli oil and stale body odor saturated his nose. Tag kicked. His first kick hit a thigh. The next one smashed in closer to the center. Slash doubled over, swearing.

Bear-tight arms grabbed him around the middle and started squeezing the breath out of him.

“Settle down, creep,” Robert growled into Tag's ear. “I'd just as soon break you in half as look at you.”

Tag couldn't get air into his lungs. His head swam and black dots blurred his vision. Tag felt himself going limp. He hit the ground, hard.

Robert stood like a giant above him. “Don't get up, or I'll kill you right now.”

“Who is he? How did he get here?” Slash asked, trying to stand up straight, his face bloodless.

“He is the legendary ghost boy, for all it matters to me, but I bet I know what he's doing.” Robert ripped Tag's pack off and opened it. He threw Sean's shirt on the ground and pulled out the yucca sandals. “Looks like you've been lucky tonight. These are in mint condition.” He glared down at Tag. “Where did you find them?”

Tag stared back.

“What else do you have in here?” Robert pulled out the buckskin bundle and dropped the pack onto the ground.

Tag leaped up.

Slash knocked him flat. “Stay put, creep.”

“It's a paho!”

“What's a paho?” Slash asked.

“A prayer stick. The Indians make pahos as offerings to the gods.” Robert turned the paho over. “I've never seen one like this before. It's ancient, probably priceless. Where did you find this?”

“Answer him.” Slash pulled Tag to his feet. “Where did you get it?”

Tag snapped back, “I don't know.”

Slash lifted his fist.

“Don't, Slash. We don't have time to deal with him now.”

“But . . .”

“Let's keep working while we can. When we finish, we'll take the kid with us. He'll tell us where he got these things, that is, if he wants to live.” Robert put the paho and sandals back into the pack. “Go up to the truck and bring back the boxes to carry the stuff. I'll take the kid back with me.” He
slung the pack over his shoulder and grabbed Tag by the back of the neck. “Bring back the rope under the truck seat so we can tie him up.” He pushed Tag ahead of him. “Bring the rifle, too, just in case.”

“Are you sure you can handle him?”

Robert grunted. “I'll just sit on him, if I have to.”

A large storage jar stood partially exposed amidst the rubble of limestone slabs. Tag could see that the two had dug in other spots before finding the jar.

Robert shoved him down on the ground. “Move and you're dead.” He put Tag's pack a few yards away, next to an extra shovel and pick. Robert came back, knelt down, and started digging around the pot.

How long had it been since Slash went up the canyon—three or four minutes?
How long will it take him to get back?
Tag looked at Robert and his backpack laying just beyond him. There was no way to get the pack, but through Robert.

And no way home without the paho in my backpack!

Tag drew out his stone knife from his waistband and bolted to his feet. Robert looked up just as Tag rammed into him. It was like smashing into a ton of flab. Robert swayed, but grabbed hold of Tag.

Tag jammed the tip of his knife into Robert's hand and jerked away as the man screamed in pain. Tag stumbled backwards to the ground, but sprang back up. Robert lurched at him. Tag took off in the opposite direction, leaping over rocks and bushes. Robert huffed and puffed behind him.

Taawa, help me get away from this fat—fat, of course!
Where was he? Tag tried to get his bearings as he ran. Could he find the right path?

He veered to his left and down the side of the canyon. Tag fell, and slid down the steep incline on his fanny. He got back up on his feet just as Robert started thundering down the hill.

There—there it is, the secret passage!
The ancient ones had used a natural chimney up a sheer rock wall as a shortcut up to their village from below. As Walker had so aptly pointed out, it was also an escape route.

Tag's lungs felt like fire. He whipped his head around to see Robert's bright red face and huge belly flopping up and down, not far behind.

He sprinted up the narrow path that ended at a fifty-foothigh cliff. A huge, twenty-foot-long, flat slab of limestone leaned against the bottom of the cliff. It rose twelve feet, with its top resting against the cliff's face.

The entrance between the slab and the base of the cliff looked wider than Tag remembered.
Maybe this isn't going to work!
He slipped into the passage.

In the waning light of the evening, the five-foot passageway between the slab and cliff was dim. Tag pushed through. The sides of the passage narrowed.

Yes!

After three feet, Tag had to turn sideways. His nose almost touched the cliff's base while his back rubbed the limestone slab. Tag squeezed through the last few feet.