The pickup banked into another curve. As he came out of it, he spotted the line of pickups parked ahead, tilting sideways toward the barrow ditch. On the other side, a camper stood in a wide, bare-dirt area that jutted over the drop-off into the creek below. Beyond the camper, close to the edge of the drop-off, were a pair of green canvas tents, the walls dented in the breeze.
Father John stopped behind the row of pickups and got out. The sounds of Turandot floated outside with him. He slammed the door, leaving the tape playing, and scanned the slope. The natural resources director and some of her staff were probably up there somewhere, hidden by the rocks and scrub brush, the mountain itself, just like the petroglyphs. The sun was hot, and the warm breeze plucked at his shirt sleeves. He lifted one hand and pulled his cowboy hat forward to shade his eyes.
Then he saw it: about a hundred feet up the slope, the broken sandstone boulder where the petroglyph had been. The face looked empty and gray with jagged ridges left by chisels and hammers. A sharp sense of loss stabbed at him, the loss of something beautiful that should have stayed. He was only half aware of the sound of a door banging shut.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” A woman’s voice cut into the silence.
Father John swung around. She was walking across the road from the improvised campsite, a tall, slim woman, probably in her thirties, wearing blue jeans and a red tee shirt, with long black hair that emphasized the intense dark eyes of the Arapaho.
“Hi, Mona,” he said, shaking her hand. “Father O’Malley from St. Francis.”
“I remember you.” The woman nodded, as if that were the extent of the polite preliminaries that were required. “I take it that you read about the stolen petroglyph and wanted to see for yourself,” she said. “We’ve had people up here all yesterday looking for the place where the petroglyph used to be. Most of them had never noticed it when it was here.”
“I saw it. It was beautiful.”
That seemed to please her. She looked past him up the slope, her eyes resting, he knew, on the jagged, gray scar. He said, “The thief sent a message to the tribes. Norman Yellow Hawk thought you’d want to know.”
As she brought her eyes back to his, her features settled into a look of acceptance, as if the news didn’t surprise her. “We can talk over there,” she said, tilting her head toward the campground.
Father John followed the woman across the road to the camper, where she pulled the door open and, one boot on the metal step, looked over her shoulder. “Something to drink? Coke?”
He said a Coke would be fine, and she lifted herself into the camper, leaving the door hanging open. In the shadows inside, he could see her rummaging inside a cooler that stood on the floor. There was the sound of swishing water and clinking ice cubes. Finally she came back outside carrying two cans of soda. She kicked the door shut behind her.
“We can sit in the shade,” she said, handing him one of the Cokes and starting around the camper. He popped the tab, took a long drink of the sweet, syrupy liquid that dropped like a cold rope inside his chest, then followed her. She’d already pulled a webbed folding chair open in a square of shade and was in the process of opening another, her Coke on the ground in front of other chairs that leaned against the white wall of the camper.
“All the comforts of home.” She gestured for him to take a chair, scooped up her Coke, and sat down in the other one. “Even got a shower in there,” she said, lifting the can toward the camper. “I’m staying here for a few days to keep an eye on the canyon—you know, after that newspaper article. Couple of my staff are here. We’re taking new photographs of the glyphs, cataloging and updating our records. I guess Norman told you we found out the glyphs aren’t the only artifacts that have been looted. Some of the mounds in front of the glyphs have been disturbed. Tools, bones, that kind of thing, probably gone. Now the logging companies are making noise about widening the road. You heard about that?”
Father John nodded, and she hurried on: “The lawyers think they’re gonna stop it; I say, good luck. We want to get as much data as we can before construction gets started.” She stopped, took a long drink from her Coke, and swiped at her lips with the back of one hand. She was pretty in a natural, disarming way, as if that were something she didn’t know. A fine web of tiny lines fanned from the corners of her dark, intense eyes. “What’s this about a message?” she said.
