HE HAS SEEN it all before. A thousand thousand times… and more. It happens so quickly—within a few beats of his heart.
A thunderous roar; a yellow arc flashes by his face.
Must escape… run… run …
but his feet are rooted in place.
There is a thin whistling sound …
a sudden, mind-numbing pain.
Then …
Filthy water fills his mouth… he struggles… gags.
Bones snap like dry twigs.
He sees the yawning mouth of the pit …
is swallowed up in darkness.
Then …
Someone comes… someone merciful.
It is Death. She whispers to him… caresses his face.
Pain slips away like melting wax.
It is over.
Then …
It begins.
There is—as the sage has rightly said—an appointed time for a soul to come into the world… and also a time to leave it. Before the first is an unremembered history; after the last, an eternal mystery. These are subjects best left to philosophers, mystics, and poets—and others so inclined to squander away precious hours pondering the unknowable. For those of a more practical nature, there is a quite interesting period nestled between birth and death—where the most remarkable things are apt to happen.
No one has a more practical nature than Daisy Perika—that sly old soul who lives near the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. It comes from experience. The Ute woman is filled to the brim with bone-dry summers and marrow-chilling winters. Each of these seasons has salted her days with those ingredients that make a life palatable. Hard times. Unexpected blessings. Hunger that gnaws at the soul. Merry dancing and feasting. Solemn burials sanctified in mournful song… shrill cries of those newly come into the dawn.
She has known the warm morning of youth, the cool twilight of old age. And now that darkest of dark nights draws near. These should be days for rest and contemplation, the old woman knows. A time to prepare her spirit for the journey into that eternal world… where she will be forever young. But this present world—with its multitude of annoyances, problems, and difficulties—is a very great distraction. By way of example …
Not having a telephone.
Arthritis in her knee joints.
The fact that her favorite nephew is still a bachelor.
Charlie Moon should be raising himself a family, bringing his children out to see her. Daisy Perika has made herself a most solemn promise. She will refuse to die until he marries himself a wife—and that is that.
Once Charlie has a wife to worry about, maybe the Ute policeman will stop nagging her about moving into Ignacio. The Ute elder is quite content to spend her days here in the wilderness. Daisy is, in fact, quite snug in her small trailer. Her home, though it may seem modest, is a way station at the entrance to that great canyon where she hears haunting echoes of words yet unspoken. In this special place, she knows that comfortable security of one who belongs. And well she should. The shaman has plied her arcane craft here for seven decades. She gathers black-stemmed maidenhair fern from the cool depths of the Canyon of the Spirits; she plucks antelope horns from the arid wastelands—but will not touch the dangerous jimson weed.
When her aching legs would carry her there, the old woman scours the windswept roof of Three Sisters Mesa for the purplish-blue flower of the cachana, which is also called Gayfeather and Rattlesnake Master. This hardy herb is useful for a variety of ailments—and as a talisman to protect Daisy’s fearful clients from mal de ojo. The Ute elder—though hardly a timid soul—does not journey to the lofty crown of the mesa more often than is absolutely necessary. Apart from the difficulty of the ascent, this is a holy place, and therefore dangerous to mortals. Here, shimmering ghosts of the Old Ones walk even at noonday—and the pine-scented west winds never cease their melancholy moanings. When the sun sets, there is a black elderberry bush that bursts into scarlet flame… but is not consumed. Moreover, every living thing waits in rapt expectation for the signal that this world is about to end—that long rumble of thunder preceding the final, cleansing storm. A cluster of gnarled piñons lingers here as a stalwart congregation, patiently awaiting the arrival of One who will appear as the lightning comes from the east and flashes to the west… when all of the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
And so the Ute shaman climbs the mesa but seldom… and makes haste to depart before the bush is touched by fire.
From her store of pulpy roots and succulent leaves, those delicate petals of pearly pink blossoms. Daisy brews concoctions both practical and problematical. There are varied purposes for her prescriptions, ranging from the ordinary to the exalted. This sly old physician treats a whole host of common complaints, from nosebleed and menstrual cramp to bite of snake and sting of wasp. Any day of the week, the shaman can conjure away bumble wart or other unseemly blot of skin. With one hand tied behind her back Daisy Perika can ward off vengeful ghost, malicious water-baby… or other such shadowy presence.
The Ute shaman is, of course, not without peers in her chosen field of work.
It is true that there are a few Navajo hand-tremblers and Apache mystics who wield similar powers. There is a very old black man in Pagosa who can mumble away warts from any part of your body. And there is the ninety-pound Cajun woman the locals call Fat Nelda. She plies her dark art in a rusting yellow school bus just south of Mancos, survives on a diet of green tea, pretzels, and Norwegian sardines. This remarkable bruja (so it is claimed) can conjure sturdy new teeth into the gums of old crones and fresh crops of hair onto the shiny heads of those unfortunate men who suffer from an excess of testosterone. She does this for a fat price, of course—and thus the skinny woman’s name. Fat Nelda also sports a black eye of polished jet in her left socket, and claims to see tomorrow and even next week through this opaque orb. Other than these few eccentricities, she is an altogether uninteresting character.
Daisy Perika’s enterprises extend beyond her medical practice. Because of the Ute blood that throbs in her mottled veins, another privilege is hers by birthright. The old shaman has frequent conversations with the pitukupf—that mischievous dwarf-spirit whose underground dwelling is not so far away. His home is an abandoned badger hole in the Canyon of the Spirits. Theirs is an uncomplicated arrangement. The first requirement is that the shaman must take the little man a gift. A small cotton sack of fragrant smoking tobacco. A few turquoise beads on a string. A pearl-handled pocketknife.
Leave the offering by the badger hole. Now sit down just over there… under the old piñon. Lean your head against its rough bark. Take your rest. Sleep. And dream. The dwarf will slip into your visions… and tell you such strange tales. Accounts of great adventures long past… and of others yet to be. Of spirits who come disguised as whirlwinds. Of mysterious wanderers who come from unimaginably distant places.
Even the shaman does not understand everything the little man says. The pitukupf—like other oracles—tends to speak in sinuous riddles.
Long ago, the elders say—far longer than even the mountains can remember—the little man attached himself to the Utes. They are his adopted tribe; they nurture him in their hearts and in their campfire tales. He is a friend to the People, but he is also somewhat eccentric. Old Utes warn the uninitiated: never, never tether your horse near the dwarf’s home. This goes double for your pinto pony. The little man detests horses… especially spotted horses. If they are found near his badger-hole dwelling, he will most certainly kill them. If you don’t believe it, ask Gorman Sweetwater, who lost a fine horse in Cañon del Espiritu just four years ago… strangled with vines.
