Tag Against Time (7 page)

“What am I suppose to do? Just tell me, Great Owl!” Tag crept toward the doorway.

“Now is the time . . . Now . . .”

Tag crawled into the doorway. Thick black smoke billowed into his face “Witch!” Gray Wolf's thin high voice wailed. “Kill the witch!”

Tag fell through the life-stealing smoke into Great Owl's house. The air was sharp, clean.

“What are you doing in my territory?” Horace's ugly face pressed up against Tag's nose, his breath worse than death.

Kern's crude face appeared next to Horace's. “Stealing our stuff.” His oversized, dirt-encrusted hands reached towards Tag.

“No!” Tag scrambled back out the doorway into a thick black vapor. Rushing to his feet, he bumped into someone.

“Here from Washington to inspect the ruins.”

“Dad?” Tag strained to see. His father's square face stared back at him. “Dad!”

“There is too much damage, too much destruction.” He turned his back on Tag.

“But I tried to stop it. Wait Dad! I'll do better. Dad don't go!” Tag's feet felt cemented. His father's tall, thin shape faded away in the dark mist. “Please Dad. I'll do better!”

Tag fought the quilts binding his chest and arms and jerked straight up. “Dad I want to come home!” His own
scream brought his eyes open. Tag's heart slammed against his chest. A lump in his throat blocked his air.

“Son, are you all right?” a thick Irish brogue called through the darkness.

Tag fought for breath.
Where am I?
Moonlight streamed through a small window above his head. Ghostly shapes loomed around him. Tag saw a flicker of light coming towards him. He gasped and tried to bolt to his feet. The quilts held him down.

“It's all right, son.” Sean knelt beside him, holding a lantern. Its light cast dancing shadows around the room. “Tag, you were dreaming.” He put his arm around Tag's shoulders. “Just a nightmare. Everything is going to be fine. You are safe here with me.”

Tag fought to catch his breath. Everything was a blur of tears. He relaxed in the security of Sean's arms. “I just want to go home,” Tag managed to say between sobs.

“I know son.” Sean held him tighter. “And I'll help any way I can.”

The sun's warmth filled the nippy early-morning air. Tag bumped up and down on the wooden seat in Sean's wagon. Despite the brightness of the morning, the memory of his nightmare still tormented him. Homesickness ate at his heart.

“I'd like to get camp set up before the others get to the canyon.” Sean straightened his hat. “I thought the spot where we had lunch would be a good campsite.” He looked over to Tag. “What do you think, son?”

“It is close to the trailhead; that makes it convenient.”

Sean nodded. “That is a good thing to think about.”

“Especially since I am the gofer.”

“The what?”

Tag squirmed. His face felt hot. “
Gofer
, it's sort of a pun; I'll go-for this and go-for that.”

Sean laughed and shook his head. “You come up with the most peculiar things.” He started humming an Irish-sounding tune as he flicked O'Riley's reins.

Tag swallowed hard and turned to watch the scenery. He knew he was lucky that Sean didn't believe in prying. Sean hadn't questioned him this morning about his nightmare or the things he had said last night. He had fallen asleep with Sean sitting by his side. This morning, it was like it had never happened. Tag's stomach twisted. How long could he stay before Sean would start asking questions?
Not long if I keep saying such dumb things
. He'd have to walk a tight line.

A huge, blue-black raven circled overhead. The sun glinted off its long silky wings. Tag watched its effortless flight. It swirled down closer. Its harsh cry was a taunting laugh, “Caught, caught, Tag caught.”

A two-seated, covered carriage and team of horses stood waiting near the trailhead at Walnut Canyon. Sean tied O'Riley near the carriage and mumbled, “I can never get a step ahead of Michael Riordan.” He started down the trail at a brisk pace. Tag followed on his heels.

Rounding a bend, Tag saw two men standing in front of Singing Woman's house. They swung around.

“Morning, Sean,” said the younger man in an eastern accent. Like Sean, he was clean-shaven and in his early twenties. Though he wore a broad-rim felt hat, high leather boots,
and work clothes, his bearing was that of a doctor or lawyer. “I was wondering how long you were going to sleep in.”

“Michael Riordan, only you would start out to the canyon when the moon was still a shining.” Sean shook his hand. Turning to the older man he said, “James, it is good to see you again. I'm glad that you came back.”

James Stevenson was a bit shorter than Sean and twenty years older. Graying, black hair showed under his broad-rimmed straw hat. He wore a neatly-trimmed mustache. “A year is too long,” he nodded toward Singing Woman's house, “judging from the deterioration and destruction I've seen already. We are lucky the Major agreed to come. He wields a lot of power in Washington as the Federal Director of Survey and the new Director of the Bureau of Ethnology.”

“A name that I hope to change to the Bureau of American Ethnology,” a robust voice said from Singing Woman's doorway. A man with a black bowler hat, a long gray beard, and weathered skin crawled through the door. His denim pants were tucked into his high leather boots. He wore a dark vest and long-sleeved white shirt. The right arm of his shirt hung empty.

