"I've been out here drawing petroglyphs." He must have been watching her, she thought. Why else would he show up now when she was so close?
"Of course you were."
"Let me go and I'll give you some pots I've collected. They're in excellent condition. You can get—"
"Don't insult me. I don't want your bloody pots; I want the staff. It's worth a lot of money. You lead me to it and I'll sell it. We'll split the money."
Mara laughed. "You must think I'm a fool. Even if I knew what you were talking about, I'd never deal with you. Never."
Walcott sighed. "I can wait. I have the perfect place for you to think it over. Maybe your memory will come back. Unfortunately, you won't have a view of the canyon. No view at all."
"You can't keep me here!"
"I can do anything I want." Walcott looked past her and she turned to see two men approaching from the canyon. They looked as if they belonged with the others. "Well, what happened? Where's the bloody Indian?"
"He's bloody, all right. I had to stick him," a man with a heavy brow and recessed, beady eyes said. "He was getting too snoopy."
"I told you, Jimbo, I didn't want any needless violence."
"It was needed."
Walcott made a motion with his hand as if to dismiss the man. "Take her up. And be nice to her."
The man laughed, and she saw a mouth of jagged yellow teeth. "I'll be real nice, boss man. Real gentle. You can count on me."
Far below the pueblo, the palomino nudged the man's face. Sam tried desperately to overcome the grogginess from his loss of blood. He attempted to stand, but the pain was too much. Then the horse bent down on its knees as Sam had trained it to do. The Ute crawled until he was lying across the horse's saddle. Sam eased a rope from the saddlebag and tied himself to his steed. He patted the horse, and the palomino rose to its feet and trotted up the canyon trail.
Sam felt the blood trickling over the saddle and down his horse's flank. His vision was blurred. He felt light-headed, woozy. He didn't know if he could make it, but the horse would take him home.
5
Sand Island
Spellbound. That was how Indy felt as he stared at the cliff wall, a sandstone panel of the past. The ancient drawings at Sand Island on the shore of the San Juan River were in the heartland of Anasazi territory. Grand Gulch was to the west and Mesa Verde to the east. Tsegi Canyon was southwest of here and Chaco Canyon to the southeast.
Sand Island was a natural spot for him to start his investigation of rock art, and he'd driven out for a look not an hour after arriving in Bluff, which was just a couple of miles from the site. Not only was Sand Island easily accessible, but it was the largest exhibition of rock art in the Southwest with literally hundreds of depictions of animals, birds, and masks as well as geometric designs and abstract symbols, some dating back more than a thousand years. He suspected that the rock art of the Anasazis was a clue to the spiritual and magical aspects of the ancient Indian culture as much as the cave paintings of southwestern France were a key to the shamanistic influences of Ice Age Man.
At the moment, Indy was examining a spiral etched in the rock. The design might symbolize the sun, but he wasn't so sure about that. His thoughts were interrupted by the muttering from a few feet away. "What did you say, Jack?"
"I was wondering about these Anasazis. You never hear about them anymore. At least, I don't. What happened to them, anyhow?"
Indy turned to the tall, lanky redhead, who was unscrewing the top of a canteen. Jack Shannon was an old friend from Chicago, who now lived in San Francisco. They hadn't seen each other for a couple of years and when Indy had told him he'd be spending the summer in Four Corners, Shannon had made arrangements for a visit. They'd met yesterday in Cortez and had left for Bluff this morning shortly after Indy bought a '24 Ford. He'd seen it for sale on the main street, and had paid fifty-seven dollars and fifty cents for it, a fair deal, although Shannon didn't think so.
"The Anasazis vanished around the thirteenth century."
"Just vanished?"
"Not all at once. They reached a cultural high point here in the desert, then things took a turn for the worse. Maybe it was a great drought or invasions from nomadic tribes. Whatever, they left. Cultures are sort of like people. They eventually get old and die. Some live longer than others."
"But where did they go?"
Indy shrugged. "They probably moved south and became the tribes we call the Hopis and the Pueblos."