There are rumors that the pitukupf is a thief, but this is not so.
It is true that now and then he borrows a little of this and some of that. And always forgets to return it.
Why?
Because he has his needs. And is somewhat forgetful. He is what he is.
Now the Utes know very well that their dwarf has no dealings with Navajo or Shoshone or Cheyenne, much less the pale-skinned matukach. Even so, there are persistent reports that the little man has shown himself to some who are not of the People. An elderly Hispanic woman over at Bondad (she has also seen angels) claims she spotted the dwarf standing on the banks of the Animas on All Saints’ Day; he bowed impishly and tipped his hat to her! Five years ago, a white policeman told Daisy Perika how he followed tiny footsteps in the snow and had a brief glimpse of a child-sized creature who walked like a very old man. A Navajo follower of the Jesus Way has mentioned regular talks with the dwarf. They have—so the preacher says—smoked the same pipe. And discussed many deep matters. To the traditional Ute, such reports from Hispanic and matukach and Navajo are foolishness—silly talk best ignored. The dwarf would certainly have no dealings with those who were not of the People.
Quite aside from her communion with the dwarf—and like all her shadowy ilk the world over—Daisy Perika dreams many strange dreams. She has beheld horrific visions of blackened, frozen corpses floating above groaning skeleton-trees… warm blood pelting down like summer rain has stained her wrinkled face.
These dark dreams, these pale visions, these urgent communions with the pitukupf … have provided warning of every sort of visitation.
Almost.
Not the least premonition had hinted of what would accompany this approach of night. The skin on her neck did not prickle, neither did shadowy sprite flit in the corner of the shaman’s dark eye… no coiled serpent writhed a cold warning in her gut. On this particular evening, Daisy Perika had not the least inkling that a very peculiar someone was approaching. No, the shaman’s usual resources had thus far failed to quicken her pulse.
And the unbidden visitor was already close at hand. Cloaked by the gossamer fabric of twilight was he… sheathed by a dry skin of blue-gray clay. With the same timeless patience as the sandstone women who wait eternally on Three Sisters Mesa for the world to end, he also tarried at his lonely post. Caring not for ticking clock… nor phase of moon… nor falling aspen leaf that signaled summer’s end.
The night visitor, moving in an odd, shuffling gait, comes near to the shaman’s trailer home. He is weary and wanting rest. But he has important business to conduct here, and a man’s work must be done before he can sleep.
* * *
The mouth of flame flickered… blue and yellow tongues of fire licked at the bottom of the blackened iron pot. The thick brown broth responded with a cheerful bubbling and popping. Wielding a stained wooden spoon, Daisy Perika stirred the hearty stew. Rich vapors rose from the brew; they curled and writhed seductively. She sniffed. And was pleased. When the old woman was but a child, her mother had taught her how to prepare this meal.
Bittersweet memories of youth passed before her mind’s eye; she sighed with deep yearning.
The Ute woman had lived within a mile of this lonely spot since the day of her birth. First in a house of pine logs with a pitched roof of rusted tin. Now, in a small trailer-home crafted of steel ribs and aluminum panels. Though she sometimes longed for the days of her childhood, Daisy grudgingly admitted that hers was a far easier life than her mother’s. She has electricity, a propane tank, a deep well with a Sears Roebuck pump that has not faltered for almost fifty years. She owns a good radio and a black-and-white television that works most of the time. Someday, she might even have a telephone. Someday.
But though a thousand summers have faded with the first frost, as many winters have draped the rounded shoulders of the mountains with shawls of woolly white, much about this land is the same as in her youth—and ever will be. Yes, the important things are unchanged. The brown earth is the same… and the blue sky. Three Sisters Mesa still looms above her, as if the Pueblo women who were turned to stone watch over their Ute sister in the rugged valley below. The mischievous winds of autumn playfully fling handfuls of sand against the Ute woman’s trailer. Swollen November clouds still carry the pregnant promise of heavy snows in the San Juans.
The night visitor cares not whether snows may cover him… nor if the sun will ever shine again. He canngot concern himself with such small matters. His whole mind is focused on his consuming obsession.
Daisy Perika often reminds herself of this: though there are certain drawbacks to living in the solitude of the wilderness, there are advantages as well. Loneliness is more than compensated for by not having to put up with too many fools. Except for Cousin Gorman, of course. Gorman Sweetwater still stops by on his way to check his white-faced cattle who forage for bits of grass in the Canyon of the Spirits, but he is often mildly drunk and always thoroughly foolish.
There are a few visitors who are always welcome, Charlie Moon being chief among them. Daisy Perika feels fortunate to have a weekly visit from her nephew and wishes he would come more often. But a tribal policeman’s life is a busy one. And he’s a healthy young man whose mind is bound to be occupied by other matters. Like young women. Young men and young women, she reminds herself, should enjoy each other. Life’s few pleasures pass us by soon enough.
Daisy Perika once enjoyed the company of men. She has endured three husbands. And buried them all. Now she is very old and enjoys few of life’s pleasures. Except for food. Lately, she invests much thought into what she will have for her next meal. Lamb stew is good, that is true. Hamburgers are tasty too. And pinto beans cooked with onions. Boiled new potatoes and fried green tomatoes. Fat bacon snapping in the skillet with a heap of scrambled eggs.
But nothing… nothing is as good as posole.
Especially if the green chiles are from the flat fields down at Hatch. And the pork is fresh from Fidel Sombra’s pig farm up by Oxford. Of course, you must know how to fix it just right. A few pinches of salt. A half dozen good shakes of coarsely ground black pepper. And before the brew goes on the burner, two tablespoons of flour to thicken the broth.
She gave the iron pot a final stir, then twisted the knob to lower the flame for a bubbling simmer. A sudden gust of wind strained against the trailer’s aluminum skin. The steel bones squeaked and groaned, but did not break. The sturdy little house was much like its occupant.
The winds blow like a fury around the night visitor, who squats under the tossing boughs of a fragrant juniper. But he does not feel the chill in it.
Satisfied with the fruit of her labors, Daisy ladled out a generous helping into a heavy crockery bowl and seated herself at the kitchen table. She smeared margarine over the last slab of black rye bread. The cupboard was getting a little bare. Her nephew would come by on Monday and drive her into Ignacio to shop for groceries. It was Charlie Moon’s day off from his job at the Southern Ute Police Department, so he’d show up in his big pickup truck. She’d have preferred to ride in the SUPD Blazer—the seat was easier on her back and you didn’t have to step so high to get in.
Daisy helped herself to a spoonful of posole. Then, a bite of bread and margarine. A long drink of cold milk. The old woman closed her eyes in rapt pleasure. My… such a feast.
