by Socha, Walt
Joe shook his head as he turned to inspect the ranch bulletin board hanging near the hall’s doors. Alex had given him the morning off—way needed after a poor night’s sleep—but now he needed to get back to work. Posted among ranch notices and events was the signup sheet for this afternoon’s classes. Brent’s edible and herbal plant walk had several takers, mostly women. Larry’s forge class was maxed out. No surprise at either.
Joe had four students listed for his knapping class. Mark and Melinda were repeats, finishing up their obsidian knives. Two new names followed theirs, Kristi and George Khoury. He said their names a few times and headed to his knapping shed.
He paused when he reached his shed. From here, the mountains were in clear view, rising to nine thousand feet from the five thousand foot Montana plains. Joe easily identified the valley that had taken him somewhere else. No mist.
Whoever had named them the Crazy Mountains had certainly gotten it right.
Joe went inside and laid out handle material for Mark and Melinda’s knives. Elk antler would work well. For George and Kristi... That must be the lady that Larry had been going on about last night. Smart and cute he had said. George must be her father. They’d probably be unfamiliar with rock, but he’d been surprised before. The whole ancestral skills thing was getting trendy, perhaps as a reaction to a world moving too fast. He frowned. Was that why he’d spent several long breaks from school learning this stuff ? Or was it just his way of connecting to his ancestry? He shook his head and set out several smaller pieces of obsidian.
He was erasing the battered chalk blackboard when Mark and Melinda walked in.
“Think we’ll get ‘em done today?” Mark rummaged around in their assigned cubby then held up his knife.
Joe took the elongated sliver of obsidian and inspected each side. “It’s looking good. Try thinning it a little through the middle and then start the sharpening process.” He handed it back and lifted a second knife from Melinda’s outstretched hand. It was smaller, with one end blunt and the other tapering to a point. “Nice. You’re ready for sharpening.” He helped them get settled at the knapping pit, a circular hole in the concrete floor at the far end of the knapping shed, that was covered with a metal grate and surrounded by wooden benches.
Joe returned to the lecture end of the room and finished erasing the blackboard. He had just grabbed a broom when he heard footsteps.
“Good afternoon, young man,” a male voice said. Joe turned. “Mr. Khoury and Miss Khoury I presume?”
He saw an older man of medium height standing in the doorway. He wore a plain, light gray shirt and ordinary blue jeans instead of the faux western clothing favored by most of the other guests.
“Please, just George.” He walked into the shed followed by a young woman in her mid to late twenties.
“And if you know what’s good for you, call my daughter Kristi. I can’t imagine anyone calling her Miss Khoury. Or, worse yet, Doctor Khoury.”
“Kristi is just fine.” The woman faced the older man and gave him an exaggerated frown. “Now Dad, don’t give Joe the wrong idea.”
Butterflies woke in Joe’s stomach. No wonder Larry was taken with her. She was cute. She had some of her father’s eastern Mediterranean features–but with maybe some Latin blood? A few inches shorter than Joe and maybe twenty pounds lighter. The rolled up sleeves of her western shirt revealed toned muscles.
She smiled at Joe. “In yesterday’s orientation, I heard that you’re Native American and teach tracking, basketry, and bow making. I think it’s wonderful that these skills are being kept alive on the reservations.
Her voice had a melodic ring. And her reference to a reservation held no judgment. Joe managed a smile. “Actually, I learned from...private mentors.” Actually, it was from some white guy back in New Jersey. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “It wasn’t a tribal program.”
“To which tribe do you belong?” Her face suddenly took on a worried look. “If I may ask?”
“No problem.” He shrugged. “I’m a bit of a mix. My grandparents met their respective spouses at government schools with the result that I’m listed in four different tribal registries.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kristi said. “That was a sad period in this country’s history.”
“Okay, let’s not start a political speech.” George’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “This is not a university.” He looked at Joe and his face lightened. “How do we start?” “First, we get you some safety equipment,” Joe said, relieved at the change in topic. He handed them goggles, leather palm patches, leather aprons, and copper tipped pressure tools. “Nothing happens without these.”
