Track of the Scorpion

by R. R. Irvine

  “Judging by the shape of it, it could be a B-17 bomber,” Nick admitted.

  “What the hell’s it doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Were there any air bases around here during the war?”

  “How would I know? I was stuck in the infantry.”

  Nick rose to her feet and circled the mound with Beckstead at her heels. The dimensions confirmed the possibility that she’d discovered a plane the size of a bomber.

  “May I use your metal detector?” she asked.

  He impressed her by producing a state-of-the-art Garrett, complete with expensive earphones. Considering the investment, not to mention the prospector’s well- equipped truck, nugget hunting must have been more profitable than she’d first imagined.

  Explaining her methods as she went, she began ten yards out from the mound, moving in an ever-tightening circle as she probed for metal fragments. But the Garrett didn’t make so much as a peep until she reached the mound’s perimeter. Then she climbed the mound, crisscrossing it while getting a constant reading from the metal detector. The entire airplane had to be here, she felt certain, not just a wing fragment.

  To confirm that, she appropriated Beckstead’s make-shift flagpole and made a dozen probe holes. Each time the antenna encountered resistance, conforming to the pattern of a large World War Two aircraft. Seventy feet long, she made it, about right for a B-17, or possibly a B-24.

  Her initial excitement had passed, leaving her with a spent, weak-kneed feeling.

  “Let’s get out of the sun.” She headed for his shack without waiting for an answer. Inside, the stale air smelled vaguely of manure and felt hot enough to explode. But at least she was out of the glare.

  She collapsed to the ground, sitting cross-legged. Her head ached from the hammering sun and the excitement.

  “My bones are too old to sit like that,” Beckstead said, easing himself onto an empty wooden crate that had once contained dynamite.

  “Have you ever seen a B-17?” Nick asked. “They were beautiful planes, deadly, too. Think of what it must have been like during the war. It would be early morning in England when ten young men climbed aboard and flew all the way to Germany and back in broad daylight, six hours flying time with German fighters and flak trying to kill you every mile of the way. By today’s standards B-17s aren’t that big, but they were our heavy bombers then.” She sighed. “I’d give anything to bring one back to life.”

  “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it, to dig her up and show her off so I can get my picture in one of them fancy magazines?”

  “It’s too big a job for the two of us.”

  “What about those students you have digging up Indians out there at the mesa?”

  “They belong to my father. Besides, the university is very particular when it comes to funding. When it puts up money for Indian artifacts, that’s exactly what it expects,”

  “I’m seventy-three years old but I can still hold my own when it comes to a day’s shoveling.”

  “Even if the two of us worked like dogs, we’d need to drink gallons to survive every day in this kind of heat. That’s a lot of bottled water, and as you know your mayor doesn’t give it away free.”

  “I’ve got some money. How much would we need?”

  “It’s a matter of people, too, if we don’t want to spend the whole summer here. We’d need three or four diggers at the least. Without that kind of help, it would take more time than I have to spare. Two or three days, that’s the most I can be away from my father’s dig. I’m sorry.”

  “If I can get us some diggers, will you help?”

  Nick took a deep breath, expelling it slowly while she massaged the back of her neck. Working out on that mound, fully exposed to the sun, made her father’s cave dwelling seem like a garden spot. There, at least, shade prevailed during some of the morning. Even so, she’d risk a lot of sunburn and dehydration for the chance at a well- preserved bomber. Besides, like Clark Guthrie said, publicity was one way to get tenure quickly.

  “One thing’s in our favor,” she said. “It wouldn’t be like digging up an ancient civilization, where site preservation is absolutely critical. We wouldn’t have to be so careful digging. That would save some time.”

  Beckstead had the bewildered look of someone hearing their first used-car pitch.

  “Normally, we’d have to lay the entire site out in grids,” she explained, “then sink shafts to determine geological strata inch by inch so that every artifact could be properly dated in context. Here, we know we’ve got a World War Two airplane, so all we have to do is be reasonably careful and not cause any further damage to the craft. Site stripping, we call it. It’s a technique used when time or approaching bad weather is a factor. Like I said, time is my critical factor. Of course, I’m not certain how long my father can spare me, or if he even will.”

  By so stating, Nick was giving herself a way out should the need arise. Elliot would never stand in the way of one of her beloved planes. Even so, she wouldn’t abandon him for too long, bomber or no bomber. Still, Clark Guthrie could take over most of her chores, at least on a temporary basis.

  Beckstead rose from the crate and put his hands to the small of his back. “I don’t want to be paying diggers, if you aren’t willing to do your part. I want a commitment from you. And I want to know for sure if this plane will get us publicity like you and your friend, Guthrie, said.”

  Nick got to her feet, adjusted her cap to shade her eyes, and stepped outside to take another look at the burial mound. Chances were that Beckstead was all talk, especially when it came to laying out his own money. Certainly, he’d never get volunteers, not to work in a blast furnace like this. But if he did come up with a crew, she might be able to get some kind of reimbursement from one of the museums that were always on the lookout for heritage aircraft.

  “If you get a crew,” she said, “I’ll donate my time. The publicity I can’t guarantee, but finding a bomber ought to attract somebody’s attention.”