"I think the Anasazis were a little jaded myself," Shannon commented. "Maybe that's what finished them off. You know, like the Romans."
Indy looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What are you talking about?"
Shannon took a long swallow, and offered the canteen to Indy, who shook his head. Shannon was a jazz musician by profession and his knowledge of archaeology was minimal, but he always had an opinion. He pointed to a drawing on the rock face. It was a hunchbacked figure, who was playing a flute and exhibiting an enormous phallus. "If I played my horn on stage like that fellow, I know it would be my downfall."
"That's Kokopelli. He's a wandering hunchbacked flute player who seduced the nubile young girls in each of the villages he visited. He's a symbol of fertility. The hump might actually be a pack he's carrying."
Shannon considered what he'd said. "I can just imagine the sort of music he played; raucous and heady with lots of real reedy, suggestive riffs, you know. The kind of thing that gets you worked up, mesmerized."
Indy laughed. "You know, you just might have something there."
"He'd play to your soul," Shannon continued. "You'd do anything for that guy to hear more of the magical flute."
"If anyone asks, you're my ancient musical interpreter," Indy said, slapping his friend on the back.
"Hey, who're you calling ancient? You're pushing thirty yourself."
"I didn't mean it quite like that. C'mon. Let's take a look further down before we go back."
"You go ahead. I'll wait down by the car."
Indy knew that Shannon didn't have the temperament to stare at rock walls all day, but he was surprised at his lack of curiosity. They'd barely been here half an hour. "What's wrong, are you tired already?"
"I've just seen enough. That's all. Anyhow, I thought they were going to be colorful paintings, not just these scratches on the wall."
"These scratches, as you call them, are petroglyphs. There are paintings at other sites, and they're known as pictographs. It's all rock art."
Shannon shrugged. "If you ask me, most of this stuff is probably the work of some kids who didn't have anything else to do."
Shannon was trying Indy's patience, but Indy held his temper. "It might look that way at first. But the deeper you get into it, the more you realize there's a pattern and meaning to it all. The Anasazis took their rock art very seriously. It wasn't like drawing on a bathroom wall in a public toilet."
Shannon glanced back at Kokopelli. "Well, I don't know about that." He'd no sooner spoken when one of his feet slipped out from beneath him and he slid down several feet.
"You okay?"
Shannon brushed off his hands. "Yeah. I'm just fine. See you at the bottom."
"I'll be with you in a few minutes," Indy called after him as Shannon descended the cliff to the river basin.
No matter what Shannon did with his life, he was always the same to Indy. The sardonic edge of his personality seemed to go with the jazz life, but he'd been a true friend, in spite of everything. A few years back, in the midst of a life filled with jazz and gangsters, Shannon had taken up with a revivalist-style church, which preached a literal interpretation of the Bible. Since moving to San Francisco, he'd found another similar church. Maybe Shannon just seemed the same to Indy because he knew better than to preach to Indy. But no doubt Shannon's Bible was tucked just out of sight.
As Indy moved along the ledge, he examined one petroglyph after another. What fascinated him was that the faint, nearly indistinct images were mixed wit
h sharper ones showing distinct differences in the age of the creation. That meant that maybe six hundred years ago someone had stood here and etched a drawing of a sheep next to a bird, which had been drawn several hundreds of years earlier.
He could easily spend the rest of the day here studying the drawings. But there were lots of sites he would visit. One of the advantages in studying rock art was that he wouldn't be tied to one site as he would be if he were here for a dig. He'd travel to all the major Anasazi ruins: Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, Grand Gulch, Hovenweep, and others. The rock art was not in any one place, but in all of them.
It would be a good summer, even without Mara. He'd considered writing her and suggesting she come later, but she knew he was here. If she wanted to see him, she'd find him.
