Tag Against Time (8 page)

“I don't think so, Michael,” Stevenson said, wiping his forehead. He pointed to the sturdy mud-and-rock wall of the ruin. “There was too much time and energy expended building all these cliff homes for the people to just pick up
and move to another location so close. Tree rings in the area suggest a major draught hundreds of years ago. My guess is that the draught forced these people out.”

Visions of Small Cub laying on his mat, dying of dehydration from vomiting and diarrhea, flashed through Tag's mind.
A death swifter than lightning forced them to leave
. He bit his tongue and blinked his tear-blurred eyes.

“The larger storage pots we found here last year are gone,” Stevenson stated with disgust in his voice. The sun hung directly overhead now. He stood in front of Great Owl's house with Sean and Michael. Flute Maiden's pottery, which Tag had saved from Kern and Horace, lay at Stevenson's feet in a wooden box.

Tag leaned against the front wall of Morning Flower's adjoining home. He stared at his friend's pottery waiting to be hauled up to the wagon. His throat tightened.

“You are right, James.” Sean dusted the loose dirt off his pants legs. “As more people move into the area, more come and take whatever suits their fancy.”

Stevenson put his hands on his hips. “Disgusting! These artifacts survived hundreds of years before the white man came. Now they are being destroyed in a matter of months.”

“The question is what can be done to protect this area?” Major Powell asked, crawling out of Great Owl's doorway. He stood next to Sean.

Tag blurted out, “Laws need to be passed to protect antiquities.” Everyone's eyes fell on him.

Major Powell looked at Stevenson and then at Tag. He stroked his beard in thought. “You might be right, son.”

“I agree that
something
needs to done, but it will be pretty hard to enforce any such laws around here. Even cattle-thieving
laws are near to impossible to uphold.” Michael Riordan pointed to the pottery near his feet. “Not many people are willing or have the time to protect old pots.”

“It has got to start sometime or there will be nothing left for future generations!” Tag took a step toward the men, his heart racing. “It's not just here, either. All over the Southwest there are thousand of ruins, big and small, being destroyed. The ancient ones' belongings and other artifacts are being stolen by the hundreds of thousands and along with them all the clues to the ancient ones' lives.” Tag choked back the rest of what he wanted to say, realizing that he had already said too much.

“Laws,” repeated Powell, gazing at Tag. “Laws.”

Sean knelt down to the box of ceramic pots, bowls, and mugs. “James, are you planning on taking all of these back with you?”

“Yes, they are all excellent pieces.” Stevenson squatted beside Sean. “Tag is correct about clues to the past. Why there is a wealth of information in this box alone.” He held up Flute Maiden's large stew bowl. “This bowl is perfect for exhibiting at the Smithsonian.”

Even though Stevenson was an archaeologist, Tag didn't want him to take any of his friend's things away, even to study. Flute Maiden's ceramic ware didn't belong back in Washington. The pieces belonged here where they were created, used, and loved.

Tears clouded Tag's eyes. He slipped into Morning Flower's doorway. He fought for control as his eyes focused in the dim light.

“Great Owl, what can I do?” Tag whispered. “What can I do? Great Owl, please tell me!”

Stillness echoed through the ruin.

If Great Owl was indeed watching, he was leaving things up to Tag to handle. “Great, just great!” Tag whispered and turned to leave. The numerous handprints in the mud plaster on the front wall caught his eye.

“They're still here!”

Tag slipped his hand into his own print, a print larger than the rest. He had made this print hundreds of years ago. The memory of the day he placed his hand in the wet mud plaster swirled around him.

Morning Flower's daughter had just been born, with Walker's help. The village women had come to replaster the walls.
It's our tradition to make our homes as fresh as possible after the birth of a child
, Tag heard Morning Flower's shy voice say as she cradled her hours-old daughter in her arms. Wrapped in a rabbit pelt blanket, the sleeping baby's mouth moved in a sucking motion.

“Tag,” Sean's brogue startled Tag back into the present. Sean stood right behind him. Tag jerked his hand away from the wall.

Sean studied Tag's face. Silence and tension saturated the ruin. Finally, Sean said, “We're going down to the stand of walnut trees in the bottom of the canyon. Can you go get the box with our lunch and meet us there?”

“Sure.” Tag hurried out the door.

Sean saw my hand in the print
. Tag carried the box of food back down the path. The canvas pack bounced on his back as his worries jostled his mind. How much longer till Sean or the others demanded to know who he was?

Tag stopped in front of Littlest Star's house. He set the heavy wooden box down on her metate. He had to think
things through before he saw Sean again.
It might be safer if I just left now. But how can I? There's so much to do right now that I can't
 . . .

“Looks like we're just in time for lunch, Kern.” Horace stood a few feet away from Tag. A mean smirk covered his grimy face.

“Yup. But first, we got us a skinny skunk to kill.” Kern stood right behind Horace.

Tag bolted up the trail in the opposite direction.

“Get him!” hollered Kern.