He told her about the Indian and the ransom message. She rolled her eyes to the sky when he mentioned the 250,000 dollars, and he continued, filling her in on his conversation yesterday evening with Norman. “We’re hoping that the man the Indian works for will call.”
“Why you?” she asked.
Father John shook his head. “The Indian didn’t want to be recognized,” he said finally. Then he told her his theory that the Indian might be the same man who had contacted the tribes about the stolen glyph seven years ago.
“I heard about that.” Mona Ledger lifted her face toward the mountain across the road. “A pair of losers cut out the glyph and got into a fight about the money. One of them ended up dead, and the Indian messenger took off. It was the last the Arapahos and Shoshones heard about the glyph.”
“Norman doesn’t want it to happen again.”
She tipped her head back and drained the last of her Coke, then squeezed the can until the sides cracked together, and got to her feet. “Hang on a minute,” she said, darting around the corner of the camper.
Father John finished his own Coke and waited. He could hear the woman moving about inside: an object clanked against a hard surface, a cabinet door slammed shut. Then she was back, carrying a large photograph album. She pulled the folding chair forward, sat down, and opened the album between them. The cellophane pages fell back naturally, as if they were the usual pages consulted.
Mona shifted the album sideways until it was resting on Father John’s thigh. “These photographs were taken seven years ago. This is the Drowning Man.” She pointed to one of the photographs pressed under the cellophane.
He stared at the familiar image: the elongated, rectangular body, the squared head, and the truncated arms sticking out to the sides, the small, squared feet that jutted from the truncated legs. Surrounding the figure were wavy lines, like ripples of water. He felt again the sharp sting of loss.
“The elders say that petroglyphs are images of the spirits that live in the rocks,” Mona said. “They say the spirits themselves carved their images. The spirits have guarded this canyon from the beginning of time. So when an image is taken, the spirit leaves the canyon. The other spirits will leave, too, if all the trucks and heavy equipment move in here and start widening the road.” She closed the album, slowly, reverently, he thought, as if the paper images themselves were sacred. “Would you like to climb up and see some of the other petroglyphs?”
HE’D FORGOTTEN HOW steep the slope was. It had been two or three years since he’d been in Red Cliff Canyon to view the petroglyphs. From the road, the slope looked like an easy uphill stroll, but he could feel the hard pull in his calf muscles. Mona Ledger was about ten feet ahead, long legs zigzagging around the boulders, brush, and clumps of stunted trees. He tried to stay in her path, stopping from time to time to catch his breath and look down. The highway slithered across the brown plains like a large, silver snake. At the foot of the canyon, the buildings of the Taylor Ranch looked like the painted image on a canvas.
He took in another gulp of air and hurried to catch up. Mona had pushed away the branch of a pine and was standing inside the other branches that dipped around her. Next to her legs, he could see the small, bullet-shaped boulder with the image carved into the face.
“A glyph like this is especially vulnerable to thieves,” she said when he’d reached her. “It stands alone and it’s small. The only protection is this tree. Chances are most people who hike up here have never noticed it. And over there”—the branch swung back into place as she stepped away from the tree and nodded toward a place farther along the slope—“th
ose glyphs are clustered on massive sandstone outcroppings. Much more difficult to extricate a carving.”
Mona started walking toward the outcroppings, and Father John stayed in step, their boots drumming an irregular rhythm on the underbrush and the hard earth. Coming toward them was a tall man in a tan, wide-brim hat with a string of brown leather that dangled under his chin and flopped against his yellow shirt. A few yards above, a young woman crouched at the base of a clump of rocks, peering upward at a carved image through the lens of a camera.
“We’ve got a visitor,” Mona called out.
The man stopped and waited next to the dead branch of a pine tree that straddled the slope. “This is Father O’Malley from the mission,” Mona said, tilting her head backward. “Father, meet my assistant, Cliff Fast Horse. Been taking care of these glyphs for the last several years.”
“Didn’t do a good enough job.” The Arapaho ran his gaze across the slope. His black eyes were flecked with sadness.