Joe gave them his standard introduction, describing the characteristics of the best rock for knapping and some fracture theory. Then he demonstrated basic hand positions. Soon George and Kristi were sitting around the knapping pit with Mark and Melinda, reducing colorful pieces of obsidian into debris. And occasionally getting some pieces that could actually be functional.
About mid-afternoon, George got up and shook off any errant flakes. “I think this’ll do it for me,” he said to Kristi. “I got the idea. And not a bad scraper to show the boys back at the office.” He held up an oval scraper the size of a child’s hand. “Think I’ll hole up in the bar for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Hope you found it interesting.” Joe rose.
“Oh yes, it is certainly more involved than I’d thought.” George smiled and pointed at Joe with a bandaged finger. “And please try to keep Kristi from bleeding to death.”
“Will do. Just leave your stuff there. I’ll sort and put everything away later.”
George squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “See you at dinner.”
After he left, Kristi turned to Joe. “Don’t worry.” Joe looked at her with a furrowed brow.
“I saw you glance at your watch when Dad left.” She smiled. “He just wants to use the Wi-Fi Internet connection in the bar.”
Joe’s face warmed in embarrassment. Sometimes it helped having darker skin. “It’s a bit ironic that, with the Ranch’s rustic no-technology philosophy, we still have a Wi-Fi lounge.”
“We may be on vacation but Dad’s business is his life.” She shrugged. “He takes care to pay attention to me, but making money is his real love.”
Joe’s embarrassment increased at this personal revelation.
“By the way,” Kristi added, “you’re cute when you blush.” Her voice was even but Joe caught a laugh in her eyes when he glanced up.
Time to change the subject. “How’s the edge coming?” Kristi sighed and handed over her scraper.
“Hey, this is going well.” Joe’s eyebrows rose as he inspected her rock. Not bad for a beginner. “Let’s work on fracturing off longer flakes to thin it down. Don’t forget to abrade the edge to give you a stable place to apply pressure. That’s your platform. A place to work on.” Joe gave the scraper back to Kristi then turned at an exclamation from the other side of the pit.
Mark was frowning at his broken knife. “I seem to have transformed my knife into a spear point.” Mark’s eyes flicked to the pit at his feet. “And a lot of debris.”
“Hey, you’d be thrilled if you found all these flakes in your screen.” Melinda peered at the broken pieces.
“Screen...?” Joe started to ask. “Oh, like on an archaeological dig?”
“On our last volunteer project, we were skunked on our first excavation and found less than a dozen flakes in the second,” Melinda said.
“It’d be interesting to know what some future archaeologist would make of your knapping pit in a few thousand years.” Mark stood and shook his apron over the pit. “I’d say we’ve got a few pounds of obsidian flakes, a couple dozen bottle caps, and a handful of bent iron nails in this hole if my eyes are still working.”
“Will those archaeologists be sea otters or chimps?” Kristi raised an eyebrow from the other side of the pit.
“Cockroaches,” Melinda answered, straig
ht-faced. “Okay ladies, this conversation is getting way too
serious for me without help of a liquid nature.” Mark took off his apron and gathered up his supplies. “I’m going to take solace in a pre-dinner cocktail while I ponder the genealogy of future archaeologists.”
“I’m with you.” Melinda got up and shook off her own apron. Mark helped her pick up her supplies and store them in their cubbies. “We’ll finish another day.”
“I’ll see you at dinner.” Kristi gave them a wave as they left then turned to face Joe. “I’m still not getting the hang of the longer flakes.”
Joe returned to Kristi’s side. “Let’s see the positioning of your pressure point. Remember, if you want to get more controlled pressure on the edge, you need one hand to hold the rock piece while the other positions the pressure tool. But the actual pressure comes from the squeeze of your leg muscles through your hands.”
