The drive from Virginia City had not been too bad—that is, until Laura Brand left the black-topped highway and pulled onto a dirt side road. She was bumping and bouncing along in her rented Cherokee when she noticed the Indian, standing behind a makeshift table bearing a handprinted sign that read simply: Jewelry For Sale.
Laura spared a quick, curious glance at the man as she rocked and rolled past his rickety table. Then in the next instant she stood on the brake pedal, skidding to a teeth-jarring stop.
Although Laura was not in the market for jewelry, there was something about the man that had caught her interest and tugged at her heart.
In appearance, he could only be described as shabby, worn, almost flea-bitten. And yet there was an innate dignity about him—the erect posture; the stoic expression indelibly stamped onto his ancient, lined face; the direct, unflinching stare of his black eyes. There was something about him beyond the ordinary ... timeless.
Hooked, and fully aware of it, Laura stepped from the Jeep, fatalistically prepared to part with a sizable portion of her ready cash.
“Hi,” she called, waving and offering him a tentative smile as she approached the table.
“Good afternoon,” he replied in careful, precise English, his voice deep and gravelly “You have appreciation for hand-crafted silver and turquoise jewelry?”
“Appreciation, yes, but...” Grimacing, Laura let her voice fade on a sigh.
His wise eyes didn’t appear to move, yet Laura felt his appraising gaze, as if he could see, or even know, everything about her. It was an eerie feeling, but strangely unthreatening,
“You do not adorn yourself,” he finished for her in an understanding, unquestioning statement.
“Not often,” Laura admitted, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “Except for rare special occasions, I usually can’t be bothered.”
“I see.”
Oddly enough, Laura was at once convinced that he did see, a lot more than she could probably comprehend. And yet she still felt in no way threatened or intimidated.
Offering him an apologetic smile, she moved closer to the table to peruse the selection of pieces attractively arranged on a large square of dark blue velvet.
Laura’s knowledge of jewelry making was decidedly limited, but she recognized the quality of workmanship in the finely wrought pieces.
“How exquisite,” she murmured delicately touching a stunning necklace in the style she knew was the traditional squash blossom.
“Yes,” he concurred. “But for you, for the special occasion, I choose this.” From a corner of the table his gnarled brown fingers plucked a small pouch made of the same midnight-blue velvet. He withdrew a wide, hammered-silver cuff bracelet set with a large oval turquoise stone.
Laura had caught her breath, and reached for her purse.
The wise old eyes watching her glittered like jet in the midday sunlight.
“This amulet holds magical powers,” the Indian said, after the exchange of money for the bracelet had been made. “Listen well, daughter,” he continued, thereby preventing Laura from interrupting or protesting, both of which she sorely wanted to do.
“While confined inside the pouch, the powers will remain passive and contained,” he intoned. “To release and surround yourself with the powers, remove the amulet and clasp it about your wrist.”
“Oh, honestly...” Laura began, only to be silenced by a slicing movement of his flattened hand.
“Hear this, pale one.” His voice had grown in strength and depth. “I foresee dark clouds of trouble gathering around you. Wear the amulet. Now. It will protect you, keep you safe, guide you.”
Unequal to the challenge of meeting his black stare, let alone openly defying him, Laura obediently clipped the cuff to her wrist.
Then, ten minutes after driving away from him, she removed it and slipped it back inside the pouch.
“Magical powers.” Laura made an unladylike snorting noise. “Right.”
Muttering to herself the old truism that a fool and her gold were soon parted, Laura switched off the engine with an impatient flick of her hand, then reached for the door release and flung open the door.
The dry, enervating heat of early afternoon rushed into the Jeep, overwhelming the cool interior air.
“Wow!” Laura gasped, peering through the heat haze at the ramshackle buildings lining the rutted road. For an instant she was tempted to slam the door shut and restart the Jeep and the air conditioner. But she had set out to investigate this ghost town she had discovered while reading a historical guide to Nevada and poring over a map last night in her hotel room in Virginia City, and investigate she would.
The deserted place had a forlorn, haunted look, scary and forbidding, not at all romantic or inviting. Asking herself scathingly if she had been expecting a tall, handsome man of the Old West to meet her and welcome her into the past, Laura collected her grit and gumption and thrust a cotton-twill-encased leg out the door.