Moreover, she was entertained as she supped.
The FM radio dial was tuned to KSUT, the tribe’s radio station. And because it was Saturday evening, she listened to a program all the way from Minneapolis. Lots of good music… and The Lives of the Cowboys, with Lefty and Rusty who had themselves a bath maybe once a year and were always chasing after some saloon gal. Like any woman in her right mind would want to snuggle up to a fellow who smelled worse’n his horse. But Daisy’s favorite character on the show was the detective. Guy Somebody. She smiled and dipped up another spoonful of steaming posole. That Guy was always in some kinda scrape. Sometimes he got shot full of holes by gangsters, but he must be a fast healer because he was always healthy enough for next week’s show. And like them pitiful cowboys, he was always in love—but never got himself a woman. Maybe he didn’t bathe neither.
When her meal was finished, Daisy stashed the leftover posole in the refrigerator, washed the bowl and spoon, and took a halfhearted swipe at the blackened iron pot. She glanced at the great sea of darkness rolling against her window, and yawned. Time for sleep. She switched off the kitchen light, and opened the door to the bedroom at the center of her trailer-home.
This day had been as ordinary as a day can be for a weary old woman who lives practically in the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. This night would—so Daisy thought—be like ten thousand others. As she switched off the lamp by her small bed, the realization came suddenly—much as a crooked finger of lightning illuminates a dark landscape. A chill shudder rattled the shaman’s aged bones.
And she knew as only one of her kind can know. She was not alone.
Someone was there… outside.
Cloaked in darkness.
Watching.
Daisy moved warily to the window. She pulled the curtain aside, looked toward the dirt lane that led to the rutted gravel road. The stars were like glistening points of white fire. The cusp of half-moon was sailing high, bathing the earth in a creamy light. She squinted. The few piñons and junipers stood there, precisely where they should be, as familiar as old friends.
But something else stood there among the trees.
A man.
The old woman tensed. And regretted the fact that she didn’t have a telephone to call for help. What about the double-barreled twelve-gauge in the closet—was it loaded? Well, if it wasn’t, there was a box of shotgun shells on the shelf above it. She flipped a switch, turning on the porch light. Maybe that would scare this prowler off.
It did not.
He moved several paces closer to the trailer; now his gaunt body was illuminated by the sixty-watt light bulb. The night visitor had piercing blue eyes, matted locks of straw-colored hair, an untrimmed beard. And he wore something that caught the shaman’s eye. It was a pendant of polished wood, suspended on a cord around his neck. The ornament was long as a man’s middle finger. Round on the top, pointed on the bottom. And curved… like a bear claw.
The pendant was all he wore.
Except for an uneven coating of caked mud, the man was naked as the day he was born.
Well. This was not your run-of-the-mill prowler.
The winds whipped at tufts of rabbit grass, rattled the dry skeletons of Apache plume. But the frigid gusts did not seem to cause the nude man any discomfort. He merely stood there. And stared at the old woman in the window. He was apparently quite unconscious of his nakedness. Or his mud-caked skin.
The effect, though unnerving, was also mildly comical.
Daisy grinned. The old woman—who was no stranger to either drunks or idiots—opened the window. “Hey… what’re you doing out there?”
He hesitated… then raised his fingers. Touched his mouth.
What’d this yahoo want… something to eat? A cigarette?
Daisy noticed something on the side of his neck. Looked like a smear of dried blood. “You hurt or something?”
The visitor passed his hand over his head… barely touching filthy, matted hair. He muttered something under his breath… showed her his hand. It was no longer empty. On his grimy palm was something smooth and white. And spotlessly clean.
“A hen’s egg,” Daisy muttered. So the naked tramp could turn his hand to a trick or two. “What else you got up your sleeve? You gonna pull a jackrabbit outta your hat?” But, she reminded herself, this pitiful magician had neither sleeve nor hat. Nor britches.
He stretched out his hand.
Did this dirty fellow want to give her the egg? She waved the offer away. “No thanks, Houdini. I buy mine in town. By the dozen.”
The Magician gave no indication that he understood. Nor did he offer a word to explain his presence.
But Daisy Perika felt no need for an explanation from this naked, mud-caked half-wit who was blessed with a small conjuring talent. What had happened was clear enough. This white man had wandered onto tribal lands without permission. Probably a college student on a hiking trip. He was either drunk or pumped up on some kind of drug—only a boozer or a dopehead would shed his clothes on such a chilly night. And from the look of him, he’d stumbled into one of them black-mud bogs over in Snake Canyon.
It was a record for Daisy Perika. Never in such a short space of time had the old woman made so many errors.
But just how he’d gotten himself into this fix was of no great interest to her. If this bug-brain didn’t get some help, he’d freeze stiff as a board before morning. And she was the only help within a mile. So she had to do something. Daisy Perika—who was a long way from being a fool—was not about to let a crazy naked white man into her home. She pointed to indicate an easterly direction. “Go that way.”
The Magician seemed perplexed by this simple instruction.
She shook her head in annoyance. Must be a foreigner. Having the innate good sense to know that if a person couldn’t understand English, you had to speak louder, she yelled. “Head east—down the dirt road. Toward the highway.” Eventually, a passing motorist would spot this lunatic. And use their cell phone to call the tribal police. Let Charlie Moon and his bunch sort this out.
The stranger stood like he was planted in her yard, rooted to his tracks. His hand remained outstretched, displaying the object that looked like a egg. He stared at her. Expectantly.
She sighed. This jaybird wasn’t going away. He seemed determined to test her sense of duty. “What is it? You want some clothes to wear?”
The Magician cocked his head inquisitively, like a puppy trying very hard to understand.
She raised her voice another decibel. “You wait right there. I’ll go and get you some of my last husband’s old clothes.” He won’t mind, seein’ as he’s been dead for twenty years.
Daisy opened the closet door and pushed aside wire hangers holding print dresses, woolen shawls, a man’s wool overcoat. A faded pair of bib overalls was hanging on a hook above the shotgun. Just the thing for a tramp. She found a scuffed pair of horsehide boots; a heavy pair of woolen socks was stuffed inside. The old woman muttered to herself: “I’ll warn him to stay where he is, then pitch this stuff out on the porch. If the knucklehead has enough sense left to put these clothes on, then I’ll make him a cheese-and-baloney sandwich and put that on the porch too. And send him on his way. Then I can go to bed with a clear conscience.”
When the somewhat reluctant Good Samaritan returned to the window—ready to shout her instructions—the naked stranger was gone. Well, thank God and all His angels… that’s the last I’ll see of that oddball. “Well,” she said aloud so God would be sure to hear, “too bad he left in such a hurry… I’d have liked to help that poor soul.” It was with a sense of considerable relief that she closed the window. And stood there. Watching to make sure he was really gone. Daisy realized that she was breathing heavily, as if she’d climbed the long, rocky trail up the talus slope of Three Sisters Mesa.