“You’re only one person,” Mona said. “Couldn’t check the canyon every day.” She turned back to Father John. “That’s the problem, not enough personnel. This is BLM land. They have one preservation agent working this whole region. We’re talking hundreds of miles of empty land. The tribes have Cliff here, trying to oversee the sacred sites in the area.”
“Have a look.” Fast Horse pivoted about and headed toward the outcroppings. Father John waved Mona ahead, then fell in behind.
“We’ve been trying to learn all we can about the glyphs.” Fast Horse tossed the information over his shoulder. “Last couple of summers, an archeologist and some students from the university were working up here trying to date them. Started with radiocarbon techniques. From the patina on the rocks, they proved some carvings are a thousand years old, but they also found two or three that date back two thousand years. The Drowning Man was one of them. We were hoping that the team could continue the studies this summer, uncover a few mounds at the base of the glyphs and locate the tools used to carve the images. They can date tools, bones, and other objects and corroborate the radiocarbon dating.”
Mona turned and faced Father John. “But now we know looters have been after the mounds,” she said, her voice tight with anger. “And if construction gets started, the patina buildup on the glyphs could be affected, which will skew the radiocarbon results. It’s a disaster.”
They stopped in front of a series of images carved into the walls of the rock outcropping. No one spoke for a moment. Father John was struck by the silent majesty of the images: a procession of figures—humans, birds, animals—moving across the gray expanse of boulders that shouldered against one another.
Fast Horse swept a hand toward the images. “Every glyph is more beautiful and interesting than the next,” he said, elements of excitement and awe working in his voice. “The most dominant figures here are birds, or, if you like, anthropomorphic figures with wings for arms and bird-claw feet. These spirits inhabit the sky realm above the earth.”
Father John followed the man’s hand. Carved into the rock faces were images of large, lumbering birds and small, delicate birds, all primitive and fantastic, yet filled with a sense of motion and life.
“We know the old stories about the spirits carving the images,” the man said, shooting a glance at Mona, “but archeologists say the images were carved by shamans. Holy men who put themselves into hallucinogenic trances to obtain spiritual knowledge and power to help the people. Maybe they ingested peyote, or some other seeds or herbs that produced the desired effect. Then they traveled through the three realms of the world, middle earth, or the legged realm, above the earth in the sky and below the earth in the waters. Different creatures dwell in each realm. Humans, of course, live in the middle earth. Once out of a trance, the shamans chiseled the images of their experiences. The birdlike images reflect the experience of flying, of being above the earth, among the birds.”
Fast Horse stepped closer to the end of the outcroppings. “Image like this,” he said, one hand stretched toward a small petroglyph, “looks like a turtle. There are similar images that reflect frogs or lizards, the kind of creatures that move among all three realms, as the shaman must have done in his trance. The Drowning Man”—he nodded across the slope in the direction from which they’d come—“was unique. The shaman had obviously traveled into the world below, the world of water. He carved out wavy lines around the figure to give the sense of waves and ripples and the sense of drowning that he must have experienced.”
“Before he emerged into the middle earth,” Father John said.
A look of appreciation came into the dark eyes of the two Arapahos. Fast Horse nodded. “The drowning image is a symbol of life,” he said. “Of coming into the world. Of being born.” He glanced across the slope. “Over there about a mile is the boulder that the glyph was taken from seven years ago. We have photos of that glyph. It had the same motif of drowning. It’s possible both stolen glyphs were carved by the same shaman. He was a great artist. The images were clear, chiseled deep into the rock. Had fine proportions. You looked at them, and you felt like you were moving underwater. The archeologists said they were the most accomplished glyphs in the canyon, the best executed pieces of art. Whoever took them knew exactly what he wanted.”
“Do you really believe the same thief took both glyphs?” There was a note of astonishment in Mona’s voice. “Those Arapaho cowboys working down at the Taylor Ranch stole the first glyph and sold it. One of them was shot to death. The other’s in prison.”