Shannon walked over to the Ford, and kicked a rear tire. He'd told Indy that he'd paid ten dollars too much for the car, and he knew that Indy had been thinking about it ever since. He enjoyed seeing Indy again and reminiscing about old times, but he didn't know how many days he could stand it out here in the desert. Sure, the town was quaint and picturesque with the bluffs and river, the big old cotton-wood trees, and the houses with their sandstone exteriors. But he'd hoped for something a little bigger than a village of two hundred. It wasn't just Bluff, though. He missed Katrina, his wife, and their fourteen-month-old son, and he already longed for San Francisco and his North Beach hangouts. Maybe it was a mistake saying he'd stay two weeks. He dreaded the possibility that he was going to be bored to death.
He sat down on the bumper and opened his canteen again. He and Indy had gone to a bar last night in Cortez and he'd had a couple too many whiskeys. His throat was dry and no matter how much water he drank, he was still thirsty. But then Jesus had spent forty days and forty nights in the desert. He guessed he could manage less than half that. Maybe some revelation would come to him. Yeah, that's how he had to look at it. He needed to refresh his spirit, to make a challenge of it. It was no coincidence that Indy had invited him here. The trip was a prayer answered. He needed a challenge.
Not that he was tired of San Francisco. He spent four nights a week at the club, and was glad for the work. But he knew he was getting stale. He was playing the same music over and over again, and each time it seemed there was less and less innovation. He was afraid his music was turning to milk-toast, and that it would soon take on all the elements of the popular jazz musicians he'd always detested for their lack of originality. It was almost to the point that the only music he really enjoyed playing was on Sunday nights when the gospel group got together for a couple of hours. But while the gospel music revived him, it didn't pay the bills.
And there was Mother. She'd moved in with them six mondis ago, after selling the family house in Chicago. He loved her, but she got on his nerves sometimes, carrying on about how wonderful things had been in the old days and talking about his brothers as if they were still alive. At least she and Katrina got along, and Mother was great with the baby, which made it easier for Katrina.
He hoped the desert would bring new life to his music. He was already starting to play around with a tune that had come into his head after he'd seen Kokopelli blowing his flute. Maybe he'd get his cornet out, and work on it. He'd call it "Kokopelli."
He opened the trunk, and saw Indy's whip rolled up in the corner and his fedora next to it. Being around Indy had always brought something new into his life, and although some of the circumstances hadn't been what he would consider a great time, he didn't regret any of the experiences. After all, how many people could say that they'd stood on Mount Ararat and seen Noah's Ark? Not that anyone believed him, but it didn't matter. It was his experience, and he knew what he'd seen and where he'd been.
He placed Indy's hat on his head; it was a size too big. He picked up the whip, stepped away from the car, and tried cracking it. "Ouch!" The tip snapped his neck. Now how does he work this thing so smoothly?
A new Packard with a fine layer of road dust on its shiny, black finish eased down toward the river basin and came to a stop fifty yards from the Ford. "That's him right there playing with his whip," Walcott said.
"You sure?" one of the three other men in the car asked.
"Jimbo, there's only one archaeologist I know of who carries a whip around. Now go get him."
Jimbo frowned and his dark eyes seemed to recede further back into his head. "He must never use it. Doesn't look like he knows what he's doing."
"Don't let him fool you," the Englishman said.
"You gonna pick us up?"
Walcott stroked his goatee. "No, take his car. You know what to do with him. I'll catch up to you."
Jimbo scowled. "You're not coming right back?"
"Don't worry about me. Just do your job and you'll get paid when it's over."
"It's not safe there," Jimbo countered. "We already turned away two people, and they got those special park cops that come around. If they show up..."
"Don't worry. We're moving tonight. Now get going."
Jimbo stepped out of the Packard with his two companions. He signaled them to spread apart. Then, they closed in on the Ford.
Hey, that was better, Shannon thought as the whip cracked. It just took a little practice, that was all. The important thing was the right snap of the wrist.
"Hold it right there."
Shannon turned around to see three men with revolvers aimed at him. With their hats and kerchiefs, they looked like cowboys from the serials. He couldn't help laughing. "You worried I'm going to hit you or something?"
The one with the heavy brow cocked his gun. "Just drop the whip, Jones. Now!"
As far as Shannon knew, Indy didn't have any friends or enemies around here. But Shannon never argued with a gun. He patted the air with his hands. "Yeah, sure, okay. Take it easy."