The Ute shaman—a member (in moderately good standing) of St. Ignatius Catholic Church—sat down on her bed and said her prayers. She would have kneeled, but her knees were sore. Daisy prayed for some rain—but not enough to flood the canyon. For a mild winter. For the health and prosperity of the People. And for other Native Americans. She prayed for Charlie Moon’s safety. And—almost as an afterthought—she prayed for Scott Parris, the chief of police up at Granite Creek. The white man was Charlie Moon’s best friend. And the broad-shouldered matukach was her friend as well. Even though he had once blown a hole through her roof with a twelve-gauge shotgun—a hole big enough to drop a goat through. With men and children, you learned to overlook such foolishness.
Daisy slid her feet under the covers and pulled the thick quilt to her chin; her head fell upon the pillow. This weary woman, imbued with the hardy spirit of her people—and comforted by the sweet presence of Christ—continued to whisper her prayers.
Our Father who is in heaven… Great Mysterious One… protect your people… Hail Mary, full of grace… watch over us… He who speaks with words of thunder, hear my voice… though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… your rod and your staff they comfort me… He who makes his home above the mountains, hear me …? Lover of my soul… my cup runneth over… deliver us from evil. Oh yes… help that crazy white man who’s all splattered with mud.
And she added this observation and advice for the benefit of the omniscient One: “The way I figure it, he’s either crazy or drunk. Or both. So when you send somebody to help him, it’d be best to tell ’em to be careful. At least that’s what I think.”
Finally, the rambling prayer ended. As the moon drifted over Cañon del Espiritu, Daisy’s breathing became more regular.
On a windswept ridge above the shaman’s trailer stands a desiccated corpse. She is a hideous, frightful thing to behold—this aged dancer balanced awkwardly on a misshapen leg… twisted arms raised in mute supplication to darkened heavens.
Depending upon one’s perspective, she is
…? grotesque, twisted hag—standing where a living thing once stood
… a resinous piñon snag—chop her up for kindling wood.
On this night, the carcass has company. Of a sort.
Under the starlight shadow of the dead branches, the naked figure sits easily upon his haunches. He rolls the white “egg” in his hand. The shaman has given him a name, and so he is the Magician. But he does not deal in common tricks and illusions.
He watches the old woman’s home. In an unheard voice that harmonizes with the silent choir of night, he sings to himself. It is a lurid serenade. Of lust. Jealousy. Murder. And urgent business unfinished. A lonely soul’s ballad oft spins a melancholy tale of what has been—this grim ode also foretells what is yet to be.
When his silent song is ended, the mute singer does not stir. He will by no means depart from this place until the thing is done. And so he waits… for someone who will surely come.
A child.
Charlie Moon turned off the paved surface of Route 151 onto Fosset Gulch Road, immediately crossing the narrow bridge over the Piedra. Rain had been scarce, so the river was low. Ankle-deep in places. Looked like you could walk across it by stepping from stone to stone.
The wisp of a girl in the seat beside him strained against the shoulder strap and pressed her nose against the window. “I bet there are lots of fishes in there.”
The driver did not respond, and this irked the child.
Sarah Frank looked to the Ute policeman for confirmation. “Are there lots of fishes in the river?”
He nodded.
“What kind?” she pressed.
“Mostly rainbow trout,” Moon said, and jerked the steering wheel to miss a shallow pothole in the gravel road.
“Rainbow,” she sighed. “I bet they’re really pretty.” Mr. Zig-Zag purred: Sarah rubbed the black cat’s neck. “Are there any catfish in the river?”
“Nope. Piedra’s way too cold for ’em.”
She shivered. “Aren’t there no other fish to keep the rainbow trout company?”
He thought about this. “Well… I s’pose there might be some rattlesnake trout about.”
“That sounds scary.”
“Oh, they’re not dangerous. Just another kinda fish.” He waited for the inevitable question.
“Charlie, why are they called rattlesnake trouts?”
“For one thing, they got a long, skinny neck.”
There was an expression of wonder in her brown eyes, which seemed far too large for her face. “A fish with a neck. Really?”
“Sure. That old rattlesnake trout can pop his head out real fast and strike!” He flicked his hand to demonstrate. “Last April, Gorman Sweetwater said he saw one snap a woolly worm off a willow branch that was a good two feet above the water.”
She shuddered.
He was on a roll. “It’s an evolutionary advantage. Gives ’em an edge over the common water-feeders.”
“But with such a long neck wouldn’t it be awfully hard to swim?”
“Sure. It could get wrapped around a reed or even tied in a knot. So when they’re not using that long neck, they keep it all coiled up on their shoulders. That’s why they’re called a rattlesnake trout. Although down in New Mexico they call ’em spring-necked trouts.”
She made a face. “I think they sound icky.”
“I don’t much like their looks myself. But some fishermen prefer ’em to rainbows or cutthroats. Last week Gorman Sweetwater caught a small one. Said he stretched the neck out and it wasn’t more’n ten inches long. He let it snap back and only counted three coils. But I guess old Gorman must’ve took a shine to it anyway. He took it home and put it in a big bowl with his Chinese goldfish.”
“Would you take me to see it?”
“I’d sure like to, but it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Game warden found out about it. Made Gorman throw the thing back in the Piedra.”
“Why?”
“Against the law to keep a rattlesnake trout with less than five coils.” She’s a good kid, but kind of gullible.
“Oh.” Charlie’s nice, but he makes up such silly stories. Sarah Frank clutched the black cat against her chest and squinted through the sandblasted windshield at a dusty road that led into the canyon country. “Are we almost there?”
Moon, who had answered this question a dozen times since he’d picked her up at the Colorado Springs airport, nodded. “Almost.”
The child looked up at the big policeman. “Are you sure Aunt Daisy′11 be glad to see me and Mr. Zig-Zag?”
Sarah was no blood relation to Daisy Perika, but all the kids called her “Aunt Daisy.” “She’ll be happy to see you. But,” he added cautiously, “she don’t much care for cats.”
“I know. When I was here before, Aunt Daisy never called Mr. Zig-Zag by his real name. She called him Dishrag and Hair Bag and stuff. And sometimes she kicked at him.”
“Kicked him?” Sounded just like the grumpy old woman.
“Well, not real hard. If Mr. Zig-Zag bothered her, she’d kinda push at him with her foot.”
“When we get there,” Moon said, “I’ll go in and have a talk with her. You’d best stay in the pickup with your cat for a while.” This would be a delicate operation.