“I’m not saying the same thief came up here and took both glyphs.” The man shook his head. “But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that somebody wanted the two images carved by the same artist.”
“That implies that whoever is behind the thefts is familiar with the petroglyphs in this canyon,” Father John said.
“You got it, Father,” the Arapaho said.
FATHER JOHN LED the way back across the mountain, Mona’s boots crunching the brush behind him. Before they reached the boulder where the Drowning Man had been, he veered right and started zigzagging down the steep slope, not wanting to see again the gray, defaced rock. A juniper rose out of a clump of rocks and obstructed the path. He pushed aside one of the branches and waited until Mona had gone ahead before he went after her, conscious of the branch swishing into place behind him.
When they reached the road, Mona turned around and looked at him. The color of her eyes was almost black in the bright sunshine. He could see the fear in them. “There’s something he didn’t tell you,” she said. “There are other glyphs similar to the Drowning Man up there. The same shaman chiseled four or five other images.”
He had the picture. If the same person was behind two of the thefts, he could come after the others. No wonder the natural resources director was camping here, guarding the canyon. But she couldn’t guard it forever.
“How accessible are the other images?” he said.
“They’re all accessible when it comes down to it, aren’t they? If somebody wants them enough.” She paused and looked away, watching the road, as if the thief might materialize out of the brightness. “What do we do now?”
Father John took a moment before he said, “We wait.”
7
THE EVENING WAS warm with a pale light bathing the façades and shining in the windows of the two-story brick buildings along Main Street. “How does an ice cream cone sound?” Adam said when they had finished dinner in the small restaurant with plank wood floors and stuccoed walls. Ice cream sounded good, Vicky told him, and he guided her out of the restaurant and down half a block to the ice cream parlor.
And there they were, she thought, strolling along the sidewalk past the red, yellow, and white flowers that sprouted from planters at the curb, licking double scoops of chocolate ice cream, the endless feeling of summer in the air. That was how dinner had gone, as if Adam’s mood had lifted; they had no worries, no disagreements, nothing but time to enjoy each other�
��s company, and for long moments Vicky had allowed herself to believe it was true. The law firm had faded away, no longer the three-hundred-pound monster that at times seemed to wedge itself between them. Whatever it was that Adam had wanted to talk about, he hadn’t brought it up, and neither had she.
They crossed the street and veered into the small park that ran along the banks of the Popo Agie River. Vicky climbed onto the top of a redwood picnic table, and Adam perched next to her. At a nearby table, a family was clearing away the remains of a picnic. A blond, pretty woman who looked about seven months pregnant was folding a red and white checkered tablecloth while a tall, slim man, a black baseball cap turned backwards on his head, hoisted a cooler and started toward the brown van parked at the side of the road. A boy about eight and a little girl who looked about two years younger, both blond and white-skinned with reddish sun stripes across their cheeks, skipped back and forth, hauling wads of paper plates and napkins to the trash container.
In that moment, unbidden, as if she’d turned a page in an old, forgotten album, the photograph had sprung before her eyes, and Vicky saw her own kids: Lucas and Susan, black-haired with brown faces and skinny brown arms and knowing black eyes. They’d gone on picnics, she and Ben and the children. Picnics right here in this little park. She pulled her eyes over to the river rippling over the rocks, streaked with light. There had been good times with Ben, before the drinking and the whoring, before he’d ever hit her. Those were the times she tried to remember, and yet the memories always had a way of plunging down into the dark tunnel of the bad times.
“I have to go to Casper for a few days.” Adam’s voice was quiet beside her. She was aware that he was also looking at the river. “I’m sorry, Vicky, but I’m afraid you’ll have to handle the details on the BLM proposal,” he said. The secretary of the Joint Council had called just before they’d left the office to say that the council wanted them to proceed. “Handle the negotiations,” Adam was saying. “That’s if you can get the BLM to agree to negotiate. We’ll work together, of course. We can talk by phone.”
The Drowning Man Page 6