"Get in the car." Eyebrows shoved him toward the Ford, knocking his hat off. One of the other men pulled the whip out of his hand.
"By the way, I'm not Jones, you know."
"Yeah? Then where is he?"
Shannon didn't want trouble, but he wasn't a snitch, either. "He's not here."
"We're not fools, Jones. Just get in the car."
Shannon scanned the cliff; Indy was nowhere in sight. Then he realized the whole thing must be a joke. Indy had set him up and now he was hiding up there, laughing.
"Indy," he shouted. "Real funny. Get down here."
The men stopped and looked toward the cliff. But if Indy was up there, he wasn't showing himself.
"Get him in there," one of the men said. The back door of the Ford opened and Shannon was shoved inside.
"This isn't funny anymore. You go tell—" Shannon never finished the sentence. A rag was stuffed in his mouth, his hands were tied, and he was pushed onto the floor.
Indy was pressed into a crevice between two slabs of sandstone. He'd been studying the depiction of a Spaniard and a horse from the days of the conquest when he noticed some markings on the wall about ten feet above him. He climbed up and found an arrow etched in the rock face that pointed toward a juniper tree growing out of the wall. He pulled a branch back and found an opening to the crevice.
He hoped he wasn't wasting his time, but now as he wedged further into the crevice, he saw what looked like another Kokopelli. He wondered why anyone would bother crawling in here to inscribe the mythical figure. It wasn't as if there were no other surfaces available to work. Then he realized he'd made a mistake. It wasn't Kokopelli, at least not the traditional version of the character. This figure carried a pack on his back, but there was no flute and no phallus. Instead, he was pointing toward the depths of the crevice.
Indy heard a faint call. Shannon was probably wondering what happened to him, but he could wait a minute. He wouldn't hear him, anyhow. He moved as far into the crevice as he could and stretched his hand until he touched the point where the two rock faces came together. He prodded with his fingers, moving them up and down along the joint of the rocks. He had an odd feeling that the rocks were
claiming him, pulling him inward. He was turning to stone, joining the mineral world.
Finally, he withdrew his hand, and edged backward, shaking off the odd feelings. What had he expected to find, anyhow? It was a crevice and a dead end. Nothing more.
He thought he heard Shannon gun the Ford engine. "All right, all right. For crying out loud, I'm coming." He worked his way out of the crevice and around the bush. He'd just started to descend the cliff when he saw the Ford pulling away.
"Hey!" Indy skidded a few feet down. His hands slapped against the wall and he caught himself as his feet settled on a ledge. The Ford kept going. "Hey, what the..." He waved and shouted, but to no avail.
Indy continued working his way down the cliff as the Ford disappeared, kicking up clouds of dust that lingered in the air for several minutes. He wondered if Shannon had gotten concerned when Indy didn't answer his call. Maybe he was going to get help. Naw. That wasn't the sort of thing Shannon would do. If he was concerned, he would've come looking for Indy. He was probably just going for a joy ride in the new car, and would be back shortly.
When Indy reached the spot where the car had been, he bent down and picked up his whip and hat. Now why would he do that? Then it dawned on him. Shannon wasn't concerned about him. He was angry with him for taking his time, or maybe it was something Indy had said. But what? They hadn't talked about religion or anything Indy could think of that might anger his friend.
But now Indy was the one getting angry as he followed the road up and out of the river basin. When he was above the cliff, he gazed down the road back toward Bluff and east in the direction of Mexican Hat and the Valley of the Gods. Not a car in sight. He kept walking.
Anger was not the word for how Indy felt as he neared Bluff half an hour later. Usually, he could walk off his animosity, but this two-mile jaunt was another matter. With every step, he grew more and more irritated. He cursed Shannon under his breath. At first, he'd expected to see him drive up and make some snappy remark about how he'd gotten bored. But as it became apparent that Shannon wasn't coming back for him, Indy was no longer just aggravated, he was livid. He cursed Shannon with every invective he could think of, loudly, repeatedly.
Indiana Jones and the Unicorn's Legacy Page 5