Daisy Perika had finished her breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs—the last two eggs in the small refrigerator. She washed the dishes hurriedly and twisted a papered wire around the top of a plastic refuse bag. Grocery day was also take-the-garbage-to-the-landfill day. Though it would be a mild autumn day, the elderly woman pulled on the heavy wool coat her last husband had worn every winter for fifteen years. She wrapped her gray head in a blue cotton scarf.
Impatiently, she sat in her kitchen, leather purse slung over her shoulder, grocery list in her coat pocket. She scowled in the general direction from whence he would come, and tapped the door key on the table. By her reckoning, Charlie Moon was almost an hour late. At intervals, she would get up and putter around the kitchen. Wiping spots of grease off the porcelain surface of the propane stove. Cleaning her hornrimmed spectacles with a tissue. Setting her wristwatch against the electric clock on the wall over the refrigerator.
Presently, though the windows were closed to the chill October morning, she heard the characteristic grumble of the big V-8 engine. Charlie Moon’s old pickup was still far over the ridge, maybe a half mile away. Soon, she could hear the chassis groaning and creaking as her nephew negotiated the deep ruts in the unpaved road.
Well, it’s about time.
She checked to make sure the burner valves on the gas stove were firmly shut off, that water from the faucets wasn’t dripping in the sink.
Daisy watched through the window as Charlie Moon parked the pickup in the lane that led up to her trailer-home. Funny. He usually pulled right up to the porch, so she wouldn’t have to walk so far. And what was that… a second head in the cab? Somebody was in the truck with him. Daisy groaned. She hoped he hadn’t brought that Myra Cornstone along. Myra’s little boy—the one she called “Chigger Bug”—was almost three years old now, and the baby’s father was a no-account matukach cowboy who’d run off to Nevada or someplace after the child was born. After she’d decided her white man wasn’t coming back, Myra had started looking around for someone else to share her bed. For some time now, she’d been making the big-eyes at Charlie Moon. Though the Cornstone girl was a Ute—and no close relation to Charlie—Daisy didn’t think this particular young woman would make a good wife for her favorite nephew.
But that wasn’t Myra in the truck with Charlie. It was someone much smaller. A child …?
Moon climbed the steps on the unpainted pine porch; the planks groaned under his weight. The tall man rapped his knuckles on the trailer wall.
Daisy Perika pushed the door open and peered suspiciously at her nephew. There was no one on the porch with him; she leaned to look past him at the pickup. Yes. He’d left the engine running, most likely to keep the cab warm for his passenger. And there was that little head bobbing around like a cork when a trout nibbled at the worm on the hook. She grunted and stepped aside. This passed for an invitation for her nephew to come inside.
Charlie Moon removed his black Stetson, ducked his head to pass under the six-foot door frame, and made his way into the old woman’s warm kitchen. He patted his aunt on the shoulder. “I guess you’re about ready to go into town for some groceries.”
“I been ready for more’n an hour,” she said peevishly. Daisy went to a window and stared at the pickup. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s what?” he said. As if he’d forgotten about his small passenger. Or small passengers if you counted the cat.
“Who’s that in your truck?”
“Oh, just a little girl. You got your grocery list ready?”
Daisy turned to wrinkle her brow at him. “What little girl?”
“Sarah Frank. I picked her up at the Colorado Springs airport this morning.”
“That’s Sarah?” The old woman jammed her hands into the pockets of the heavy man’s overcoat. Now that was interesting. Sarah’s mother had been one of them Papago people, but her daddy had been a Ute. “I thought she was staying with her grandparents down in Arizona.”
“She was,” Moon said. “But her grandmother died last month. And her grandfather’s been put in a nursing home. So the Tohono O’otam Social Welfare Department had a talk with the Social Services people in our tribe, and they worked out a deal. Sarah will be placed in a foster home on our reservation.” So far, no arrangement had been made.
“Our tribal council is working with them Papagos?” Daisy said with a chortle. “Hah. A Ute goes and makes a deal with them sneaky desert Indians, he’d better count his teeth before he comes home. It costs a lot to take care of a child. One of ’em will drink a quart of milk a day. And they’re a bother and a nuisance.”
Moon continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Because Sarah is Tohono O’otam on her mother’s side and Ute on her father’s, the tribes will go fifty-fifty on her financial support.”
At the mention of cash money, Daisy’s left eyebrow raised a notch. “Financial support?”
“Yeah. Monthly payment to cover expenses.”
“So who’s going to take care of the little girl?”
Moon shrugged. Several well-qualified families had already refused. Had too many responsibilities already, they’d said. The few who had shown an interest were, for one reason or another, considered unsuitable. “I expect there’ll be several families who’ll volunteer.”
“Sure,” she said with self-righteous indignation. “All they’ll be interested in is makin’ some money. What that poor child needs is a good home.”
Moon turned away to hide a smile. “Roy Severo and his wife Bertha have talked some about Sarah movin’ in with them.” It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. They had talked about it—and decided they were too old and set in their ways to raise another child.
Daisy snorted. “Roy and Bertha couldn’t raise their own children up right. Why, one of ’em is working for some fly-by-night telephone outfit. They say she calls people up right at suppertime—tries to talk ’em into changing their telephone service.” Enough said. She squinted through the window. “Why’s Sarah stayin’ out in the truck? Why don’t she come inside?”
“I figured you’d be in a hurry to leave,” Moon said innocently. “And I guess Sarah’s anxious to get to Ignacio And find out where she’ll be living.”
“Well, we’re not going to Ignacio for shopping today,” Daisy snapped. “I need to go up to the supermarket in Bayfield.”
“Bayfield?” She seldom shopped in Bayfield.
“Sure. They got a big sale goin’.”
“Sale? On what?”
She hesitated. “On… on broccoli. And artichokes.”
“Oh.” He’d never seen the least sign of either item in Daisy’s kitchen. “Well, I guess I could loop around and drop Sarah off in Ignacio on the way back from Bayfield.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Guess we better get going. The Social Services Office will be wanting to start the processing.”
“Start what?”
“The paperwork.”
“Paperwork for what?”
“The monthly checks to Sarah’s foster parents.”
“You know,” Daisy said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “there’s no need to hustle the poor child off to some strange house right away. You could leave her here for a while. Little Sarah stayed with me once before. I expect she’d feel more comfortable bein’ with somebody she knows.”
“Well,” Moon said doubtfully, “I don’t know… I’d have to get approval from Social Services.”
Daisy dismissed this objection with a wave of her hand. “You can leave Sarah with me when we get back from Bayfield. If those fussy old hens in Social Services give you any trouble, you just send ’em out to see me and I’ll clip their feathers.”