  Beckstead grabbed her hand and shook it formally.

  “By the way, missy, I’ve filed for this land legally, so don’t try any claim jumping. Now come with me and I’ll show you the safe places to turn around in without hitting deep sand. I don’t want to have to baby-sit you all the time.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Gus Beckstead wore his poker face during the drive back into town. Even after exchanging dirt ruts for the state highway’s blacktop, he forced himself to clench the steering wheel rather than have his fingers betray him by tapping out the beat of excitement throbbing inside his head. By his reckoning, he was halfway to making a name for himself. God, he could see it now, the looks on people’s faces when they had to eat crow for all the things they’d said about him over the years. They’d have to take it all back, that he was nothing but a crazy old desert rat, a scrounger, that the only gold he ever found was in his Social Security check.

  He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Maybe he could get someone else to pay for the diggers. Now, wouldn’t that be the perfect payback for all those insults. Someone else financing his fame, his picture, and his plane on the cover of one of those big magazines. Someone like his high and mighty holiness, the mayor. And why settle for National Geographic? He’d go for Time or Newsweek, or maybe even People. For once, he’d be somebody important. And who knows? With luck, he might also pocket a little money if he played his cards just right.

  He stole a quick glance at his passenger to see if she was aware of his excitement. Her eyes were closed; her baseball cap was in her lap and her arms were crossed, hiding those fine breasts of hers. He let out a breath. A good-looking woman, even in jeans and an old shirt. Not what he’d expected at all when he first heard there was a lady scientist in town. The photo in the National Geographic hadn’t done her justice. Of course, she’d been out in the sun, wearing that damned cap of hers. It was a crime to hide pretty red hair like that.

  He slowed, driving more carefully
than usual as he turned into the motel’s graveled parking lot. In one motion he switched off the engine and opened his door, then trotted around to the passenger side. With just the hint of a bow, he opened the door and offered Nick a helping hand. She accepted it, but the puzzled look on her face told him to cool it.

  “I’ll get back to you, partner,” he said.

  She smiled and disappeared into her room at the Seven Cities.

  On the way out of the parking lot, Beckstead fought off the urge to pop the clutch and send gravel flying. Instead, he coasted down the street to park in front of the general store. Nodding to himself, he unlocked the glove compartment and took out the copy of the National Geographic he’d scrounged the night before. He’d already dog- eared the article about Nicolette Scott, whom the magazine called “a recognized expert in the field of twentieth-century archaeology.”

  Beckstead smacked his lips. “All that and great boobs, too.”

  He rolled up the magazine and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans before going inside. Mayor Ralph was alone, sitting in front of the air-conditioning vent reading the Albuquerque Journal, which arrived by mail a day late.

  “How’s business?” Beckstead asked as he always did, surprised that his voice sounded so calm.

  “It would be better if you bought something once in a while,” the mayor said without looking up.

  “Everything I wear I bought here.”

  The mayor snorted. “Another change of clothes would be appreciated by more folks than me.”

  Beckstead sniffed in the direction of an armpit. “The only thing I smell is fame for this town of ours.”

  Deliberately, the mayor folded his paper, slid it under his chair, and tucked his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. Only then did he fix Beckstead with a questioning stare.

  “Cibola’s population is shrinking worse than your cotton goods,” Beckstead said. “Those who haven’t moved away drive into Gallup to do most of their shopping.”

  “I survive.”

  “Only thirty people turned out to vote for you last time.”

  “I was unopposed.”

  Beckstead nodded. “The fact is, Cibola’s dying and the mayor, no matter who he is, can’t do anything about it.”

  “What’s your point, Gus?”

  “The interstate has passed us by and all we’ve got going for us is some old Indian ruins, too far off the beaten track to attract tourists. The next thing you know, they’ll be deleting Cibola from the maps altogether. We’ll be nothing but an intersection branching off the state highway.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the mayor said. “I don’t need to hear this again. I already get it from my wife and every loudmouth who shows up at the council meetings.”

  “Step over to the counter,” Beckstead said, leading the way.

  When the mayor joined him, Beckstead drew the magazine from his back pocket and slapped it down on the counter.

  “Take a look, Mayor Ralph. Opportunity is knocking right in front of you.”

  The mayor squinted at the magazine. “So? I’ve seen it before.”

  “Put on your glasses, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass, Gus, do you know that?” the mayor said, but did as he was asked. “All I see is our lady archaeologist.”

  “Look closer.”

  “She’s got a hell of a shape, is that what you want me to say?”

  “She’s a professor and she’s famous, a celebrity. With her help and my airplane we can get a little publicity and put Cibola back on the map. She’s agreed to help us dig it up.”

  “What airplane?”

  “The one I found out there on my land.”

  “What the hell would a plane be doing out there?”

  “It’s a bomber, she said. It must have crashed.” Beckstead fingered the National Geographic. “If my plane gets famous, so does Cibola.”

  “She actually saw the plane?”

  “Part of it, anyway. We uncovered a wingtip.”

  “What did she say about it?”

  “Not much, but you should have seen the look on her face. For her, it was like striking gold.”