Nevertheless, despite her bravado, she reached across the seat, slipped the silver and turquoise cuff from its pouch, and clasped it around her wrist. Then, grabbing her backpack from the backseat, she stuffed the velvet pouch into a side pocket, slung the pack over her shoulder, and got out of the Jeep.
It was like stepping into the mouth of hell
Laura’s lips quirked in an amused smile at her silent observation, and she shook her head. She shucked out of her short denim jacket, tied it around her waist, and strode forward in her sturdy, protective hiking boots.
It didn’t take long for Laura to lose interest in the old mining town, which had never really amounted to much. According to the guidebook, all that the handful of miners who had descended on the place ever found was a skimpy vein of gold that had petered out in less than a year, somewhere around 1860. The town consisted mainly of one street, lined by a collection of tumbledown shacks. The largest one bore a crude sign hanging askew from one hinge, informing Laura that it was the Pick and Shovel Saloon.
“Big deal,” Laura muttered, dismissing the sign and the town by turning away and heading for the foothills beyond the motley structures.
Although the going was rough, the terrain rocky and uneven, she happily trudged along, her sharp-eyed gaze scouring the ground in search of her favorite subject, new and unusual plant specimens.
Laura was a botanist. From her earliest memories, she could recall being fascinated by anything and everything that grew.
Encouraged by her parents and her only sibling, an older brother whom she adored and who likewise doted on her, to use her mind and to achieve, Laura had sailed through school. After earning her postgraduate degree in botany at the small college in her hometown in southeastern Pennsylvania, Laura had felt proud and delighted to accept the institution’s offer of a position as associate professor.
About the only thing other than plant life that had interested Laura to any lasting degree was the fabled Old West. She had grown up devouring books, movies, and TV series reruns dealing with the subject.
But although for most of her life she had felt the siren song calling her westward, this vacation trip was her first journey beyond the Mississippi.
Fairly quivering from the excitement of perhaps discovering some plant life that was new to her, Laura wandered farther and farther afield, away from the ugly town.
The brazen sun had begun its descent into the horizon when she noticed a small white blossom halfway up the side of the next hill. Perspiration slicked the back of her neck beneath the sable swath of hair she had tied with a scarf, and ran down between her breasts. Beads of moisture trickled down her forehead and into her eyes, causing them to sting and tear.
Blinking, Laura refocused her eyes, and could have sworn the white blossom waved to her, which was ridiculous, since not a breath of air stirred the dry heat.
Dismissing the fanciful thought, she wiped the sweat from her brow, then set forth determinedly to get a closer look at the flower.
Her breath growing harsh from exertion, she skittered down one humpback and began scrambling up the next hill. She was brought up short within yards of her quarry by a wide mass of bracken. Tiring, she started around the brush, then, shrugging, plunged into it. She had taken three long-legged strides when her left foot came down and she felt herself falling, her arms flailing as darkness engulfed her.
A startled yelp escaped her throat as she landed on her rump with a bone-jolting thud on the rock-hard ground.
Stunned, disoriented, she stared around her at what appeared to be a cavern ... a very dark cavern. Gathering her rattled wits, she sighed with relief at the narrow beam of sunlight slanting through the opening above.
How long would that reassuring light be there? She wondered, beginning to shiver. The sun was on its downward trek. Soon night would come. She would be alone in the cavern. Or would she? Suddenly Laura remembered a TV documentary she had watched months before, filmed in worked-out, abandoned mines. The mine shafts had been alive with bats and rodents and ... snakes!
Jerking to her feet, she rushed forward to stand directly in the path of the comforting blaze of hot sunlight. Telling herself to remain calm, she drew several deep breaths and raised her hands to wipe the now-cold sweat from her face. Sunlight glanced off the turquoise stone in her bracelet. Then, to her utter amazement, the light appeared to radiate and swirl in flashing blue rays from the stone. The shimmering energy crackled and sparked above her and descended to encircle her quaking form in a brilliant cocoon.
Stunned, Laura did what any self-respecting scientist would do under the circumstances. She threw back her head, opened her mouth wide, and screamed.