Feigning reluctance, Moon nodded. The lady from SSO had already agreed to Sarah staying with Daisy Perika on a “trial basis.” Before it could become a permanent arrangement, Daisy’s home would have to be checked out. SSO would determine whether the elderly woman was physically and mentally fit to provide proper foster-parent care of the child. But the head social worker owed him a favor or two; it was virtually a done deal. “You know… Sarah would have to stay here at least a month before you’d get a support payment from the tribe.”
Daisy put on a pained, saintly countenance. “If I was to let a poor little orphan child stay in my home for a while, it wouldn’t be for money.” She held her hand near his face, and rubbed finger against thumb. “The trouble with you young people nowadays is that all you think about is money, money, money.”
Moon assumed a suitably sheepish expression. He opened the trailer door for her. “Well, it’s not a lot of money …”
She paused on the porch and scowled at him. “Just exactly how much is not a lot …?”
Charlie Moon pitched the plastic garbage bag into the truck bed; he opened the passenger-side door. The elderly woman puffed and grunted as he assisted her climb into the cab. Daisy Perika settled herself beside the child, who had scooted to the middle of the broad seat.
The girl smiled fondly at the newcomer. “Hello, Aunt Daisy.” Sarah Frank held up the coal-black cat for the Ute woman’s inspection. “Say hello, Mr. Zig-Zag.” The sleek feline blinked warily at the woman’s small black eyes, sitting like plump raisins in an oatmeal-pudding face.
Daisy beamed upon the pair. “Why, hello, Sarah.” She reached out to pat the cat’s head; the animal hissed a warning. “And hello to you, Mr. Rag-Bag.”
“Mr. Zig-Zag,” Sarah said.
Charlie Moon backed the truck into the rutted lane that connected Cañon del Espiritu with Fosset Gulch Road. The Ute policeman was feeling quite satisfied with this morning’s work. True, Daisy’s trailer-home was a little ways off the beaten path. But it was neat and clean. And the old woman could still get around well enough to deal with a child. Daisy was a bit peculiar, of course. She still walked up the canyon sometimes to visit that abandoned badger hole where—so she said—the “little man” lived. But she’d hobnobbed with the dwarf since she was a little girl. Said he’d told her lots of things. Important things. It wasn’t just Aunt Daisy; several of the older members of the tribe still believed the pitukupf was a real person, even claimed they saw him from time to time. Only last week, the manager of the Sky Ute Motel restaurant had made a report to the SUPD. A substantial amount of food was missing. Moon had questioned the kitchen staff. His chief suspect was a Ute woman whose husband had died last April. She had a minimum-wage job and four hungry children to raise. With a perfectly straight face, she claimed that it “wasn’t none of us employees who took the food.” No, she explained, the pitukupf had sneaked in after closing and carried away two sugar-cured hams, three dozen eggs, and twelve pounds of frozen hamburger. How did she know it was the dwarf? Why, she had seen him when she arrived for work just before sunup. Runnin’ away, with a big sack over his shoulder. Moon had wondered why such a little fellow would carry away so much food. He must be stockin’ up for the winter, she had suggested.
Moon had dutifully entered this material in his official report:
Witness reports seeing suspect leaving Sky Ute Lodge, approx. 6 A.M. Suspect description follows:
Height: approx, two feet
Name: unknown
Race: said to be non-human
Age: said to be older than the mountains
Clothing: green shirt, funny hat, buckskin trousers, moccasins
Last known address: unknown, but individual of similar description has been reported to be living in badger hole in Cañon del Espiritu
The chief of police had not been amused. But you could put all of Roy Severo’s sense of humor into a thimble and not fill it up.
Moon’s thoughts drifted back to his aunt, and her fitness to care for an orphaned child who didn’t seem to have all that many options. It wasn’t just Daisy’s visits with the pitukupf. The “Ute leprechaun” was a tribal tradition that could be overlooked. But more and more, the old woman’s thoughts wandered. She had weird dreams and often awoke with a dreadful certainty that these night visions predicted awful things to come. He knew because she would hound him about her worries. You’re a policeman, so go and stop this thing from happening. Do this. Do that. Call Scott Parris, he’ll know I’m right.
And the poor old woman saw ghosts and spirits everywhere. Last June it was a growling bear-spirit sitting on a piñon stump in her yard; she’d thrown it a donut and the “bear” went away, satisfied with the offering. Month before that, it was the ghost of a Ignacio businessman walking along a street, looking into store windows that hadn’t changed (for him) in fifty years. Seeing these haunts was bad enough. But Daisy talked to them. And they talked back. But it wasn’t like she was getting feebleminded. Well, not very feebleminded.
Through the mists, Daisy Perika could see the jutting tower of Chimney Rock. She pulled a scrap of paper from her coat pocket and went over her grocery list. Flour. Salt. Ground beef. Pork sausage. Coffee. Milk. Eggs.
Yes… eggs.
This reminded the shaman of last evening’s peculiar visitor. “Charlie?”
“Yeah?” He didn’t take his eyes off the road. There were holes big enough to break a shock absorber. And you never knew when a deer would step out from behind a juniper, right in front of your bumper.
She blinked owlishly through her spectacles. “You oughta be on the lookout for a white man. Probably on drugs. Walks around naked as a plucked chicken.”
“Naked?”
“As the day he was born,” she said with a weary shake of her head. It was embarrassing the way people carried on nowadays. “He came by my place two nights ago.”
The policeman frowned. “He do anything threatening?”
The old woman shook her head. “But he did do something kinda peculiar.”
“What?”
“A magic trick.”
Moon shot her a sideways glance. “He did what?”
She smiled at the memory. “Conjured up a white egg in his hand. Just like one of them magicians on TV.”
“Oh.” This was beginning to sound like one of her peculiar dreams. “What’d he look like?”
The old woman frowned thoughtfully. “Skinny. Not so tall. Yella hair. Blue eyes. And all muddy—like he’d fell in one of them bogs in Snake Canyon.”
“Well,” the Ute policeman said amiably, “I’ve had no citizen complaints about any matukach of that description. But if we cross paths, I’ll throw a net over him.”
Daisy nodded. “That’s just what he needs. A net throwed over him.”
Moon tapped the brake pedal as a gaunt coyote loped across the lane in front of the Blazer, and disappeared into the brush. Maybe some drunk had wandered by her trailer-home. On the other hand, the old woman had got to the point where she had a hard time telling the difference between dreams and reality. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You remember anything unusual about this fella that’d help me figure out who he is?”
She snorted. “Well, Mr. Policeman—he was stark naked, all covered with black mud, and pulled a white egg outta his hair. I’d say Unusual was his middle name.”