  Lips pursed, Mayor Ralph paced back and forth in front of the cash register. “We can’t expect tourists to drive across all that desert just to look at an old airplane.”

  “You’re missing the point,”

  “Which is?”

  “Reporters will be showing up. They’ll want to interview me, along with other important people in town like the mayor. You’ll get your picture taken, too. You’ll see your name in print. You could throw in a plug for the town.”

  The mayor licked his lips.

  “You could talk about the desert climate,” Beck-stead continued. “You could call Cibola a retirement community, and maybe sell off some of that acreage of yours.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely,” Beckstead lied. He faked a cough to keep from smiling. He had the mayor on the hook; all he had to do was reel him in.

  “What kind of plane did you say it was?” the mayor said.

  “The professor,” Beckstead said, lingering over the title to give a ring of authority to his plan, “thinks it’s probably a B-17, the kind they used to bomb Germany with.”

  “A B-29 might have been better, what with Los Alamos being so close by. On the other hand, why alienate Japanese tourists unnecessarily?”

  Beckstead thought the mayor was being a little over-optimistic if he figured anyone but New Mexicans would come to a place like Cibola, and then only those with nothing better to do.

  “All we’ve got to do is come to an understanding,” Beckstead said. “I’ve got the plane. All we need now is the workers to dig it up.”

  “I thought that was your professor’s job?”

  “You haven’t seen the plane yet. It’s a big bastard we’re talking about, a four- engine bomber. Remember that old movie, Twelve O’Clock High, with Gregory Peck? Those were B-17s. I looked it up.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” the mayor said.

  “The professor said we’d need three or four diggers if we want it uncovered in less than a week.”

  The mayor leaned against his cash register. “I ought to bring my council in on this.”

  “That’s up to you,” Beckstead said, giving the mayor a little more line. “Share the cost, that’s my motto. Still, how much could it be if we kicked in four ways, you, me, Bill Latimer, and Jay Ferrin?”

  “I know a few ranch hands who’ll work for fifty dollars a day. So maybe a couple of hundred dollars will do it.”

  “Even if it’s twice that, split four ways it only comes to a hundred apiece. That’s cheap enough, I say, to get our pictures in an important magazine.”

  “Don’t forget the newspapers,” the mayor said. “I know a guy at the Journal in Albuquerque. What do you think?”

  “Absolutely. That’s the place to start.”

  “All right, then. Let’s see what the others have to say.” The mayor reached for the phone.

  Half an hour later, Beckstead added his name to an agreement already signed by the mayor and his councilmen, acting strictly as private citizens. Once copies were handed out, the mayor tossed Beckstead the key to the soda machine. “We ought to have a toast. Drinks are on the house.”

  “Let’s hope that free drinks are only the first miracle,” Beckstead said before fetching the icy cans.

  After a long swallow, Mayor Ralph said, “Now’s as good a time as any to start our publicity campaign.”

  He opened the cash register, removed a stack of business cards from one of the coin bins, and began sorting through them. “Yes, here it is. Will Smith, editor of the Albuquerque Journal. He came through Cibola a couple of years ago, on one of those tours of the Indian ruins. I seem to remember the Navajos were raising some kind of a fuss at the time. They wanted the bones of their ancestors back, or some damned thing.”

  Ferrin nodded. “He stayed at my motel.
”

  “I pumped gas for him,” Latimer added.

  “He said to call him if the Indians ever went on the war path,” the mayor said. “I guess he figured that’s the only kind of news Cibola would be good for.”

  They all gathered around as the mayor phoned, angling the receiver away from his ear so they could listen in. A secretary answered. After closely questioning the mayor, she put him through to Smith, who asked the same questions she had.

  Finally, Smith said, “Cibola’s a long way to send a reporter on spec.”

  Beckstead waved the magazine.

  “Have you seen the latest National Geographic?” the mayor relayed. “They have a story about the same archaeologist who’s going to dig up our plane.”

  “Give me her name and I’ll run it through the computer.”

  “Nicolette Scott.”

  They could hear the editor hitting keys. “I get two Scotts, Elliot and Nicolette.”

  “They’re both here in Cibola,” the mayor said. “Elliot Scott is head of the Department of Anthropology at the University of New Mexico.”

  “He’s working on the plane, too?”

  Mayor Tuttle winked at his partners and crossed his fingers. “He and his daughter are staying here in town and working together. They have been all summer. But the plane I’m talking about is going to be uncovered in the next day or two.”

  “The Journal“s on a tight budget. You don’t have your own newspaper there, do you, someone who could act as our stringer?”

  Ferrin gestured for the mayor’s attention. “Hold on a moment, will you please, Mr. Smith.”

  As soon as the mayor covered the mouthpiece, Ferrin said, “I’ve got one room left at the motel. I’ll donate it to the cause.”

  The mayor looked at Latimer, who nodded. “I’ll kick in the gas.”

  “We can provide gas,” Tuttle said, “plus a motel room and meals, if that will help.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Smith said. “I’ll have a man there tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Will Smith disconnected his headset, swung his feet up on the city-room desk, and gave a war whoop. “Goddamn, I’m good, which is why they pay me the big bucks.”