“Major John Wesley Powell!” Tag burst out. “I didn't know that you ever came to Walnut Canyon!”

Major Powell held out his left hand to Tag. His grip was iron. “It's my first trip here, but not my last.”

“I've read both of your journals on your explorations down the Colorado River.” Tag pumped Powell's hand. “They are fascinating.”

Major Powell dropped Tag's hand. “Must have been one of my men's journals. Mine hasn't been published yet.”

“Major Powell, I'm Sean O'Farrell.” Sean took Major
Powell's hand. “I'm sure you'll find the ruins and relics here interesting.”

“What little I have seen is most interesting.” Major Powell stared at Tag.

“This is Tag,” Sean put his arm around Tag's shoulder and moved him toward the other men. “Tag meet James Stevenson, an archaeologist from the Smithsonian Institution. And this is Michael Riordan, one of the townspeople interested in the ruins.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tag muttered. He felt Major Powell still scrutinizing him.

“Shall we get started, men?” Sean suggested. “Tag and I will go up to get the picks and shovels.”

James Stevenson spoke up, “Let's wait on the tools. I want to show the Major more of the ruins before we decide where to excavate first.” He started up the path with Michael Riordan close behind.

“Perhaps you know something about ancient cultures, young man?” Major Powell's eyes measured Tag.

Tag nodded.

“Good. We'll have plenty to talk about.”

Tag wished he
could
talk.

Tag knelt elbow-to-elbow beside Major John Wesley Powell in Arrow Maker's house. Someone had knocked out the narrow T-shaped door, enlarging it by three feet. Now, bright morning light streamed through the gap. Tag carefully sifted through the loose, gritty dirt in the back of the house.

“Here is another piece of obsidian, a big one.” Tag brushed the dirt off the black rock. “It has chip marks on it, too.”

Major Powell took the fist-sized rock and studied it. “Smaller pieces have been chipped away from it, probably for arrowheads. It is strange that we have found so many little chips of obsidian in this ruin and now this larger piece.”

Tag emptied the dirt from the trowel he held. “Maybe a stone knapper lived here.”

“Interesting thought, but I doubt that a knapper would work
inside
a house since it is such cramped quarters.” Majoi Powell slipped the obsidian into a wooden box with the other flakes of obsidian found in the same pile of dirt.

Tag pictured Arrow Maker in his mind; the friendly eyes, the steady hands, the long yellow cape covering the hump on his back, and the uneven legs that made walking difficult. Of course Arrow Maker stayed close to his home: it was easier for him. He remembered Arrow Maker always having a deer antler in his dark hands, chipping away at hunks of obsidian in the process of making arrowheads, knives, or spearheads.

“Maybe he took his work home at night,” Tag suggested. He handed another obsidian chip to Major Powell. “He sat by the fire pit for light to work by.”

“You think this was the fire pit?”

Tag met Major Powell's keen eyes. His hands suddenly felt sweaty. “Well, with the soot on the ceiling right above here, it seems logical.”

“You are right.” Major Powell smiled and went back to his digging. “You are very observant.” He uncovered another good-sized rock. After dusting it off, he held it out to Tag. “What do you make of this?”

The eight- to ten-inch square rock was vesicular basalt. Tag ran his finger along the smooth groove running longitudinally through the center of the stone. “A shaft abrader.” The words popped out of Tag's mouth before he thought. He clamped his mouth shut and stared down at the stone.

“Hmm, a shaft abrader
you think
,” Major Powell peered at him. “Well, are you going to tell me how it was used?” He stroked his beard with his index finger and waited for Tag to answer.

Tag swallowed and squirmed around on his knees. “I . . . I . . .”

“Come boy. You are obviously very knowledgeable about Indian artifacts. Don't be shy. I want to hear your theory on how the
shaft abrader
was used.”

“It's just a guess, but maybe the shaft of an arrow was put in the groove and rubbed back and forth to smooth and clean the shaft.” Tag peered up at Major Powell. The man's eyes shot straight through him. “I'm probably totally wrong.”

“But you aren't. Where did you learn so much about archaeology, boy?”

“Major Powell, have you found anything interesting?” Sean crawled through the doorway.

Major Powell stared at Tag. “Why yes, I think I have.”

Tag jumped up. “Here Sean, you can take my place. I've got to go, haven't gone for hours.”

“After you finish, son, go see if Mr. Stevenson or Mr. Riordan need anything from the wagon.” Sean put his hand on Tag's shoulder. “I'll be here if you need help.”

The rest of the morning Tag kept away from Major Powell. He found being with James Stevenson less intimidating. Stevenson reminded Tag of his own father, with his intense interest, precise observations, and willingness to share his knowledge with others. Tag fought to keep his firsthand information about the ancient ones to himself, as the group speculated on the life-style of hundreds of years ago.

“After seeing the huge pueblo villages north of here, I suspect these people left to go live there. As the old saying goes, they thought that the grass was greener there,” said Michael Riordan. He sat down outside one of the ruins and leaned against the front wall. Tag handed him a canteen and listened.