The policeman grinned at Sarah, who seemed fascinated by this conversation. “I mean like… distinguishing marks or characteristics.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. Hanging-scar around his neck. Gold ring in his nose. Big red spider tattooed on his knee.”
Daisy Perika shot her nephew a warning look. “Nobody likes a smart aleck.”
Moon slowed to steer around a fallen pine branch. “There may be more’n one naked white man sneakin’ around in the brush. If I’m gonna catch your guy, you got to give me something more specific to go on.”
“I think he was some kinda foreigner,” Daisy said suspiciously. “German, maybe.” German tourists visited Mesa Verde in great droves. Some spilled over onto the Ute reservation.
“German,” Moon said with a smirk that irritated his aunt. “Well, that’ll help.”
“Or he coulda been a Albanian or a Bulgarian,” she snapped. “Or a Canadian.”
Moon wondered whether bringing Sarah Frank to stay with this peculiar old woman had been a sensible notion. But there was no acceptable alternative. Not until Social Services could find a permanent home for the child.
The grocery shopping was finished. They were headed back to Daisy’s trailer-home at the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. Charlie Moon had taken notice of two things. First, his aunt had purchased neither broccoli nor artichoke. Second, she had not mentioned the fact that Sarah was looking for a home. Maybe the old woman was trying to think of a gentle way to broach the subject to the child.
Daisy Perika took a sidelong look at the little girl sitting between her and Charlie Moon. The child was clutching the black cat to her chest. “Well, Charlie tells me you’ve left the Papago reservation.”
Sarah Frank nodded.
Moon was pleased that his aunt—who could be brutally direct—was approaching the sensitive subject with some delicacy. This is what he thought.
Daisy squinted through the windshield. “I hear your Papago grandmother went and died on you. And your grandfather’s gone feebleminded and’s living in an old-folks home. And here you are—without a roof over your head or anything to eat.”
With some effort, Moon held his tongue.
Sarah nodded again. “Yes, Aunt Daisy. I thought maybe me and Mr. Zig-Zag could come and stay with you… for a little while.”
Uh-oh. Moon kept his eyes on the road. If Aunt Daisy guesses that this was my idea …
Daisy was pleased that she and Sarah Frank had shared the same thought. But it would be a bad tactic to appear too eager. “Well… I don’t know how I’d manage with a noisy child in my house. I’m too old to put up with any nonsense.”
Sarah rubbed the cat’s neck. “We wouldn’t have to stay very long—just till some nice people want me to live with them.”
The old woman scowled at the little girl.
To cover a laugh, the policeman quickly faked a cough.
Daisy fumbled in her purse and found a handkerchief; she blew her nose. “And another thing—I think I’m allergic to Mr. Hair-Bag.”
“Zig-Zag,” Sarah muttered hopelessly.
“When you brought that animal into my house before, seemed like I never could stop sneezing and scratching.” Daisy Perika sensed that her nephew was about to say something, and continued quickly: “Tell you what, young lady. We’ll try it for just a few days. See how it works out.”
Sarah shook her finger in the cat’s impassive face. “Now don’t you make Aunt Daisy sneeze.” She reached over to hug the old woman.
“Hmmmf,” Daisy said gruffly. The half-Papago child would be a great nuisance. The cat would always be underfoot, whining at her ankles, wanting scraps from the table. But then… she certainly wouldn’t be lonely. And there was the support money—almost as much as she got in her monthly Social Security check. Not—she quickly reminded herself and the Almighty—that this act of charity had anything whatever to do with money.
Nathan McFain was walking his fence line when he saw Charlie Moon’s old pickup—trailed by rolling billows of yellow dust—rumble by on the gravel road two hundred yards to the south. The rancher paused and pulled at his tobacco-stained white beard. Nathan made it his business to know much of his neighbor’s business. The Ute policeman came by once every week to take his aged aunt to town so she could buy her provisions. Nathan pulled a fat watch from his pocket and squinted at the thin blue hands. Charlie and Daisy were running a little behind schedule. He found a package of Red Man chewing tobacco in his jacket pocket and bit off a chaw. The rancher stood there for a full minute, chewing thoughtfully. Then, to punctuate the end of this pause, spat on a fence post. He was missing two lower front teeth. A dribble of brown spittle ran down his chin… and onto the whiskers where it added to the brown patina that neatly divided the white beard.
The rancher, whose bent posture and slow walk made him seem much older than his sixty-two years, plodded along. He pushed at loose cedar posts, tugged at rusted strands of barbed wire. Made mental notes of which repairs should be completed before the deep snows came, and those that could wait until after the April thaw. He was approaching a sandy basin in his pasture, shaded from the late afternoon sun by the brow of a sandstone bluff that rose steeply a few yards beyond the fence. The land on the west side of the barbed wire belonged to the Southern Ute tribe. In fact, most of the real estate bordering his ninety-acre holdings was a part of the reservation. His great-grandfather had bought this parcel from a Ute sheepman back in the 1890s. There had been boundary disputes ever since. Nathan McFain, who was one-quarter Navajo on his mother’s side, liked to say that he mistrusted all the Utes twenty-five percent of the time—and twenty-five percent of the Utes all the time—as was his birthright.
A Ute elder who heard this insult had responded that one-quarter Navajo blood was more than enough to infect the whole man. And on top of that, the other seventy-five percent of Nathan’s blood was matukach. So Utes were obliged to mistrust Nathan McFain one hundred and ten percent of the time. And not only that, he had added, the bearded, gap-toothed man was ugly as three billy goats.
On an occasion some years ago, the rancher had suspected the Utes of rolling several basalt boulders that served as boundary markers onto his land. By at least a yard. Maybe two. He wasn’t absolutely sure, of course. But a man had to take steps to protect his property from illegal encroachment. So now and again he’d roll the marker boulders in the direction of the Ute holdings. Just a yard. Maybe two.
But within a few months, he was certain the boulders had been rolled back toward him. Damn conniving Utes. So he’d roll ’em westward again.
The rancher had finally tired of that game and put in a barbed-wire fence.
Nathan was a dour, unhappy soul. An unfortunate man who disproved the adage that you got out of life what you put into it. He had attempted to raise a family. His wife had died when the child was born, some twenty-odd years ago. And his daughter—though he loved her—had been a peck of trouble. For decades, he had labored to bring forth a good living from his acres. He had tried sheep. The hateful creatures conspired among themselves to come down with dreadful diseases unknown to veterinary science, and died by the dozens. They did this just to spite him. He’d tried cattle, and they had waxed fat. But beef prices fell through the floor and into the basement. He planted apple orchards. The flesh of the fruit was sweet enough, but the skins were like leather. And there was the great flock of strutting peacocks whose feathers were to be sold to the Chinese. That was a most embarrassing affair, and it was better not to bring the subject up with Nathan McFain.