Joe kneeled in front of Kristi and re-positioned her hands between her legs. He held her hand to focus the pressure of the tip on the platformed edge of the scraper. “Now squeeze.” He watched the tip. If it stayed on the platform, she should get a nice long flake. And if she was successful, she might take more of his classes.
Nothing happened. Joe frowned, and then looked up. Kristi had a wide grin on her face. Joe suddenly realized he was on his knees before a rather attractive young lady with his hands between her thighs. He withdrew his hands and tried to stand up. Too quick. Vertigo dumped him on his butt, the steel grate saving him from landing in the pit. Heat flushed his face scarlet as Kristi giggled. What an idiot he was.
“Joe, you are so cute,” she said, smiling. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave. Please show me again how you position the hands.”
Joe decided her humor was innocent and returned her smile. “Okay, and I’ll try not to fall over again.”
Safely sitting beside Kristi, and with a comfortable few inches of space between them, Joe demonstrated again the use of the leg muscles to provide the pressure for flaking. After several tries, Kristi started throwing flakes, thinning the scraper.
Joe acutely felt the empty room and the lack of conversation. Maybe he could piggyback on the exchange between Mark and Melinda. “So you’re thinking the next species of archaeologists will be sea otters?”
Kristi paused long enough that Joe wondered if he had gotten himself in another embarrassing situation.
“Seriously,” she finally said, “I do wonder about the future of the human race. What’s going to get us first: disease, the environment, or just plain war?” She hesitated. “I guess that sounds sort of negative.”
“I heard that you recently completed medical school and are thinking about working with one of the United Nations agencies,” Joe said. “That certainly sounds positive.” “Oh, just put me down as schizoid.” Kristi grinned.
“Or maybe just stubborn.”
“I ain’t going to touch either comment.”
Kristi went back to her knapping. Joe got up and, after putting George’s supplies away, swept Mark and Melinda’s stray debris into the pit. They had pretty much cleaned up after themselves and, in a few minutes, he returned to Kristi’s side.
“Looks like I’ve got the shape.” Kristi held up her knapped rock. “But I think I’ll have to come back another day to complete the sharpening.”
“That’ll be good.” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. “Our class schedules are set by the signup sheets.”
“Okay, see you later.” Kristi dusted off her apron, picked up her supplies, and put them into an empty cubby. “I’d better tear my father away from the Internet. He might forget to eat.” With a wave, she left.
For more than a few moments, Joe just stood there.
Chapter 4. Tuesday
Joe took another bite of Potts’s home fries and glanced across the dining hall. Kristi sat surrounded by several pokes and a couple of the single guests. He shifted his attention back to the children at his table. “Making fire is all about friction, generating hot dust. And allowing that dust to collect and combust.”
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Kristi had stood and was laughing at some comment from one of the men at her table as she picked up her tray.
Joe gobbled a last forkful of potatoes and gathered his breakfast dishes onto his tray. “It would be great to see some of you at my fire and friction class.” He stood, nodded a farewell, and headed toward the clean up station. He chose a route that was two tables out of his way and reached the kitchen waste tubs at the same time as Kristi was clearing her tray.
“Good morning, Joe.” Her melodic voice sent a stir through his core. “Ready for another day with the greenhorns?”
“I prefer to think of you all as outdoors enthusiasts.” Joe helped her with her tray. “Knapping is on the board for tomorrow if you’d like to finish your obsidian point.” “It’s hard to choose from all the ranch activities.” She started toward the door but moved slow enough to let him finish clearing his tray and join her.
Joe decided that now was as good a time as any. Besides, he’d lose his courage if he delayed. “Say, there’s a bit of a break before dinner. Care for a short horseback ride? There’s a small rise a few miles away with a great view of the Crazy Mountains.” Maybe if he could show her an interesting sight, she’d accept his company. And let her see that he was normal before rumors of the killing got around.
“Why are they called the Crazies?”