Rocks slipped under Tag's shoes, almost bringing him down.

“Faster Horace.”

Tag pushed harder. The trail became more overgrown with vegetation as it wound around a huge outcropping of limestone. Tag leaped over a rock, just missing a cactus. Rocks rolled. From behind, a scream of pain filled the air.

“Get up, Horace. He's getting away!”

“I can't. My ankle's twisted.”

Tag kept running, but noticed a long, narrow crevice in the top of the rocks, some five feet above his head. Would it be deep enough for him to hide in? Could he even squeeze through the opening?

“Let me by, Horace. I'm going to get that stinkin' skunk.”

Tag scaled upward on all fours. With his pack on, he couldn't squeeze into the narrow opening of the crevice. He slipped the pack off, pushed it in ahead of him. On his stomach, he wiggled into the crack. Rocks scraped his back and stomach as he slithered as far back into the crevice as he could. His lungs burned and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He tried to quiet his panting. Was he visible from the path?
He scrunched tighter against the back wall of the crevice.
Please, Great Taawa. Let Kern be nearsighted
.

Kern's foul words saturated the air below him. “He's disappeared—just vanished!”

“Help me, Kern. My ankle is swellin' up like a melon,” Horace cried.

“You stupid fool, if you hadn't fallen we could've got him.”

It seemed like hours till Kern's cussing and Horace's whining faded away. Tag wormed out of the crevice and climbed down. He looked around to get his bearings. The trail to the cave was above him. Kern was somewhere between him and the men in the bottom of the canyon. Could he make it down to Sean and the others without meeting up with Kern? Was being with the men an even greater risk?

Once or twice, Tag thought he heard something as he raced up the path to the cave. Each time he swung around, but he saw nothing and hurried on.

Sweat poured into his eyes as he scaled up the cliff.
Why doesn't this climb get easier?

Tag heaved himself over the ledge and lay catching his breath.
I made it!

He pulled up into a kneeling position. Opening the pack, Tag fumbled for the paho. Walker's flashlight rolled against his fingers. Tag hurried toward the cave's entrance. He felt the buckskin at the bottom of the pack. Tag pulled out the paho and began unwrapping it.

“Good thoughts, happy thoughts,” he said.

Someone grabbed Tag's shoulder and jerked him around.

Kern's foul breath blasted Tag as his fist flew towards Tag's face.

Tag ducked and jammed an elbow into Kern's stomach. Sticking his foot in back of Kern's, he shoved. Kern fell backward in a cloud of dust. Tag raced through the cave's entrance.

Good thoughts, positive thoughts
. Tag lunged toward the shrine with the outstretched paho.
Please Taawa, don't let Kern come with me!

The cave exploded with thunder.

Air finally found its way into Tag's lungs. He took gulping breaths. Pain hammered his head with each breath, and his thought processes began working again.

“Kern!” Tag forced his eyes open. His own shrill voice
pierced back through his head as it bounced off the cave's wall. He jerked up.

The cave was empty.

“Thank you,” Tag whispered. “It doesn't matter
where
I am in time, as long as Kern's not with me.”

The air in the cave was warm. It felt like late July or early August. Tag stretched out his cramped legs. His back creaked. He felt centuries old. “I guess I am,” Tag said, getting up.

“I am . . . I am . . .” his words echoed around him.

Tag wrapped the paho up in its leather again. He opened the pack and placed it inside. “It could be 1993.”

“19 . . .” His echoed abruptly died.

Tag felt his scalp tighten, “But something tells me it's not.”

“Not . . . not . . . not . . .”

Tramping out of the cave, he started climbing down the cliff as the echo resounded within the walls of the ancient cave.

“No!” Tag's words bounced off the canyon walls and back into his face as he stared at the pile of rubble that was once Singing Woman's house.

As soon as he had hiked down the main trail, Tag realized things had deteriorated. He had virtually followed a path of graffiti, rusty tin cans, beer bottles, and litter to Singing Woman's home, but he wasn't prepared for the destruction before him.

He scrambled over the pile of limestone slabs. Nothing remained of Singing Woman's belongings except numerous pottery sherds strewn all over the ground. Tin cans and broken glass bottles circled the fire pit, and half-burnt logs spoke of recent fires. Names and dates scrawled in glaring
black paint, or carved deep into the limestone, covered the back wall and the low roof.

Tag pivoted, surveying the destruction, still not accepting it. His knees shook and his empty stomach twisted in fury. “They didn't listen. No one did a blasted thing to help!”

Rectangular rock slabs shot out from under his shoes as he climbed out of the rubble of Singing Woman's home. Many of the bricklike slabs littered the steep side of the ledge in front of the ruin.
How did they get so far down the hill?

Tag's surface emotions, the anger and frustration, urged him to go back to the cave.
It's useless. You can't change history
. Yet the archaeologist, deep within him, demanded that he see the full extent of the damage. Homesickness welled up in his chest. He wished he could crawl into his dad's strong, capable arms.