Determined to make a few dollars out of his land, he moved from one questionable scheme to another. Most recently, Nathan had converted his holdings into a dude ranch with a half dozen overly tame horses and “scenic riding trails.” He had sold ten acres of prime Piedra riverbank land and used the cash to build a row of cute little log cabins that would attract the well-heeled city folk.
But alas, the dudes did not come.
One could make a detailed list of his other failed business ventures, but it was altogether too dismal.
And now—buried in an accumulation of failures—Nathan McFain sometimes felt as if he already lay in the grave. Waiting for the somber men with spades to throw the sod o’er him. But he did not give up entirely. Partially because of an inborn stubbornness. And also because Nathan knew that he was smarter than his more prosperous neighbors. And he worked harder than those slackers. So they must be lucky. On dismal nights when he could not sleep, he grudgingly admitted that it was better to be lucky than to be smart.
What he needed, he told himself ten times a day, was a bit of luck.
As the rancher slowly made his way along the fence, he found himself at the edge of the low, sandy area under the bluff. With last spring’s winds, this unsightly pockmark on the face of his pasture had earned the title “blow.” The gusts had carried away several inches of loose topsoil. Grass was uprooted; even the stability of the fence was threatened. From the corner of his eye, Nathan caught a glimpse of the skinny young fellow who’d wandered onto the ranch just yesterday, half-starved and eager to work. Jimson Beugmann was up by the bam, tinkering with the old bulldozer. Fellow was deaf as a man who’d been dead a year, but he could read your lips. And this new hand seemed to have a knack with machinery. Maybe he should get Beugmann to fire up the ’dozer and push some soil up against the wobbly fence posts. Like beads on a string, one thought touched another. As long as Beugmann had the dozer over here, he could scoop out enough dirt to make a usable pond for the stock. Holding onto a shaky post, Nathan McFain paused at the edge of the shallow basin.
He hadn’t seen it coming. But he heard it… the low, whispering moaning.
The whirlwind moved across the pasture, leaning to the left, then the right… like an intoxicated giant, reeling and stumbling his way home.
The thing was whipping up bucketfuls of bile-yellow dust.
Forty feet high, twisting winds brewed in some witch’s stew-pot, and it was coming right at him. Nathan planted his feet, scowled at the thing, and stood his ground. Nothing but some wind and sand, the matukach part of his mind said. It’d pass by. But the one-quarter of him that was Navajo knew better. This was a devil-spirit, sent to torment him. Perhaps to bring on a fatal sickness …
It continued to move toward the sandy basin.
When the twister’s toe touched the sands, all hell broke loose. The solitary moaning became a heavy, communal roar… a company of fiends hatched in a hideous nightmare—eager to rip flesh from bone. Sprigs of dry rabbit brush were uprooted and shredded. Pebbles flew like bullets. The whirling winds gained strength.
Nathan threw his forearm in front of his face, like an old pugilist warding off a blow.
Yards from him, the dust devil paused. And churned.
McFain backed against the fence, heedless of the barbed wire. Until a pointed piece of steel pricked the skin over his spine… and an electric signal flashed an absurd message to his brain. Old man, you are impaled. The sand and grit was driven against one side of his head; he grabbed the brim of his canvas hat.
Still, the whirlwind did not move.
Nathan blinked, felt the grit of sand between his teeth and in his eyes. The Navajo in him prayed for this evil thing to depart.
And then the winds began to subside.
The roar gradually fell to a whisper.
And died.
He spat sand from his mouth. “Damn,” he said. The old man attempted to wipe the grit from his watering eyes. He blinked. Beneath the place where the whirlwind had stood was an almost perfectly circular depression.
And in the center of this depression was something else.
Something like a thick brown finger protruding from the matrix of clay and pebbles. In his unhappy state of mind, it was perceived as an obscene, mocking gesture. He’d once cleared a few scraggly trees from this end of the pasture… those damn winds must’ve dug up an old juniper root. Nathan trudged grimly along the gritty bottom of the blow, toward the intruding presence. He paused to stare at the thing.
Nope. Wasn’t a dead tree root.
Odd, though …
He squatted. And squinted.
Looked like some kind of bone. A cylindrical bone, slightly curved. And pointed on the end. Sort of like a cow’s horn… but way too big for that. Not an old buffalo horn, neither. Wrong shape. He pulled off a scuffed leather glove and touched the thing. Scratched the surface with a horny fingernail. Funny. It had the look and feel of… stone. His heart began to thump under his ribs. This thing was old. Really old.
Nathan McFain squatted there for some minutes, caressing the ancient tusk with his callused fingertips. The gears under his skull were spinning in overdrive. Under this thing, he assured himself, there would be more bones. Most likely a whole skeleton of some great beast. Maybe even more than one… a whole herd of ’em. This man was not in the habit of entertaining small thoughts. Nathan McFain’s visions were invariably grand. This latest fanciful picture began to form in his mind. He saw a paved driveway leading to an ample parking lot. There were redwood picnic tables nestled in the shade of cottonwoods. A fine steel building erected over the reassembled skeleton of whatever wonderful beast that lay buried beneath his feet. There were rosebushes planted along the paved walk to the door. And a large, tasteful sign on the building.
McFain Museum
Mounted on the entrance door was a brass plaque. Though it was much smaller than the sign, he could see it plainly.
ADMISSION FEES
Adults $5.00
Children $2.50
Senior Citizens $1.50
Let’s see, figure a hundred cars a week, average of two adults and two children per car, that would come to… my goodness! And there would be soft drinks and candy bars for the tourists. T-shirts and pennants and bumper stickers. Plastic skeletons of dinosaurs and limestone seashell fossils and whatnot. Some Indian pottery, of course. One hundred percent markup would be fair enough for a first-class joint. There would be tax problems with so much income; it would be necessary to hire an accountant. For the first time since he’d broke ground for the McFain Dude Ranch’s bunkhouse cabins, Nathan was a happy man. The rancher was so elated that he did a heavy-footed little jig on the floor of the sandy basin. He was very careful not to stomp on the precious thing that protruded from the earth.
Exhausted from his exertions, he sat down on the rim of the blow and thought about what to do. First—to make sure the fossil tusk didn’t get broke—he’d shovel some loose dirt over it. Then, tell Beugmann that the new stock tank could be dug somewhere else. Sure. Farther up the pasture, close to the barn. Then, he’d drive up to Granite Creek and visit Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. Tell ’em he wanted to talk with one of them professors. The kind that digs up old bones.