“Couple of possible reasons.” Joe’s pulse raced. Maybe she’d go. “Some think it’s due to the haunting sound of the wind that blows down through the canyons. Another story is that a pioneer woman wandered up there after going crazy when the Native Americans killed her family. The Crow people call them the ‘Blue Bird Mountains’.” “The ride sounds nice.” Kristi flashed a brief smile. “But I’ve already got the rest of the day scheduled.” She added an apologetic shrug. “There are so many activities...” “Well, I’m glad you’re finding your stay interesting,” he said, relieved that he had managed a gracious reply.
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Joe joined the children for dinner with some trepidation. The rumors of his trip into Red Wash had apparently swept through the ranch’s guests during the afternoon. Luckily the present conversation centered on a cougar that had been sighted during one of the afternoon horseback trips and Joe was able to enjoy their company as well as the food.
During seconds on ice cream, Joe glanced up at the sound of the dining hall door opening. The sheriff and Alex walked in. Alex nodded his chin at Joe and they retreated.
“Shit, now what?” Joe mumbled under his breath. “Excuse me, the boss is calling,” he said out loud as he gathered his tray.
He detoured past the bussing station and left the dining hall. Outside, a small figure stood between two sheriff ’s deputies. A blanket was draped over her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a one-piece leather shift with head and arm openings. No shoes. She appeared young, perhaps pre-teen.
“Do you recognize her?” the Sheriff asked. “She doesn’t seem to understand English or Spanish, and was quite wild when we found her wandering up in the Crazies.”
The little girl gazed up at Joe. Her face lightened and she spoke.
Joe frowned at her words. It sounded like “Help me.” She started to struggle.
“It’s the little girl I encountered during my ride Sunday.” He knelt before her. “It’s alright, nobody will hurt you.”
The girl looked blankly at him.
Those words were wrong. Other sounds filled Joe’s head and he voiced them. “I protect.”The sounds he made were foreign to his ears. But the little girl’s face brightened again and she stopped struggling.
“Let me try to communicate with her,” Joe said to the two deputies. “Maybe in private?” At a nod from the Sheriff, they released their hold on her arms and stepped back, both looking relieved.
Joe took the girl’s hand and pointed to his chest with his free hand. “Joe.” He then pointed to the girl. �
��Name?” Again, the word sounded strange.
“Alta,” she answered. A tentative smile moved the edges of her mouth.
“Alta hungry?” Joe pointed to her stomach as he spoke the strange words.
Alta nodded. Nothing strange there.
He glanced over to the ranch manager. “Alex, could you arrange for a tray of food? And I’d like to take Alta— that’s her name—away from all these people.”
Alex looked at the Sheriff, who nodded. “Right away, Joe.” He started to go back inside.
“Also, could you ask Kristi Khoury to help? She’s a medical doctor.”
Alex paused to nod before he disappeared through the doorway.
Joe walked with Alta to the end of the covered porch of the dining hall. “Alta, where is your home?”The strange words seemed less difficult now.
“Know not.” Tears started tracking down her dusty cheeks. “I run. Not know land. Strange men captured me. On big animals. I...”
“You safe now,” Joe interrupted. He held out his arms, fingers touching her shoulders. Felt her stiffen. Then she grabbed him and buried her sobbing face against his shoulder.
“Perhaps I can help?” Kristi was standing a few yards away. Behind her, a growing cluster of people stood at the dining hall doorway.
With deliberate slowness, Joe disentangled himself from Alta arms and stared into her eyes.
“Alta, this is Kristi,” he said. “She is friend.”
Alta peered up at Kristi. Her eyes narrowed but then softened.
“Hello,” she said. “Help me?”
“Joe, what did she say?” Kristi asked. “I don’t understand her.”
“She’s asking if you’ll help her,” Joe replied in English. He was spared further questions about language by the arrival of Alex carrying a laden tray of food.
Kristi halted him a few yards away with a gesture and then brought the tray to the child herself.
“Alta, are you hungry?” Kristi nodded to the food on the tray and set it on a nearby chair.